My name is Danni and I am just me. I do not know what exactly my heritage is, because it has never been very important to me. I am an Army Brat, an American, and a Heinz 57 mutt, and I am proud of it. On my mothers side there are rumors of some Cherokee, and on my fathers side I have heard about Scottish and Irish blood, but I am an American.
Growing up as an Army Brat I learned that Americans come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and characters. My parents and grandparents are all considered white, which makes me white. I have never had a problem with this, as I do not have a problem with my extended family being black, Mexican, Norwegian, and many other colors and nationalities. These are the people I love unconditionally and who love me back. They are the people who have made me who I am.
On a family trip to Adventure Island in Houston when I was about fifteen years old, I learned that others did not feel the way I did about my family. I was walking with my cousin, who was a black boy a few years older then I was, when a black girl walked by. As she stared at us she made a comment that my cousin was a “waste of a fine black brother”. When my cousin asked her why, she told him because he was with a white girl. When he laughed and told her we were cousins she didn’t believe him. She just mumbled some things we couldn’t understand and walked off. This was the first time I had ever felt out of place with my family.
When we met back up with my mother and step-father and told them the story they just laughed and told us not to worry about it, that some people just didn’t understand. For years I wondered what the big deal was. I have yet to find out, but I don’t care anymore. What mattered the most was that we were together as a family and that we had a good time.
In August 2005, my mother passed away after a long battle with cancer. It was during her memorial service that I realized that God has ways of bringing people together, and that he had used my mother for this purpose. As we all gathered at the church for the service, I looked at all the pictures that were on display. Mom had such a variety of friends and people that she considered her family. People that were different because of skin color, religion, sexual orientation, or nationality, but were the same because they all shared the love of one person.
As the guests began to arrive at the church, I could feel the love and the loss that all these people shared. The church was packed with people of all shapes and sizes, all colors and religions, and they were all the same. They all loved my mom, and because they loved my mom, they all loved me. One of her best friends “Skin” was asked to talk. He was a large, bald, black man. He was my “uncle”. As he spoke, there was not a dry eye in the room. He told us that because my mother loved all the people there in the church, he loved them too. He said mom didn’t see color or size, she saw friendship and love.
My name is Danni, and I am just me. I was shaped and molded by the people that have loved me. My heritage may be unknown, but I am an American Heinz 57 and I am proud of it.
Written as a narrative essay for a college class in 2006
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