I woke up early. The shades were pulled down to the window-ledge, so my bedroom looked the… I woke up early. The shades were pulled down to the window-ledge, so my bedroom looked the same way it did when I woke in the middle of the night to answer nature’s call.

I stumbled over a few pairs of shoes and collapsed to the floor after my ankles got tangled up in a pair of jeans. I barely made my way to the wall by the door and groped it as I tried to find the light switch.

Finally, I felt it and turned on my light and got on my hands and knees to pick the clothing up from the floor. As I was putting a tank top away, I turned and caught my reflection in the mirror.

I stared at the image that gawked back at me.

Could it be? Well, I didn’t notice this yesterday!

I got closer to my dresser, rubbed my eyes and put on my glasses.

“Wow,” I said to myself, “I’m black.”

Of course that morning scenario did not really take place. But for many young people, especially those in college, similar awakenings do occur. It’s not as if a discovery was made; it’s more like acknowledging something that’s been there all along.

I like being black most of the time, though I get annoyed when someone introduces me as “my black friend.” That irks me

It’s also a bit intimidating to write columns. It would be different if my picture weren’t posted up in the middle of all this text — my opinions — and my physical features were left to your imagination. It’s not as if my name gives anything away. Perhaps with just my name alone, the campus-wide assumption would be that I’m a busty blonde destined for fame and misfortune. But, alas, the cat’s out of the bag and it’s black — take that as you will, since I happen to like black cats.

It’s not as if my skin color restrains or censors me when it comes to expressing myself. I’m actually more constrained by the ethics of print journalism than I am by being black. I just have to remember that, although I know I am not the official representative of black people, the memo may not have gotten to everyone else who reads my opinions. (Just in case you missed it, this is the memo: I am not the official representative of black people.)

It’s not as if I write because I am black. I write because I have opinions and because I tell captivating stories, like ones involving laundry and personal revelations. Besides, if I really wanted to write about being black and how I truly feel about racial categorizations and relations, it would take more than a column, and believe me: Y’all just ain’t ready yet. (And that was an intentional use of incorrect grammar.)

Of course, this all rest on the assumption that people give a damn about race — particularly mine. How egocentric of me! Clearly, we humanoids have to overcome prejudices based on appearance and other such petty things.

It’s evident in the way many have grown to accept same-sex marriage as an institution. It may not look like what we’ve envisioned love to be over the years, but it’s about relationships all the same — dare I call them functional ones?

Perhaps race does not really matter at all.

I’m sure it wouldn’t matter at all if this column were about affirmative action or reparations for slavery. It’s pretty clear how I feel about topics like those, isn’t it? I’m black. Of course, I support those things, don’t I? Are you sure? Well, I’ll leave that to your imagination then.

E-mail Maria “official representative of black people” Nicole Smith at [email protected].