Self-identification is tricky for everyone, but it feels a tad bit trickier for biracial people. Oppression is quickly making its way up toward some sort of climax between whites and all minorities present, but imagine being in the middle with the ever looming question "Where do we belong?" present. It's similar to a divorce: when mom and dad divorce they want you to choose a side or else you're not worthy. Say hello to not being worthy no matter what you do or say.
From one perspective, being biracial is its own paradise because for some reason everyone thinks you're exotic. You aren't considered normal, you stand tall and elegant in a radiant meadow like a unicorn spritzed with sparkles. You were blessed with a beautiful skin tone that apparently every woman in the world wishes she had (believe me, I hear this regularly). Your skin is also as smooth as a hard candy. Don't ask me why, but it comes with the territory. Biracial skin seems ageless and indestructible. Companies should be studying biracial men and women more closely so they can create actual anti-aging products that work. And your hair? It may irritate your soul because it stands two feet off your head and even when you think you're going bald you know you're being dramatic, but society is obsessed with the hair of biracial people. If I had a dime for every time someone randomly touched my hair (although I'd rather that never happen) or expressed to me how much they prayed for curls like mine, I'd be able to pay off my student debt. I'm so serious.
So if biracial people are such magnificent beings, why do we struggle to self-identify? I was taught to see people as they are: people. There was no color difference. It wasn't until I was in elementary school and a boy in class asked me which woman in the room was my mom and when I pointed to a woman as pale as the paper in our notebooks (whiteboards weren't all the rage quite yet), he had the courage to tell me that couldn't be my mother. It was all in innocence of course. When you teach children that two and two equals four they're going to apply that to everything. White plus white equals white and black plus black equals black... so brown and brown has to equal brown right?
The best of both worlds truly has its advantages. I can relate to anyone at any time whereas individuals on either end of the spectrum feel obligated to stay within their demographic because venturing outside of that demographic can create a chaos that we are not yet equipped to handle. I'm the prime example of what happens when people venture out of their demographic and I must say the saying "You never know until you try" is a life lesson worth carrying around in your back pocket.
Yet there were times when I felt that it was more difficult being caught in the middle. I come from a predominantly white town where everyone knew everyone and our parents all went to school together. Every now and again there would be that kid in school to use nigger in some backhanded way (I think some boy tried to purposefully mispronounce Nigeria once during a Geography lesson) to single me out. Personally that never bothered me because my mother was a lover, not a fighter. My dad, a man proud of his heritage and unafraid to speak his mind, wanted me to get fired up. He wanted me angry with little Johnny for being so ignorant, but it wasn't Johnny's fault. It was a matter of his raising which was birthed from a day in age over which I had no control. In my heart I knew change was reaching its wake.
It wasn't until SOL testing started to overrun my life when I realized I didn't know what I was. My teacher actually told me to put Alaskan on my scan card because she wasn't sure what my skin tone designated me as either (it was early in the year, parent conferences hadn't happened yet). I had to go home that day and ask what exactly I was. I remember this beefy vein protruding from my dad's neck when my mother said I could put whatever I wanted to put (white or black that is) because his argument was that you identify with your father. In a patriarchal society that makes plenty of sense, but I can't find anything that says it has to be this way. I started writing BLACK on my exams and documents that required me to identify my race. Until recently, I wasn't aware of the discomfort I felt jotting that down. I was uncomfortable saying that I was black because I wasn't fully black. I couldn't identify with the African-American world hidden within the white community. A community that served brown-bag greasy fried chicken and cornbread for dinner and watermelon as a cool summer snack. I wasn't like my aunt on my dad's side who paid for her hair every month or had her nails done with those fancy designs and neon colors. I wasn't any of that.
If anything I was a little country girl. Anyone who's heard my dad speak has always thought he sounded like a hick and anyone who meets him for the first time appears to be shot with a stun gun when they see his skin color. I was always outside barefoot playing with bugs and animals, but what tomboy or child wasn't doing that? That didn't necessarily make me white, so what the heck was I supposed to say on government documents? I remember my mom used to wash my hair with Panteen shampoo because she thought it was best, but then my grandma would lather my scalp up with S-CURL hair lotion because my curls were so parched. When I started college, I had a close friend tell me she assumed I had more black friends back home because I associated with more black students in my class than white.
Who is in charge of deciding where we belong?
People want biracial people to stand on one side of the line or the other. Our feet cannot straddle the muddled division between the two. Either you're right or you're wrong. Well who's deciding who is right and wrong because I'm caught in the middle here and we need a judge without bias. There is no clear-cut way of doing this thing we call life.
To be honest with you, I'm still working on my self-identity and I know that one day I will be comfortable with who I am. I'll be proud to color in the circle beside BLACK on any government document and when people ask me if I'm Puerto Rican I'll indulge their conversation and steer them in the right direction instead of leaving them alone to hold hands with blissful ignorance. I won't settle with saying "No, I'm just a mixed girl" because I'm more than that.
I am in charge of deciding where I belong.
To anyone who has ever told me I'm the whitest black girl you'll ever meet: I'm sorry that you see it that way. I'm sorry that you can't identify me as one of your intellectual equals and one of your companions because that's what I am. I am a girl trying to wrap her arms around the world to spread her love, but her fingertips barely touch. I'm sorry that you're still stuck in an era of coloration used as identity. In the past week I have met a Puerto Rican woman fluent in both English and Spanish with powder white skin (I highly recommend you read her work too, Cecilia Llompart). One of my summer camp students has a beautiful blush complexion and her dad is a whimsical artistic black man that I had the pleasure of meeting. I'm extremely sorry that when you think of me you try and fail to place me into your perfectly square box of stereotypes because it's not worth it to fit into such a compact space.
It's not all black and white.
