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I had pulled on a suit jacket, pleated skirt and black pumps and was waiting in the hotel lobby for my car when an employee looked at me and came over, smiling. And so I stammered, “No.” A true but toothless answer.I saw the realization flicker across his face as he began to take in all of me, a professional in a blazer, a guest in his hotel. As I turned away from him, my ears filled with a dull ringing.“I knew from a young age where my solidarity lies and where I felt more comfortable,” he tells me.He doesn’t ask me which groups I feel comfortable among; he doesn’t need to. ” The first time I recall being asked, I was encircled by kids at my suburban Maryland elementary school, where most students fell neatly into the categories of black or white.I’ve spent the bulk of my grown-up years here, never feeling squeezed to be whiter or blacker.“African,” murmured some teenagers hanging out on a street corner here on a recent night as I passed them.My ancestors hail from the southern part of India, on the Bay of Bengal, which I mention only because the sea once had a way of washing up all varieties of conquerors and marauders on our shores. But in 2017 America, my particular jambalaya of “features” frequently has me mistaken for Ethiopian. Ta-Nehisi Coates describes defining oneself as black as like joining “a tribe — on one hand, invented, and on the other, no less real.” As the number of brown-skinned Americans grows, will we forge our own tribe?

That’s why I feel a tenuous solidarity with African Americans and other people of color.

I have been pushed forward by affirmative action, riding a wave of goodwill into programs for minority journalists.

I work at a major newspaper because it hired me, in part, for the perspective I might bring.

Sometimes the question is posed with curiosity, sometimes with darker intent. For those who don’t understand a person of color’s obsessions with race and identity, I want to point this out: For the past five years, whole cities across the country have been roiled by police shootings of unarmed men and women targeted, some believe, for their skin color.

White nationalists have poured into basketball arenas to profess allegiance to a candidate — now president — who promises to build a wall that would keep out those whose mother tongue isn’t like theirs, whose skin is darker, who don’t resemble them. Not long ago, I was in New York for an interview with a curator at a renowned museum. I was too humiliated to shoot him a glare, too polite to ignore him.

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