In light of the recent breakthroughs in how we define ourselves as people, I have an important announcement to make. When I first heard of that courageous woman coming out to stand up for who she truly believes she is, I crumbled to the floor. I turned into a helpless heap of tears, whimpering shouts of jubilation. Far too long had I felt a similar dissonance in my heart between how I appeared and how I felt inside.

I am, of course, referring to Rachel Dolezal (I mean, who else could I possibly be referring to?). Through her courageous actions, that beautiful, strong, black, independent woman taught me that it matters not what your skin color is. Nor does it matter what your racial background is. We are who we identify with on the inside. Sure, the “dictionary” defines Caucasian as “white-skinned; of European origin.” But to which skin does it refer? The scientific definition referring to the thin layer of tissue that covers our bodies? Or to the metaphysical organ that covers our minds? Take that, haters.

But while Rachel identifies as black, I identify as another group of people. This has nothing to do with that fact that no amount of orange bronzer and hair dyeing/curling can make me look even remotely black. It’s just that, inside, I know I’m not black. Also on the dance floor — I know I’m not black there either. You see, the skin that covers my mind is wizard skin. Yes, I identify as wizard.

Please spare me the eye rolls. I can hear your dismissive scoffs. If someone can be as bold as to reveal themselves as black with literally no plausible justification — even a stretch like “18 generations ago my mother was ¼ black” — well then, by golly, I can identify as the wizard I always knew I was. In spite of the lack of proof that wizards actually exist.

The signs were there from an early age. I remember when I was 8 being ridiculed for always holding a stick, around 12 inches long, and speaking in tongues unbeknownst to me in an attempt to change the world around me. I didn’t know why I did it, nor that I was in fact holding a wand and casting spells.

When I went on extended walks I always had a giant branch with me — oftentimes there was a rock or crystal firmly lodged in one end. I once saved an entire group of tourists from jaywalking merely by standing in front of them, slamming my branch (or “staff,” as I later learned to call my inheritance) in the ground, and defiantly yelling “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

And while I suppressed this desire for years, my fashion taste has always tended towards robes. Thankfully, beards are now in fashion, though the length of my beard is not what it is in my wizard mind (it never is, amirite fellas?). I also prefer pipes over other types of smoking paraphernalia, and I make wise statements without trying.

I know you may be thinking “Why now? Sure, that brave black lady rejected her whiteness, but she’s only one! It’s not yet a trend!” But I can no longer live in this lie that is called my “life” (quotations intended). On top of that, I had to preempt the inevitable battle between myself and my parents. So I had to give you my manifesto. Before my parents spit poisonous words to which there are no anti-spell. Words like “idiot,” “ridiculous,” “wizards don’t even exist,” and “this is what you’ve been doing with the money we sent you!?” (that last one would be especially poisonous). Sure, the media will lambast me, and focus all their energies on my woes instead of reporting on, well, actual news. But I’ll know that I’ll have the last laugh when I cast my Invisibilitus spell and they all go away, having been distracted by a celebrity childbirth.