I'm black, but sometimes I forget.
People always remind.
They call me black, but my skin is brown.
My dad is light, my mother dark.
We are all black.
My teachers say African American.
They smile, furrow their brows.
My dad says Congolese American,
his lips tight, his eyes narrow.
Professors try to pronounce my name,
heads turning to locate this person.
I tell them, "people call me Rita."
They ask where I am from.
Fort Worth. They ask
how to say my real name,
why don't I use it.
I would blush if I could.
I'm black and a singer,
a dramatic mezzo voice type--
my role, supporting actress.
"You should sing more Negro Spirituals."
I shift my weight from one leg to the other.
I smile and nod. "Spirituals would be perfect
for your voice. You could be another
Jessye Norman."
Ariel and Rita, the two black girls,
the two black singers. Ariel has long,
curly hair. She stands at five feet and
eight inches. She is a dramatic soprano,
the lead actress. I am not Ariel.
My hair does not come past my ears.
I am barely five feet, five inches.
In a scene from Into the Woods,
we are the two evil stepsisters.
Slow nods sweep across the hall.
"No, they are not the same girl."
I'm black. That will never change.
I should try harder not to forget,
but if I do, you will remind me.
