Memories of a Mixed girl: the Biracial Blues

I cannot tell you how many times throughout my twenty-one years of existence I've been asked "what are you?" "what are you mixed with?" "Are you sure you're not *insert random race or combination of races here*?""Oh, you're mixed with black? Is your dad black, or your mom?" As if people were entitled to that information.  Being multi-racial marginalizes you even farther than being a minority of merely one race.

Baby me

Mom, Me, Dad

For a long time I struggled with my racial identity. My father is a black man, my mother an Asian and white woman. I never knew "what" I was. I was not black enough, not white enough; I was simply an awkward in between. I was raised just outside Placer County, in a predominantly white setting. The Community College I went to is considered the second whitest College demographically in all of California behind Shasta College. I grew up doing competitive cheerleading, which is a sport reflective generally of white faces. My educators, mentors, and primary environment lacked diversity. Due to the custody arrangement that was ruled on in my parents split, I would visit my dad every other weekend growing up. His environment starkly contrasted with the one I was used to. My dad has always lived in areas that were largely occupied by of people of color. He's lived in various communities around South Sacramento for my entire life. He currently resides in Meadowview, a low-income suburb a few exits south of downtown that most people from where I grew up would describe as "the hood." (I use quotations because I refuse to refer to anywhere in Sacramento as hood considering there were more casualties in the CITY of Chicago than there were in the COUNTRY of Iraq where there was a war going on in the last year)


When you're able to identify as only one race you have two parents that look like you. your family looks like you. you can find images in the media to identify with. you don't have to choose between black barbie and white barbie and wonder why there aren't dolls with wild curly hair like yours. People don't ask you if your parents are your parents. I grew up having crushes on little white boys who didn't reciprocate my adoration. Understandably so, I looked different from what they were used to. I had thick thighs, messy curls atop my head, and non-white skin. Despite my obvious differences, I find that white people are more comfortable being overtly racist around me because they expect that I identify with my "whiteness." negating entirely that when you're of mixed
descent, you are almost always

classified as minority with minority status. I do not have perceived whiteness, & I do not have the experiences that derive from those perceptions although most black people assume and treat me as if i do. My first boyfriend was white. His immediate family was welcoming & loving; his step-father was an educated attorney and his mom a woman whose experiences aligned closely with my mothers. However, when we traveled to his family's winery, the sentiments of tolerance weren't echoed. When he, his step-dad and all the other males in the household went out shooting on the property, I stayed back and hung out with his mom and the other women. I'll never forget his step-grandma. She was a woman of grace. She had a small frame that was stylishly accessorized. She was fashionable and fierce,
 her pant suit accented by THE perfect shade of mauve lipstick. her imaged served as a timeless representation of grace. She drove a Mercedes and was living fashionably in her old age. I'll never forget this moment, she stared at me with her piercing eyes and commented "you're so beautiful for a colored girl." Her realizations were met with silence as the room came to a stand still focusing in on my reaction. I instinctively replied "thank you." My boyfriend's mother immediately changed the subject and complimented the drapery as I was left in my mind toiling over what could've been an adequate & appropriate response. My dad was always uncomfortable with me dating a white boy. I understood why in this moment.


My entire life i desired silky straight hair like my mothers. i hated my curls. they stigmatized me among classmates and teammates as different and they made me self conscious. I've had random strangers at Disneyland, in lines at grocery stores, passing by in malls, at restaurants, and pretty much any public setting, molest my hair and violate my personal space.  But it isn't the admiration for my hair that compels them to reach out and touch it (sometimes even before asking permission), it's to satisfy their own curiosity. In any event, I rejoice in the fact that my mom took the time to educate herself when it came to handling my hair. She would put African essence & coconut oils in my hair. she knew how to part, braid, twist, use knockers, barrettes, and the like. she berated my dad for putting a relaxer in my hair, and very much knew all of what having "black hair" entailed. she made sure my hair was done and i felt & looked fabulous. It pains me to see bi-racial and mutli-racial children walking around with dry, damaged or unkempt hair. I coach gymnastics & there are a handful of white moms at my work who have children of a different race, and it pains me to see the neglect that their hair experiences. You cannot just throw African-American textured hair in a pony tail. African hair is textured differently and is more coarse respectively to its proximity to the equator. If you are going to bring bi-racial children into this world or elect to adopt children that are of a different descent, it is IMPERATIVE that you educate yourself in haircare and culture. when your children are going to be perceived as minorities it is imperative that they can identify with the struggles and culture of those that they will be grouped with, and the classification that will represent them, for the duration of their lives.

 

RESOURCES FOR PARENTING BIRACIAL CHILDREN:

chocolate hair, vanilla care

 Family, by Isabell Monk (Carolrhoda). When Hope’s African-American relatives get together for a family reunion at her great aunt’s farm, Hope brings a recipe from her father’s white family. - See more at: http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/articles.php?aid=1679#sthash.UuMfZ7sM.dpuf

 Family, by Isabell Monk (Carolrhoda). When Hope’s African-American relatives get together for a family reunion at her great aunt’s farm, Hope brings a recipe from her father’s white family. - See more at: http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/articles.php?aid=1679#sthash.UuMfZ7sM.dpuf

childrens books addressing biracial heritage
 tips for white parents

Family, by Isabell Monk (Carolrhoda). When Hope’s African-American relatives get together for a family reunion at her great aunt’s farm, Hope brings a recipe from her father’s white family. - See more at: http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/articles.php?aid=1679#sthash.UuMfZ7sM.dpuf