Aside from my mother, few of my relatives have been to my home since I left St. Louis 20 years ago. Working-class people don't travel much, and I am the only one in my family to escape that fate. But last October, there they all are -- my four sisters, brother and mother -- in D.C., visiting me for my wedding to a white architect, and, over the course of three days, both our families are playing together nicely. It couldn't have gone better if I'd written the script myself. Too bad I hadn't written lines for my neighbor.

Two floors down, there's this sweet, ancient white lady whom my mother has befriended during her past visits. It's the day after the wedding, and she's heading to our apartment for a brunch. My neighbor happens to share the elevator with one of my sisters. My neighbor has been looking forward to the excitement of my wedding for months. Given that, and the fact that any other black person in our chichi building stands out, she has no trouble figuring out that this woman in the elevator who looks just like me must be here for the wedding. Happily, she asks my sister who she is: is she a member of Debra's family?

My sister doesn't know that my neighbor and our mother are friends. She doesn't know that this woman loves me and plans to love my family on sight. What she hears is that someone is challenging her right to be where she is. Insulted, she snaps back that it's none of her business who she is. She has a right to go anywhere she wants.

Weeks later, after our honeymoon, my mother tells me why my neighbor skipped the brunch. (My sister had recounted to her how she'd stood up for herself.) I flash my sister a hot e-mail message. How could she be so mean to a sweet old lady, a neighbor who was just trying to be a part of things? My sister responds by telling me that I don't understand how difficult it is to be black. How ostensibly benign situations are actually fraught with racism, even danger, for black people. That simply hearing the words without context can't convey what white people are really saying.

I remain befuddled by this exchange. I think my sister does, too. Otherwise, we could talk about it. If we could, maybe she could tell me exactly when and exactly how I ceased to be black. And more important, exactly what I have become.

Even though she won't discuss it, I think I get it. My sister intuitively understands that "blacks" fear arbitrary oppression and sudden abuse. Blacks live with an unrelenting societal insecurity, a knowledge that the ground beneath their feet could crumble at any policeman's whim or boss's power trip. I, on the other hand, act like a citizen. I am not insecure -- I don't even fear the police. My sister knows that if you don't feel marginalized, you cannot be black.

If my sister is right, race do-si-doed with class somewhere along the way as I climbed the socioeconomic ladder. I don't even get to be a self-hating sellout. My sister has awarded me a battlefield promotion all the way to honky, someone who sides with a white neighbor over her own kin. In my sister's eyes, I have "transcended race," that thing that only nonwhites are required to do. Now, the thinking goes, whites accept me because I'm not like my sister; I don't make them nervous. I spent the first half of my life figuring out how to be black and successful. Looks like I'll spend the second figuring out how to be successful and black.