The #1 Issue
 

Apparently the most-pressing issue facing my campaign to become a delegate from the 47th Legislative District in Prince George's County, Maryland is not my vision on how to improve our struggling schools, nor what can we do to make our communities safer, or even how to improve the County's economy or ecology. No, those critical questions are rarely raised. Prepare yourself for the all-important issue I'm confronted with day after day: clarifying my racial identity.

For the record, I am black. Perhaps it would be more correct to use the term "colored," a much-maligned term in the past, but in my case probably more precise.

I was reared by two African-American parents in Riggs Park, which is in Northeast Washington, D.C., and the mother who birthed me is white. (My parents divorced when I was 3, and my dad raised me and my brother. He married my black step-mom when I was 7.) My entire extended family is black.

I met my white mother's father once when I was 15, and I once spent half an hour with two cousins from that side of my genetic family tree. They are from the hills of Tennessee, and I feel no connection to any of them in any way. I don't remember their names or what they looked like, except my mother spent a lot of time after that meeting exclaiming about how much smarter and prettier I was than they. (I do remember thinking that the bar looked like it had been set pretty low.)

By contrast, I come from a family of educated, professional black people who, unfortunately, were the first blacks in so many jobs and fields. Both my parents have their Masters' degrees. My dad, Joseph Stephenson, taught for 20 years in the Prince George's County school system (10 at Douglas, 10 at High Point, my alma mater), and my step-mom, Genevieve Stephenson, worked as an Art Museum Specialist at the National Portrait Gallery. She used to tape my scribblings on the wall in her office, and I would brag that I had art hanging in the National Portrait Gallery. My grandparents were teachers and owned their own businesses. My aunts, uncles and cousins mostly are government workers or lawyers, with a few ne'er-do-wells thrown in to keep things interesting.

Growing up, everyone in my neighborhood knew each other, so my race wasn't questioned. As I got older and went out into the world, without that protection of familiarity, I’ve had to deal with situations where my race is mis-identified. Sometimes it's funny, like the woman last week who exclaimed, "I would have never guessed – Glenn Ivey is married to a white woman!" (We had a good chat after that, and she signed up to volunteer on my campaign!) Other times, white people have felt comfortable making racist comments to me about black people, and I get to give them a verbal-smackdown. (As a younger person this kind of confrontation felt like a necessary evil, but with age has come some level of enjoyment.)

What bothers me most is when black people shut me out, and treat me as if I'm white. I feel black, plain and simple, not even mixed. I was once kidding with my oldest son about Michael Jackson, and I randomly stopped a woman in the parking lot and said, "Michael Jackson is weird, right?," expecting her to amen me. But she pulled herself up and said no, there was nothing strange about Michael Jackson. I could see that as a black woman she was taking up for a black man who was being made fun of by what she thought was a white woman. I can't say that I had to schedule an appointment with a therapist, but that did irritate me. If I'd looked more like her, she would have been laughing right with me about Michael.

Sometimes I have to remind myself how I'm perceived. Just yesterday an Asian man told me that he was afraid to move to Prince George's County because he didn’t want his children to grow up like jive-talking, low-achieving black kids. I immediately jumped in to explain how my boys were nothing like that! Why, they're smart and polite, and their pants don't hang off their butts. This explanation meant nothing to him, and later I realized he thought I was defending white children!

Perhaps the real question is, does the race of our politicians matter? And to a large extent, I have to answer yes, it does matter. My race is a big part of who I am, what I've learned about the world, and how I react to it. It's important to have as many perspectives as possible so we can work together and solve problems.

I am black, a woman, a mother, and have roots in Prince George's County going back 30 years. It all matters, and it's all part of what makes me a strong candidate for this job.

In addition, I work hard, and I'd rather not do a job than do it poorly. While I was pregnant with our fourth boy, I was the general contractor on a large addition to our home, and held meetings in the middle of the construction with three other women to start Mocha Moms, a support group for at-home mothers of color. I gave birth in our new bedroom less than a day after we moved furniture into it, and within five minutes was giving final instructions to the electrician. Yeah, I'm bad.

And I'm also black. So when you meet me, get over the color of my hair and skin. Judge me by my work ethic, ability to get along with all kinds of people, my accomplishments and plans for the future. Let's talk about how we can make this County not just the home of some of the wealthiest African Americans in this country, but the safest home of the best school district in the United States of America.
 

Jolene with her dad at the World War II memorial.