By Sarah Ladipo Manyika This excerpted essay was originally featured on AGNI Online. My son’s self-portrait, age fifteen. Work in progress. Earlier this year I decided to read Joe Brainard’s cult classic, I Remember. The book had long intrigued me for I had heard that it was widely taught in creative writing courses and was a favorite of many authors, including several well-known authors whose work I admire. I was immediately drawn to Brainard’s style, each line starting with the words “I remember.” As I read it, I found myself jotting down remembrances of my own, complementing Brainard’s memories of America with my memories of Nigeria. I was enjoying this little book, reading it slowly, taking my time to appreciate the beauty and originality of the writing while remembering and reminiscing. It was a soothing and creative project until I came to this: I remember feeling sorry for black people, not because I thought they were persecuted, but because I thought they were ugly. I remember gasping. I remember thinking, So this is what Zora Neale Hurston meant when she wrote, “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.” I remember ugly. I remember not wanting... Read More