I am not sure if subconsciously I have waited until the end of Black History Month to write this or not. I think it has more to do with the fact that Black History month always makes me think deeply about myself.

Not because I am African American, because logically, having been born in the United Kingdom, how the hell can I claim to be an "African American?" "African British" maybe. LOL You see, I have always struggled with the African American wording as it relates to myself. Now, I just accept it to be the truth of living in the United States and looking the way I do. To understand where I am coming from you have to go back to how I was raised.

I was born in London during the '60s to a very rebellious white woman and a father who was in the U.S. Military and never knew. I do know that he had a family of his own to return to the U.S. to. That left me to be raised by my Mother who basically took me back to her home in Northern England where I spent much of my youth with my Grandparents.

All I ever recall is nothing but love from them. I never remember being treated differently even though they severely disapproved of my Mother's lifestyle at that time in her life. To me, there was no understanding of color. I was, as my former Blog title stated; "Simply Rik."

At some point my Mother met another U.S. Air Force member who she married and he became my step-father. For years I just thought I was a normal kid with two parents who appeared to love me. Sure they had their issues and I was not shielded from some pretty harsh battles, but it was all normal to me.

Culturally however, in retrospect, I look back and realize that I was raised in a predominantly African American environment. Home consisted of black light posters of very strong African American women. Music was Marvin Gay, the Temptations, Earth Wind and Fire and Richard Pryor records.

It wasn't until I was attending Elementary School in Alaska that I was confronted with the fact that I was not somehow "normal." It was at a PTA meeting which my Mother and I attended that after which, one of my classmates asked me if I was adopted. I didn’t know what that word meant so I did the only natural thing, I asked my mother if I was. To put it lightly, she lost her mind! Something to the effect of whether or not I wanted her to show me the scar from the stitches of getting my big assed head out. I graciously declined.

She did however explain to me at that point the difference between her and my father at that time. Why his skin was so much darker than ours. That was my first understanding that I was neither white, like her or black, like my father. It was a bit confusing but I just accepted it as nothing else really changed much.

Another reason nothing changed was that we were in the Air Force environment where mixed races were everywhere. People were people, race was never really mentioned much and school was always a rainbow of cultural flavors.

The shock occurred when it was time for my step father to retire. The decision was made to move to Norristown, PA outside of Philly. The neighborhood we moved into was a true African American neighborhood consisting of brownstones. My life had shifted to one color over a multi-colored environment. Maybe it was because I appear more black than white, but I was openly accepted into the culture surrounding me. I can say these were some of the best times of my life and everything I remember I can find all over again by watching those early Spike Lee movies. Football, Roller Skating or stick ball in the streets. Hanging out on the steps in front of the house with friends killing ice cream in the summer sun. All very fond memories to say the least.

I moved from one cross culture environment to a completely African American one. Not much of a leap in exposure to the issues surrounding race stresses. That is until one day at the cafeteria at school. A fight broke out between a white kid and a black kid. I just remember that someone was stabbed. That was when reality began to set in. Something was wrong, something was different and it was much bigger than me.

I think some how this affected me. Live on Cherry Street didn't change for me, but I was much more of a recluse at school. Kept to myself and didn’t really socialize much with anyone.

The summer of '82 found me going to Steubenville, OH to visit relatives on my own. I hung out and had a blast the entire summer. When it was time to return home, I walked into a war zone. I suppose my Mother had enough. She was tired of the abuse (Physical and mental) and the Alcoholism of my Step Father. Things escalated when I arrived and the end result was my Mother and I being put out.

With no where else to go we returned to Steubenville and that is where we settled down and I finished up my education. Steubenville was easy compared to Norristown. There everything was pretty segregated to begin with back in those days. Italian, Black and Irish. I guess you know where I ended up. LOL. I do remember that in my Senior Year there was the first real open relationship between a white cheerleader and a black football player. That sent some ripples through the halls of Steubenville High.

Because I was still figuring out where I fit in, I never dated anyone in High School really. So that whole scene was never an issue for me either. I finished up High School and went off to the Marine Corps where I assumed I would fit right in to that whole cross-cultural environment where color didn't matter much.

What I failed to realize was that as a kid in that environment you never were exposed to racism. Here at 18 years old I was confronted with it hard and fast. I had just reported to my first unit who lived in Open Squad Bays. Which is short for a big room with about 40 or so roommates. The only thing I had to do was pick a bed. As I looked across the squad bay to find an empty bed, I was amazed to see a form of subconscious segregation in action. Each culture had carved out its own area of the Squad Bay. African Americans, Latino, Asians and the whites were further segregated into basically north v.s. south. I was greeted and absorbed into the African American section. Mostly based on my looks.

With my background, I was definitely the odd man out. Couldn't dance, didn't have rhythm, loved the music. Talked white (thanks to arriving in the U.S. with a British accent) and looked Black. When Fridays came around we would all "posse up" and travel to the various black clubs in and around eastern North Carolina. After the first few of these adventures, I guess I got what could only be called a "mentor" to work with me on fitting into the African American culture more. In the end, I found my rhythm, learned to dance and was exposed to more types of African American culture and music.

The result of everything I have described above, I realize now, has given me a unique talent. A talent to morph into any situation and be what that situation dictates. I shamefully have found myself subconsciously adapting to whatever situation I find myself into feel as if I fit in where I am not that threatened by the environment. Is that wrong? I struggled with that for years.

Now that I am older, I have come to the firm realization that I am me. Simply Rik. I am tired of trying to be what society dictates I should be. I am tired of being absorbed into a culture simply based on my skin color. I am tired of being accepted by another because I am articulate. I am Rik, take me or leave me, because as 2Pac said, "Only God can judge me."

Having said that, and I know it sounded harsh, I can not claim one culture over another, I respect all of myself and my ancestors who have gone before me that passed on their traits and experiences which have given me the intelligence and strength to be who I am today.

In honor of that I WILL pay tribute to that part of me that has reaped the benefits of being exposed both genetically as well as environmentally to the African American culture.

I am blessed and fortunate to this African blood running through my veins. I am blessed to have been raised in a culture rich in struggle that has resulted my sense of self and strength. I am blessed to be part of a culture that has produced some of the greatest artists and minds this world has ever seen.

I will not deny my heritage. My grandmother was Italian. My Grandfather was Irish, my mother is British and my father was African American. To choose one negates the other. Often society forces you to choose one over the other and this has always been my struggle.

My responsibility in this life of mine is not to the various struggles that continue even in this day and age, but to my children who are further mixed with the Japanese culture. I look into their eyes and may find physical traits of myself, but not in skin tone, in bone structure, their hands, feet and hair.

It is these same eyes that as I gaze into them, makes me promise to myself that I can not let them ever forget about the heritage that is part of me and hence part of them. They are not weaker because they are not Black, White or Japanese, but stronger because of it. They need to learn about their varied histories and through that I hope learn about tolerance and acceptance of the person over the skin. They need to learn about the struggle, the domination and the atrocities of their cultures. This is the reality of being a mixed child. They will probably be stronger in one culture over another, but I can not allow them to be consumed by any one culture.

So, in closing, get this if you get nothing out of my writings; I am Simply Rik. There may be some cream in my coffee, but rest assured it is the best damn blend you may ever taste.