08/02/2025
I’ve never said I was Black.
I’ve never tried to be something I’m not.
But I was raised in a Black family, loved by Black people, and shaped by a culture that wrapped around me like protection.
I didn’t borrow it.
I lived it.
Church on Sundays (I grew up Baptist and not every Sunday). BBQs in the backyard.
All the kids crammed in one room while the grown folks played spades or dominos, R&B flowing through the speakers like it was part of the house.
My Aunts and Uncles drinking Olde English, the smell of it seeping through my stepdad’s pores when it was finally time to go home, way after midnight.
Me peeking through the vent, making sure my mom and dad didn’t leave my ass behind while my cousins picked on me.
I didn’t just see it, I was raised in it, checked by it, claimed by it without question.
I’ve never tried to take from the culture.
I carry it with respect.
Because I know the history.
I honor the struggle.
And I never forget who poured into me when they didn’t have to.
So when you say:
“She wanna be Black so bad,” or call me a “Culture Vulture.”
you’re not seeing me.
You’re projecting your pain onto a story you never asked me to tell.
And that’s okay.
You don’t have to understand me.
But you will respect that I am not a trend.
I am not a costume.
I am a woman who was raised in love by a people who didn’t have to claim me, but did.
And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
I don’t need to “be Black” to love and protect what raised me.
And I don’t need your permission to tell my story.
This is me.
This is mine.
This is truth.
This is my culture.
Brittany Lockridge
