Bits and Pieces: My Mother, My Brother, and Me

by Whoopi Goldberg

One time I asked my mother, “Why do you think people keep saying to me that we don’t sound black?” My mother shrugged and said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.” “They act like the way I talk is wrong.” “Ah, well, it’s their problem, not your problem. It’s not my problem. It’s their problem.” This is the other thing people would say as if it were some kind of miracle: “Oh, you’re so articulate.” I finally took a page out of Emma’s book. I’d ask them a question instead of giving a response: “What do you mean? More articulate than who?” They would stumble around for an explanation. “Well, you don’t talk like . . . you know . . . you don’t sound like . . . like . . .” I’d say, “Who? I don’t sound like who?” Finally, they’d choke out, “Well, you don’t sound black.” Without being an asshole, I’d ask them, “So, you’re basically telling me that you don’t know any black people? Is that what you’re saying?” I’d tell my mother about this, and she’d respond, “Be forgiving. They don’t know any better.” I’d say, “They act surprised that you took us to hear music, see shows, museums, the movies, all of it.” And my mother would tell me, “You have to understand. They don’t know anybody like you. They can’t imagine that you know about art, music, world history . . . anything. This is not your problem. This is a look inside what’s lacking in their world, not yours. The only