When I was 18, we found out that we were not simply Cherokee and various shades of European pale. (My father always considered being part Cherokee his ‘greatest shame’.) We found out we were also part African. Specifically, African-American of Malagasy descent. Not that this should’ve come as a great surprise considering the fact that my sister was a ringer for Billie Holliday. (She was also the biggest target of my parents abuse.)
My father, a man who was reliant on our assistance after multiple heart-attacks and strokes, told my mother that if he didn’t need our help to survived, he would, “Kill her and all her children.” He was serious.
Sadly, that isn’t even the worst example of racism in my family.