The Black Notebooks is a collection of Toi Derricotte’s candid, revealing journal entries about her struggles with racial identity and internalized racism. The poet and lecturer, born in 1941, was often mistaken for White even though both parents were black. Derricotte writes of her darker grandfather driving her and her grandmother to Saks Fifth Avenue. They experienced exhilaration at being able to float around the store undetected, yet also carried the fear of being caught. “While we wanted the privileges white people had, we had contempt for what we saw as their pale lives.”

Derricotte’s first marriage disintegrated under all the pressure. She even spoke of being repulsed, at times, by the sight of her husband and feeling superior to other blacks because she did look White; then she was left with a nearly unbearable guilt that haunted her over the years. Derricotte described her feelings of being overwhelmed with anxiety deciding whether or not to reveal her racial ethnicity in various social and professional situations where there were no other blacks or racially motivated comments had already been made.

She fought the daily battles with the usual suspects of prejudiced real estate agents, stumbling guilty liberals and closed country clubs. Much sadder were the stories of the Black elementary school children who had already deemed themselves ugly because of their hair, lips, and skin. They weren’t White, so they didn’t see themselves as pretty. What the author expressed, at times, was nearly unfathomable and at other times reminded me of some of the heartbreaking things from my own past in dealing with ridiculous prejudices that had been passed down from generation to generation. There was no issue of “passing”, just a childhood world measured in skin tones of light and dark.

Derricotte’s view of our racially divided, affected, and infected society is disturbing and tragic in its veracity and helpful in its honesty. The Black Notebooks has won several awards and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. Reading this, I clung tightly to the writer’s small but meaningful victories throughout her life. I wanted her to feel better about herself; I wanted her to find a better world for all of us. However, I also wished that Derricotte had shared a bit more, as it was obvious that much was still held back, as if she was not yet ready to open up completely.