I Choose Black All Over Again

A question from a video stopped me in my tracks:

“If you had to be born into this world, what race would you choose to be?”

It’s the kind of question that seems simple… until you really sit with it. And at 74 years young, with more than half a century of witnessing the shape-shifting face of racism, I knew this wasn’t just a theoretical exercise.

I’ve seen racism rear its ugly head more times than I can count—up close and personal. I’ve felt it in the silence, the side-eyes, the doors that stayed shut, and the ones that only cracked open. I’ve watched the world pretend to change, perform its progress, then quietly slide back into old habits when no one was looking.

So when I heard that question, I didn’t hesitate.

I typed it out clear as day:

“I’m Black, and at 74 years young, I have seen racism rear its ugly way too often.”

And then, something rose up in me.

After all the injustice. All the weariness. All the reasons someone might wish for an easier road…

I knew my truth.

“I would want to be Black all over again.”

Not because it’s been easy.

Not because it’s been fair.

But because it’s mine.

Because being Black is more than the struggle.

It’s the joy they never expected us to keep.

It’s the rhythm that moves even when the music fades.

It’s the brilliance in our speech, our steps, our survival.

It’s the glory of our style, the sacred fire in our spirit, the genius in our bones.

It’s the echo of my mother’s voice.

The warmth of my father’s hands.

The teachings of every elder who told me to stand tall, even when the ground beneath us shook.

The world may have tried to dim our light.

But I shine anyway.

I rise anyway.

And I’d choose it anyway.

So yes, I’d do it all again.

I’d be Black.

All over again.

I’d walk into this world just the same—

Head high.

Soul steady.

Knowing exactly what I carry.

That was my chat with Chat. But more than that—it was a conversation with myself. A reminder:

You were never less.

You were always more.

— Yaya