If you were to take a look at my Facebook recently you might notice some differences. I was the girl dressed in J. Crew who reposted articles from sites like TSM. In my photos I was surrounded by white girls dressed in Lilly Pulitzer, with my flat ironed hair and Jack Rogers. But recently, there has been a slight shift in content. Articles about puppies and why coffee is the most important thing on earth are replaced by articles about why Black lives matter or why racebent characters are important. My hair is curlier, my skin is darker, and my photos feature more brown faces next to mine. I am aware of this shift, and I know what most of my friends are thinking: Why is she acting so black all of a sudden?

For those of you who don't know, I am half black. It is something I have somewhat ignored for most of my life growing up in a Japanese and white household, and having been enrolled in a white middle-class school system. This ignorance to my ancestry has negatively affected my life in ways that I have just started to realize.

I began to form my racial identity at age three. I would tell people I was Japanese when they asked where I was “from.” They would ask where else, obviously confused as to why I was brown, and I would reply with, “England." From that point on, society's questions became more offensive, and my ignorance would turn into denial, and soon self-loathing.

I remember asking my mom one day, "What did Michael Jackson do to make his skin so white?" "He was born that way, it's a disease," she replied. "He's lucky," I said at age 7.

As a young girl my friends would call my hair gross, weird, frizzy, puffy, etc. I remember once in fifth grade, my mom put my hair into braids, and I begged her not to. When I arrived at school, my girlfriends made disgusted faces and said, "Woah you look so black,” and they continued to make fun of me all day. It was the most humiliating day of school in my life, and when I went home I cried and demanded my mom take them out. I never wore braids again, even though they would have kept my hair from becoming a matted mess while playing outside.

I love the sun, and I love the pool, but at age 10 I was already afraid of turning "purple," so I limited my time outdoors in the summer. “Do black people even need sunscreen?” my white friends would ask as I applied 80 spf while they applied 30.

In middle school I discovered the hair straightener, then the almighty relaxer. Finally! Something that would help me look more white. I felt on top of the world, and the hairdresser even gave me a special product to make my hair look smoother. I returned to school feeling confident, but as soon as my friends smelled the product, they scrunched their noses and said, "Ew, you smell like a black person." I never used black products again, even though they were designed for my hair texture.

My high school years were cruel. At a time when I was growing into my femininity and sexuality I would constantly hear phrases like, “I don’t like black girls,” and “Beyonce is hot, dude, she is the ONE black girl I’d hook up with.” Sometimes my girlfriends would stand up for me saying, “Hey, Alyssa is black!” while I sat there silently. I would cringe, why did they have to remind them? I was relieved when the boys would say, “No she isn’t! She isn’t REALLY black.” Phewf, I still had a chance, but a slim one. I took every chance I got to consent to attention from while males, because I was lucky “this one liked me.”

I grew up estranged from my father, and thanks to society I learned to identify with the term “daddy issues”…one can only imagine the consequences this had on my self-worth. I attributed every negative feeling about my father to the fact that he was black. Isn’t that what black guys did? Impregnate females then ditch them and never pay child support? Society is right; I thought at the time, he was my proof.

I was not innocent when it came to perpetuating racism. When my friends asked me what my typewas, I would say, “I like white guys,” bragging at the end, “I’ve never hooked up with a black guy!” I, too, referred to the group of black students at my high school as “the ghetto clique", even though their parents lived in mansions and drove luxury cars. I would roll my eyes when a black kid acted up in class, but laugh when the white kids did. I came up with wittier answers for questions my friends had like, “Duh I’m wearing sunscreen, what do you want me looking like a Nigerian by the end of summer?” or, “I’m not close with my dad’s side of the family so I’m not really black.”

But the truth is I was Black; and I was treated as such whether I wanted to believe that or not. I was always the one getting reprimanded for talking in class, and in college I was even arrested for drinking while my white friends, who were with me and also drunk, weren’t. My mom finally said to me, “Alyssa, you have to be more careful. People are watching you.” “Why, because I’m a young lady?” I asked. “No. Because you’re black.” What! No I wasn’t! If only they know me, they would know I was an upstanding citizen, a sweet and lovable girl-- they would know I was the opposite of black! At that moment I was faced with my reality, and I knew I could no longer deny it. Black. I’m not black, I’m mixed. I’m better than black. Yes, I am a step above the worst possible thing I could be: colorist, instead of racist, yes that’s what I was; because mixed, although part of my identity, was a lie. I am not mixed because to say I am mixed is to say I am not black. And I am black. I am white, and Japanese, but I am black, and now I am proud.

So when did it change for me? Well, college had a huge impact on my views of race and diversity. I attend VCU, which I am learning is a unique university in that it emphasizes the importance of diversity and equality. People of all races and backgrounds surrounded me; and for the first time in my life I had multiple black friends. I was no longer the only black person in the room. Professors did not use the phrase, “We used to have slaves,” when talking about America, the way my high school teachers did. I met people who were not afraid to argue with me when I said ignorant things like, “I’m not into black guys.” I finally met black males who told me not to judge them just because I resented my father, and through them I realized that I resented my father for his actions, but mostly because he made me black. I let go of anger, I forgave my father and myself, I learned to enjoy the sun, I let my hair get wet, and I stopped wasting hours of my day attempting to transform into something I was not born to be.

I was no longer the minority, but that, too, came with its struggles. I learned not to rely on my ethnic background as something that made me unique; instead I had to use my mind and achievements to differentiate myself. I had to grapple with guilt, and I had to let go of a new type of anger that arose when I realized how the world had kept me down. At college, I was thriving, but it wasn’t until I returned home that I realized I was the only one who had experienced this revelation, and for the first time I was open to hurt. Growing up, my grandmother would throw out phrases like, “Stop dancing like you’re black,” and, “Why are you acting black?” or , “Do you think you’re black or something?” Being hit with the realization that my own family had perpetuated my inability to accept my identity created a new hurdle. I found myself getting into arguments with my grandparents over why Blacks were still suffering from slavery and being met with, “Alyssa, that happened 200 years ago.” It hurt me, it hurt so badly to return to a home where I, as an African American, was not believed nor validated. I formed a desire to be closer with my black family, and that is something I had never felt before. I cried in my room one day after a conversation with my grandmother, and I remember wishing I could be with my other family members because they would understand. To think I had denied them this understanding for so long is something I struggle with, but I know it is not my fault. The effects of racism cannot be my fault.

I had to forgive myself for the way I used to think and feel, and I had to find the courage to claim what I know I really am. I still get nervous that I am not blackenough when I enter a room of people who have identified as black their whole lives. But I remind myself that black is not only a certain type of clothing or music or food -- black is me.

It was only after taking the course “Personality and Behavior of the African-American,” that I came to these conclusions. I had learned about racism before, but I had never learned about how it might affect my identity and self-worth. I was severely depressed for a majority of my life, and I always felt something was missing. I blamed this hole in my heart on the fact that I wasn’t in love, or the fact I didn’t have a father, but it was more than that. I was missing a part of myself, a part of myself I had denied for 22 years. While taking the course, I had to look back at my life and accept that I had faced adversity. However, I was also given the chance to look at my past, and myself, and realize black had always been with me. Though suppressed at times, there were moments I couldn’t help but feel the African spirit. My mom always thought it was cute, and a little strange, that the first CD I ever bought as a child was an African tribal one. She had no idea why I picked it, and at the time neither did I. Now, there is no more validating moment I can recall than choosing that CD. It was not random; I had listened to multiple samples before deciding on that one. I was drawn to it, and I could not explain why, but now I know. I chose that CD because I needed to. My soul needed me to. It is the same reason I have started using the hashtag #blackisbeautiful and sharing articles about misorientation and injustice. It is the same reason I am joining into the movements for and celebrations of African Americans. It is the same reason I stopped straightening my hair and applying an unnecessary amount of sunscreen. It is the reason I feel more complete than I ever have in my life. So, yes, some of you might have noticed I am acting more Black, now. The truth is, I’ve always been black, and for the first time in my life I truly feel it.