Editor's Note: Ambiguously Black
by Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman
I have great joy in welcoming the writers who have submitted their work to the inaugural issue of The Rebel's Zeitgeist. This publication comes at a time of great violence in the country where I live, the United States. This violence is not new, but it is shocking, nonetheless. I watch the computer screen with chills each time I scroll through my Instagram timeline and see yet another gang of ICE enforcers snatch up a lone Latino man or woman who is suspected of being an undocumented immigrant. It’s 2025 and another Trump presidency steeped in white nationalism and unbridled assault on the world’s moral conscience. I wonder if my mother would have gotten hemmed up in this madness if she were alive.
My mother, Karen Holt-Williams, was killed in her car by a Maryland State police cadet one week before Michael Brown was murdered by Darren Wilson in Ferguson in 2014. My mother was a 59 year-old African-American schoolteacher who died without much of a blip on the media radar. Her death didn’t ignite outrage over another Black person killed at the hands of the police. Maybe it didn’t because her death was not caused by a shooting. Maybe it didn’t because in death, like in life, she was not considered by most (who didn’t know her and just saw her physical features) to be a Black woman at all.
Looks were what one always considered when encountering my mother. Even when old friends of my mother speak with me in reflection of who my mother was and what she meant to them, one has never not mentioned her looks in some way. Confused for being of Latino, indigenous, Middle Eastern or any other non-Black ethnicity her entire life, my mother was asked the dreaded “what are you?” almost weekly. Despite her fluid looks, she maintained a Black identity that easily defied the tropes of the tragic mulatto or the “I’m mixed race” child that are not only worn out like the Nay-Nay, but, generally misrepresentative of many Black people who lack significant hue. Though being a Black girl was the last thing people thought when looking at my mother, culturally, she was black, black, blackity black, growing up in the heart of DC when it was truly Chocolate City.
My theory that the cultural identity of a child is largely based on the parent with the dominant cultural presence in the house is born from knowing my mother’s story. But, of course, it’s not rocket science. My mother, who was born to a Black woman who was institutionalized when she became pregnant with my mother, was adopted by my Black grandparents who were long-time DC public school faculty originally from Virginia. They lived around the block in DC from her Black maternal aunts and cousins she was raised with and a grandmother she was raised by until she was 9. She remained connected to them even after her adoption. Her family and close friends knew who she was and what she was, but outsiders saw something different.
My mother’s melanin-deficient pigment and long wavy dark hair didn’t speak Black anything to those around her who didn’t know her well. And, that followed her from childhood to when she ventured into the world as a young adult. When she met my father, she had found her revolutionary voice and had joined the Nation of Islam with my father, which influenced the choosing of my very Islamic full name. But, her cultural identification, still, did not distract the curiosity with her appearance. Many would ask my father about the Spanish or “white girl” he was with and some even questioned if the practically white baby he was always toting around—me—was even his. Couldn’t nobody as Black as him, they would say, have such a white ass baby. He told me this made him laugh. Hearing it made me wonder if he was playing with me or people were really this egregiously ignorant.
From 18 years-old to 24 years-old, my parents were Black consciousness wrapped in Roy Ayers and Earth, Wind and Fire, draped in Chancellor Williams and Francis Cress Welsing. But, my mother told me that during this time during the 1970’s, and later, whenever anyone had a problem with her or chose to chastise her, it would include some reference to her skin complexion. “You white ass such as such” or “Your red-bone ass…” whatever. As much as “talking white” was offensive and akin to being called an “Uncle Tom” or someone deficient in any cultural affiliation to Black people, being called a white person or non-Black person because of skin complexion was akin to being ostracized at times within the Black community my mother navigated within.
This chapter of her life was the first eight years of my life, living six of those years as an only child. I watched my mother’s enthusiasm and overtly revolutionary spirit quiet down over the years as she was consistently treated inconsistently by Black people from the US who she would encounter within our varied neighborhoods within the Washington DC area before it was called the DMV. It was a weird thing to observe.
When we lived for a time in the multicultural neighborhood in Silver Spring, Maryland, Black people from other countries didn’t react to her ambiguous appearance like folks born here did. Folks from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and El Salvador actually thought she spoke Spanish like they did and hailed from another country. Jamaicans and Black people from other Caribbean countries didn’t bat an eye when she met them and introduced herself as a Black woman. The negative encounters always seemed to come from her fellow Black Americans who saw her physical characteristics as being dissimilar enough to make assumptions that were always wrong. This especially was the case when we moved to a less multicultural and more homogenous suburb in Maryland’s most affluent Black county. When 9/11 happened, those assumptions became assertions draped in violence. I was most fearful for her after she shared an encounter with me. She casually shared how mere days after the towers collapsed, she was threatened by a random Black man in front of a gas pump who told her that he would kill her right there if he could for what "her people" did in New York to the Twin Towers.
These incidents regarding Black folks reacting to my mother’s appearance in ways that vary from fetishization to outright threat and violence have lingered the longest in my memory as I have reflected deeply to write my latest poetry book I published last year during the 10th anniversary of her death. Reflecting on how we always lived in Black communities, interacting daily with Black people, sometimes going stretches of time without engaging with those outside of the Black community, I wonder why, even as she aged, she continued to be “othered”. And, I wonder, in the midst of this othering, and, as she taught Black children—whether as a child care provider of children in her home or a teacher in the school system, how did that impact the way she saw herself and felt about herself. She raised five Black children with similar experiences regarding appearance and outside perception, and, for me, the dreaded “what are you” question irritates me to no end. For, when I reply “human,” I sound like more of an asshole than the person asking me that stupid ass question. And, right about now, I am looking over my shoulder cautiously hoping that my appearance won’t get me accosted by my country’s government and flown as a captive to someplace I’ve never been. Right about now, it seems as if it is every man and woman for themselves.
In this inaugural issue, many of the writers have submitted work that interrogates the many ways that Black people are choosing to live in a country that continues to limit opportunities and pathways that are harm-free. Reclaiming My Black Body by Buddah Desmond speaks directly to this issue. Heartstrings of Black by Brenda Bunting and Journey HUman by Colie Aziza are pieces that give thanks for our continued strength and resilience. BREATHE: My COVID Observation by Lyn Artope turns us to the ways that we care for the environment and vice verse, leading us to look at the metaphorical ways our plight mirrors the ways we serve as custodians of the globe. Each piece by margaux delotte-bennett and Synnika Alek-Chizoba Lofton ricochets with percussive truth and depth.
It has been my honor to review this work in this issue and bring it to you for review. Be sure to ingest each piece meaningfully and share with your circle. Be sure to join our mailing list and learn about upcoming readings from the journal. We are glad you are here.
Cheers,
Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman
Editor-in-Chief
My mother, Karen Holt-Williams, was killed in her car by a Maryland State police cadet one week before Michael Brown was murdered by Darren Wilson in Ferguson in 2014. My mother was a 59 year-old African-American schoolteacher who died without much of a blip on the media radar. Her death didn’t ignite outrage over another Black person killed at the hands of the police. Maybe it didn’t because her death was not caused by a shooting. Maybe it didn’t because in death, like in life, she was not considered by most (who didn’t know her and just saw her physical features) to be a Black woman at all.
Looks were what one always considered when encountering my mother. Even when old friends of my mother speak with me in reflection of who my mother was and what she meant to them, one has never not mentioned her looks in some way. Confused for being of Latino, indigenous, Middle Eastern or any other non-Black ethnicity her entire life, my mother was asked the dreaded “what are you?” almost weekly. Despite her fluid looks, she maintained a Black identity that easily defied the tropes of the tragic mulatto or the “I’m mixed race” child that are not only worn out like the Nay-Nay, but, generally misrepresentative of many Black people who lack significant hue. Though being a Black girl was the last thing people thought when looking at my mother, culturally, she was black, black, blackity black, growing up in the heart of DC when it was truly Chocolate City.
My theory that the cultural identity of a child is largely based on the parent with the dominant cultural presence in the house is born from knowing my mother’s story. But, of course, it’s not rocket science. My mother, who was born to a Black woman who was institutionalized when she became pregnant with my mother, was adopted by my Black grandparents who were long-time DC public school faculty originally from Virginia. They lived around the block in DC from her Black maternal aunts and cousins she was raised with and a grandmother she was raised by until she was 9. She remained connected to them even after her adoption. Her family and close friends knew who she was and what she was, but outsiders saw something different.
My mother’s melanin-deficient pigment and long wavy dark hair didn’t speak Black anything to those around her who didn’t know her well. And, that followed her from childhood to when she ventured into the world as a young adult. When she met my father, she had found her revolutionary voice and had joined the Nation of Islam with my father, which influenced the choosing of my very Islamic full name. But, her cultural identification, still, did not distract the curiosity with her appearance. Many would ask my father about the Spanish or “white girl” he was with and some even questioned if the practically white baby he was always toting around—me—was even his. Couldn’t nobody as Black as him, they would say, have such a white ass baby. He told me this made him laugh. Hearing it made me wonder if he was playing with me or people were really this egregiously ignorant.
From 18 years-old to 24 years-old, my parents were Black consciousness wrapped in Roy Ayers and Earth, Wind and Fire, draped in Chancellor Williams and Francis Cress Welsing. But, my mother told me that during this time during the 1970’s, and later, whenever anyone had a problem with her or chose to chastise her, it would include some reference to her skin complexion. “You white ass such as such” or “Your red-bone ass…” whatever. As much as “talking white” was offensive and akin to being called an “Uncle Tom” or someone deficient in any cultural affiliation to Black people, being called a white person or non-Black person because of skin complexion was akin to being ostracized at times within the Black community my mother navigated within.
This chapter of her life was the first eight years of my life, living six of those years as an only child. I watched my mother’s enthusiasm and overtly revolutionary spirit quiet down over the years as she was consistently treated inconsistently by Black people from the US who she would encounter within our varied neighborhoods within the Washington DC area before it was called the DMV. It was a weird thing to observe.
When we lived for a time in the multicultural neighborhood in Silver Spring, Maryland, Black people from other countries didn’t react to her ambiguous appearance like folks born here did. Folks from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and El Salvador actually thought she spoke Spanish like they did and hailed from another country. Jamaicans and Black people from other Caribbean countries didn’t bat an eye when she met them and introduced herself as a Black woman. The negative encounters always seemed to come from her fellow Black Americans who saw her physical characteristics as being dissimilar enough to make assumptions that were always wrong. This especially was the case when we moved to a less multicultural and more homogenous suburb in Maryland’s most affluent Black county. When 9/11 happened, those assumptions became assertions draped in violence. I was most fearful for her after she shared an encounter with me. She casually shared how mere days after the towers collapsed, she was threatened by a random Black man in front of a gas pump who told her that he would kill her right there if he could for what "her people" did in New York to the Twin Towers.
These incidents regarding Black folks reacting to my mother’s appearance in ways that vary from fetishization to outright threat and violence have lingered the longest in my memory as I have reflected deeply to write my latest poetry book I published last year during the 10th anniversary of her death. Reflecting on how we always lived in Black communities, interacting daily with Black people, sometimes going stretches of time without engaging with those outside of the Black community, I wonder why, even as she aged, she continued to be “othered”. And, I wonder, in the midst of this othering, and, as she taught Black children—whether as a child care provider of children in her home or a teacher in the school system, how did that impact the way she saw herself and felt about herself. She raised five Black children with similar experiences regarding appearance and outside perception, and, for me, the dreaded “what are you” question irritates me to no end. For, when I reply “human,” I sound like more of an asshole than the person asking me that stupid ass question. And, right about now, I am looking over my shoulder cautiously hoping that my appearance won’t get me accosted by my country’s government and flown as a captive to someplace I’ve never been. Right about now, it seems as if it is every man and woman for themselves.
In this inaugural issue, many of the writers have submitted work that interrogates the many ways that Black people are choosing to live in a country that continues to limit opportunities and pathways that are harm-free. Reclaiming My Black Body by Buddah Desmond speaks directly to this issue. Heartstrings of Black by Brenda Bunting and Journey HUman by Colie Aziza are pieces that give thanks for our continued strength and resilience. BREATHE: My COVID Observation by Lyn Artope turns us to the ways that we care for the environment and vice verse, leading us to look at the metaphorical ways our plight mirrors the ways we serve as custodians of the globe. Each piece by margaux delotte-bennett and Synnika Alek-Chizoba Lofton ricochets with percussive truth and depth.
It has been my honor to review this work in this issue and bring it to you for review. Be sure to ingest each piece meaningfully and share with your circle. Be sure to join our mailing list and learn about upcoming readings from the journal. We are glad you are here.
Cheers,
Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman
Editor-in-Chief
The author as a baby with her parents in 1974
The author and her mother in 1975
The author's mother as a baby in 1955
The author's mother as a teen
The author and her mother in 2011
Khadijah Ali-Coleman is author of the poetry collections For the Girls Who Do Too Much (2024), and The Summoning of Black Joy (2023), the children’s book Mariah’s Maracas and co-editor of the book Homeschooling Black Children in the US: Theory, Practice and Popular Culture. Her work is featured in multiple publications, and she is currently editing the book, Homeschooling Black Children on a College Pathway that is scheduled to be released in 2025 by Black Family Homeschool Educators and Scholars, LLC (BFHES). She is currently an Associate Professor in English at Coppin State University and served from 2023-2025 as the second poet laureate of Prince George’s County, MD. She is currently based in Baltimore, MD.