That I think about slavery every day. And have for as long as I can remember. Every time I look into my eyes, big and brown like Harriet’s and Sojourner’s and the thousands whose names I’ll never know. Every time I write my own name, “Allen” isn’t native to Jamaica. 

The long white spikes dig in and pull at the tight curls. Every time the brush goes through I scream, aware that my father might come in and tell me to be quiet. Bunday. That’s what I call it, “the weekly torture fest” when my mother wrestles with my unruly hair, tugging and wrangling it atop my head into a perfect ballet bun. So I can fall in line, dance for a mirror and learn Grace and Control. 

Labels-- half black, half white, lesbian, veteran. 

A few months ago, I not-so-subtly asserted myself as biracial while having dinner with a new coworker. “I’m a Capricorn,” she’d said. “Yeah…my mom’s black,” I responded (not verbatim, but the exchange was similar). Whoa. What? Immediately after I injected that part of my identity into the conversation, I had a come-to-Jesus moment. What was I doing? Did I always do this when I met new people?

On my last day in Asheville I was at a juice bar and this white man sitting at the counter overheard me telling the owners about my project. He said, you have to come to my studio. I said Why?