From age eight until I turned twelve, I carried an important secret about my true identity. Because I imagined that should I share my secret with my family, I would be causing undue distress, I kept it to myself .... until I ruefully tucked it away ... until now.
First, the secret: Somehow I knew that on my 12th birthday, May 24,1962, my transformation into an African-American would be complete. Try as I may, I cannot recall just how I came to know that this transformation would happen, so that I'd be a Negro when I awoke that morning. I knew this would be a real adjustment for my family, but I was very much looking forward to becoming my true self.
There were two major factors that led me to believe. The foremost reason I caught onto the imminent emergence of a chocolate-skinned version of myself was that, more than my parents or siblings, I had many moles, little brown dots all over my epidermis. And it was clear to me that they were multiplying. Some day ---and I just knew it was that very day I'd turn 12--- all the dots would meet and become my entire skin.
The other big reason was that people always said that I danced like a black person. They also certainly remarked that I was exceptionally skillful at the Limbo, and I'd heard at least once an adult at a party making a comment like,"Gee, I've never seen a white guy last so long" as the broomstick went lower and lower.
As you no doubt have gathered by now, I felt special with my secret. My eight-, nine-,ten- and eleven-year-old self looked forward to the day that I could step out with my true color. I wouldn't be a boy with a zillion moles who danced funny. I'd be a well-adjusted Negro who my parents would be proud of!
Yes, I knew this was a strange idea. But I had a quiet confidence that this magical transformation was destined to take place. Knowing this for almost four whole years included the knowing that I mustn't interfere with the process by telling anyone in advance. I was comforted by my knowledge. And I learned how to wait.
I remember the lead-up through the month of May nearing the completion of my twelfth year. As the morning grew nearer, I wondered ever more intensely whether other things about me would change when I became black. Would I like different things? Would my classmates recognize me? Would my personality change?
Falling asleep on the evening of the 23rd was hard. I was so keyed up. Sharing a bedroom with my younger brother, sleeping on the top bed of our bunk-bed, it was all I could do not to blurt the impending Big News to Seth in the bed below.
As usual, I awoke at the crack of dawn. Squinting so as not to view my hands sticking out of the sleeves of my pajamas, I quietly climbed down and went into the bathroom next to our room, the one with the floor to ceiling mirror. There I stood, eyes closed, somehow serious in my excitement. This was before we started using the expression "coming out." I was picturing myself simply walking into the kitchen for breakfast, hearing the Happy Birthdays from my sister, brothers and parents, only to hear them stop midway in surprise, and then their collective cheer!
Opening my eyes, there I was. Same me. No metamorphosis. Not even a bunch of extra moles. Just me. Disappointed, and somehow knowing that I must have done something wrong to cancel out my destiny, I tucked my secret away and tried not to let on at breakfast that I was still an imposter.
It took about a year-and-a-half before I realized that my secret was about something other than my skin-color. My magical thinking helped me through my pre-pubescent years just fine. For magic is a good thing when practiced by a good person, right?