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Chapters (48)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR ALEXA MARTIN’S PLAYBOOK SERIES
  3. Titles by Alexa Martin
  4. Dedication
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. Prologue
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-one
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. Thirty-six
  43. Thirty-seven
  44. Thirty-eight
  45. Epilogue
  46. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  47. About the Author
  48. What’s next onyour reading list?

But when I found out I was able to write a fourth book for the series, it was the only idea I wanted to pursue. I figured enough time had passed that I would be able to tell the story I wanted to tell. I finished writing Snapped in October 2019. Little did I know that this book would be more relevant as it released than it was while I was writing it.

This is not Colin Kaepernick’s story. I respect him and the bravery he showed by kneeling on the field in 2016. He made a stand that has gotten more powerful over time. He was definitely an inspiration for this book, but I can’t tell his story. Only he can. This is a story about Elliot and Quinton. I know I do not speak for all Black experiences, or even all biracial ones. This is my story, coming from my perspective, based on my lived experiences.

Like Elliot, I am biracial. Also like Elliot, my Black parent died when I was very young, and I was raised with my all-white family. Understanding and accepting my racial identity has been a long journey for me. I grew up in the most amazing home with my mom and grandparents who loved me. Because of that, it was hard for me to see or acknowledge many forms of racism. Partly because I didn’t want my family, who loved me, to feel betrayed.

I also constantly felt like I was being pulled in different directions outside of the house. Being told that I wasn’t Black enough by some and that I was too Black for others. There was even a time when we went to visit extended family and one of my cousins could not understand how it was possible that I was Black and related to her. We were both in our teens. It was incredibly hurtful, but because it was what I always did, I laughed it off.

It wasn’t until I became an adult, got married to a Black man, and had Black children that I finally began to come to grips with my identity and process the way a lifetime of microaggressions had affected me. And it was painful. Painful to come to grips with the way the people I loved and who loved me had left a long-lasting impression. Painful to realize I had quieted and doubted my own feelings for others’ comfort.