Learning to Love All of Me

By Jacqueline Douge

Twelve-year-old Sydney Taylor is used to people questioning if she's white because of her light skin and curly hair. Afterall, no one else in her family looks like her. Despite her physical appearance, Sydney has always known she is black, naturally, because her family is black. But lately, she's starting to question her racial identity. From her best friends declaring her hair too white to be braided, to a classmate's twisted logic about a racial slur, Sydney is more confused than ever. And when a saleslady threatens to call the police on her mom because of a dispute about whether Sydney is even her child, Sydney is even more perplexed. But when she finds a mysterious picture that unlocks a forbidden family secret, the truth about Sydney finally begins to emerge. As she searches for the answers about her racial identity, Sydney must decide if she can learn to accept and love all of her. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jacqueline Douge
• Release date: Sep 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393630098

Jacqueline Douge

Jacqueline Douge is a writer, child health advocate, and pediatrician. Originally from Washington, D.C., she lives in Frederick, MD with her husband and two sons. The Story of Learning to Love All of Me is her first middle grade book.

Book preview

LEARNING TO LOVE ALL OF ME © 2020 Jacqueline Dougé

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be recorded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-578-70266-7

Published by What Is Black

Frederick, MD

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition August 2020

Cover Design by: Make Your Mark Publishing Solutions

Interior Layout by: Make Your Mark Publishing Solutions

Editing: Make Your Mark Publishing Solutions

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Acknowledgements

Writing this middle grade book is a dream come true! Special thank you to my husband, Max, who always provided the encouragement and motivation I needed to complete the book. To my sons and Dionne, my sister-in-law, who provided me the motivation to self-publish my book. And to all my family and friends who supported me when I told them I was writing a book. I did it!

I dedicate this book to

Max, Malcolm, and Emmanuel.

chapter

One

It’s Saturday, and it’s the last sleepover of the summer. Mom let me pick the weekend, so I picked Labor Day. I picked it because it’s a long weekend, and there’s one extra day before school starts. I can’t believe on Tuesday I’ll be in the seventh grade. It’s crazy, but at least my best friends, Sarah and Becca, will be there with me. They’ve been there since I started at Middleton Elementary School in the fifth grade, and now we’ll be together in seventh grade. After this year, we’ll have one more year in Middleton Middle School, and then it’s off to high school. It’s crazy, alright.

Sydney! Becca and Sarah are here, Mom yells from downstairs.

I finish cleaning up my room. It’s not like they’ve never seen my messy room before, but Mom insisted I have to start organizing before school starts. She believes a tidy and organized room will help me stay focused when I study. Blah, Blah, Blah, is what I think when I hear her speech. She makes me sound like a slob.

I pick up my underwear and bras from the floor and throw them in my closet. I close the door before the other pile of clothes tumbles out. Before I go downstairs, I make sure my room isn’t too bad. I see my bra strap peeking out from underneath my closet door. I go over and stuff it farther under the door. I don’t think Becca or Sarah is going to look in my closet—they better not, because if they do, a whole bunch of dirty clothes is going to fall on top of their heads. I run downstairs.

Hey, girl, says Becca in the high-pitched voice she uses when she’s excited to see me. She grabs me and gives me a huge hug. This is what she does. She loves giving hugs and always has a lot of energy. She finally releases me, and I see Sarah talking with my mom.

Sarah loves talking to Mom about any new community project Mom’s working on. Mom eats it up. She’s Sarah’s unofficial mentor. Sarah wants to be a doctor just like Mom. I have to break them apart or they’ll stay in the foyer all night talking about medicine.

"Mom, she’s my friend," I say.

I know, but Sarah talked to me first, says Mom, grinning. I wish my own daughter showed as much interest in what I do as her friends show.

Yeah, I know, I say. But at least I have friends that are interested. That’s got to count for something.

Um, I’ll take what I can get, says Mom. Ladies, dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Mom turns and walks toward the kitchen.

It was nice talking with Dr. Taylor, says Sarah, all serious.

I shake my head. I know Mom wishes I was more like Sarah. I wish I was, too. If you didn’t know me, you would swear Sarah was Mom’s real daughter and I was the guest.

Your mom does some cool stuff. Did you know she’s hosting a book drive to collect books written by Black authors for the elementary school library? She says it’s important that kids read diverse books so they can see kids that look like them and learn about kids that aren’t like them. Also, reading helps you academically, and the more educated you are, the better your health outcomes. I’ve heard the same lecture from Mom and think she’s doing a great job for the community, but when I hear Sarah talk about it, what Mom is doing sounds cooler. Like I said, she’s the daughter my mom should have had.

When I look at Sarah, I wonder for a moment if we could’ve been switched at birth. She’s the one with the medium-brown complexion; long locs; big, dark-brown eyes; and long, thick eyelashes like Mom. My skin is a little paler than olive in color, and I have long, curly hair; small, light-brown eyes; and thick, bushy eyebrows. The only thing that connects me to Mom is the dimple on our right cheeks. But then I remember I was born in Washington, D.C. and Sarah was born in Middleton on a different date. My birthday is July 23 and Sarah’s is November 15.

Yeah, that’s so cool, says Becca. Your mom is, like, one of the most important women in Middleton, right?

I guess so, I say, not really thinking of her like that. I guess the county health officer is important.

It is, says Sarah, excited, and I can tell she’s about to tell us why. Your mom is responsible for the health of the whole county. She’s also the first Black woman to be health officer. She’s amazing. I want to be just like her when I grow up. Hearing how great my mom is feels good, but I don’t want to spend the whole night talking about her or her job.

If we all agree that she’s great, can we start the sleepover? I ask, waiting for their answer. Besides, your moms aren’t shabby. Sarah, your mom is an anchor for the local news, and Becca, your mom is a professor at the local college. Those are both important jobs.

Yes, our moms rock, says Becca. I’m hungry. What’s for dinner? Becca skips ahead of us toward the kitchen.

Where does she get all that energy? asks Sarah, standing with me in the foyer. I love her, but I need a break. She had the same energy when my dad picked her up, and I don’t think it’s going to stop until she falls asleep. Sometimes I have to remind myself that Sarah is our age. She talks like she’s already grown up.

I think so, too, I say, laughing. Mom will help her put her energy to good use. Sarah and I take her backpack and Becca’s duffel bag up to my room. I put the bags down in front of my closet then jump on my bed. So, what do you want to do first after we finish dinner?

Sarah sits next to me. Whatever you want to do. Patricia told me I should just relax and not worry about planning anything. She says I’m too young to be planning every minute of my life.

Your sister does have a point. I know how much you want to get to Harvard, but doing nothing won’t hurt. I promise. I jump up and think of an idea. Let’s braid each other’s hair. I’ve always wanted to have my hair braided into cornrows.

I don’t think you have the type of hair for cornrows, says Sarah.

She’s right. You have White-girl hair, says Becca from the doorway.

But your hair is almost like mine, I say to Becca.

No, it’s not the same. Mine is thicker than yours. I don’t have White-girl hair. She’s right. She can’t have White-girl hair because she’s half-Black and half-Filipino. But if she can’t have White-girl hair, how can I if I’m not White?

Dinner’s ready, yells Mom.

It’s time to eat, says Becca, bouncing out the room.

I tell Sarah I have to do something and let her go downstairs without me. I’ve lost my appetite.

I don’t eat much at dinner because I keep thinking about what both of my best friends said: You have White-girl hair. Instead of enjoying the pasta and salad Mom made for us, I watch all of them eating and laughing. They all look like they belong to the same family. I imagine them all related to each other, and I’m the one visiting them for dinner. Sarah and her mom with cousin Becca hanging out on the usual Saturday night. Mom laughs at Becca’s corny jokes and agrees to be made over by her.

I look at Becca with her light-brown complexion, red glasses, and natural hair pulled back with a homemade, pink, polka-dot scrunchie. She looks like she could be my aunt Savannah’s daughter if she had one. Aunt Savannah is Mom’s younger sister, but she’d love Becca, too. Who doesn’t love Becca? She’s always happy and smiling, and she tells the greatest stories.

I imagine how much they all have in common—talking hair, makeup, or medicine. None of the things that I really care about, but I enjoy talking about them because my best friends like talking about them. I like watching movies and going fishing with Dad and my twin little brothers. I feel like I don’t belong; I know how silly it sounds, but that’s how I feel. Like an outsider looking into my own house.

I excuse myself from the table and go up to my room. I tell half a lie about how I forgot to finish cleaning my bathroom. I did start, but I didn’t want to leave to go clean my bathroom. I don’t like cleaning my bathroom, especially not the toilet. I turn on the bathroom light and look around. It smells okay, but there’s a ring of dirt in the shower. I know I have to clean it but instead, I stare at myself in the mirror.

I make a few goofy faces and pinch my cheeks. I comb my hands through my hair and pull at it. It’s just hair. I lean my right arm on the counter and let my head rest in my hand. Mirror, mirror on the wall. Why do I look like I do?

I wait for an answer I know isn’t coming. I usually don’t care how I look, but lately my appearance bothers me. I don’t think I’m ugly, and I know I’m not beautiful, despite what Mom and Dad tell me almost every single day. I’m just ordinary. Ordinary used to be enough, but it stings a little when my best friends say I have White-girl hair. I never thought they felt that way. They corrected the other kids in fifth grade who thought I was White. I remember Tyler Thompson, a White little boy, asked me to my face, Is that really your mother? when Mom visited our class to talk about her new job. Sarah was the first one to tell Tyler to keep his stupid questions to himself. Becca jumped in and said she didn’t look exactly like her mom, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t Filipino like her mom. She also told him how proud she was of her dad, who’s Black. They vouched for me. They said I was Black, even if I don’t look like my mom. But now I wonder if something’s different about