I am not my color, though I am in some ways what my color represents in America. I am, by this definition, an African American first because this what people see. I also identify with African American history, culture, family structure and faith practices. But alone in my house where I work as a writer, I am just me, skin and bones, joyful, happy to learn new things, getting adjusted to being a dog mom, trying to stave off the unhealthy aspects of aging me. I have no color or gender or height or age until I see a mirror or leave my house and am confronted by a human response to some part of me that I love and adore.