I have been going back and forth on whether or not to write a blog about my being mixed for quite some time now. I would open up a blank template on my computer and stare at the glaring screen only to close it out and leave it the way I found it; blank. Part of me felt as though I needed to put into words what exactly it meant to be mixed. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't quite know what it meant to be mixed. And perhaps I still don't know exactly, even after 21 years of living in this skin.
The reason I felt compelled to share these thoughts now, though my uncertainties still linger, is that through all the stories dealing with race currently circulating on the news and social media, I couldn't help but think about how my viewpoint as a biracial woman compares to those around me. I may not be able to pinpoint exactly what it means to be mixed but being mixed subconsciously impacts most every aspect of me.
Props to my parents for an ever-flowing list of things, but most importantly for giving me and my older brother a great childhood. I don't have any memory during my early childhood of being singled out due to my race by my mostly white peers. However, I knew that I differed in that fact that my parents had different colored skin. The beautiful thing about children is their ability to recognize differences but not necessary oppose others due to those differences. Meaning, my classmates knew I was not fully white but it was not a topic of conversation because it didn't need to be. The same for myself: I knew my skin was darker and my hair kinkier with curls, but I didn't dwell on those things because I didn't see any reason to.
Instead of finding our identity in our race, my mom taught us that your identity can only be found in Christ and Christ alone. It wasn't until years later that I would understand that statement.
She didn't hide the fact from us either that some people might treat us different because of the color of our skin. It wasn't until years later that I would understand that statement either.
As I entered into those dreaded preteen adolescent years I struggled deeply with self confidence issues. Like most girls, I wanted to be thinner and change various aspects of my physical self. But one thing I began to struggle the most with was being mixed. I hated my hair the way it wasn't flowy like all my friends. I hated my round nose covered with freckles. I hated that in class pictures, I was the odd ball with my yellow-toned skin.
As boys became an interest, I remember me and my friends giggling and interjecting on which guy we thought each other should date. Every time, I was set up with a black guy. It made me mad. Not that I didn't see myself dating a guy who was black, but rather they saw me and immediately thought I should only date guys with darker skin. I wanted to be like everyone else at my predominately white county school and just blend in, and once again my skin made me stand out. When one of my white friends would compliment the looks of a black guy, it was always mentioned that "he's attractive.. for a black guy" or "my parents would never let me date a black guy".
But wait.
These same people were the ones who welcomed me into their home and spoke nice words about my parents and befriended my whole family. Did they not see that my dad, a white man, married my mom, a black woman? Why was my parents' relationship something that my friends' parents did not want for their white daughters? Where does that leave me, the daughter of a biracial marriage?
I put away those thoughts deep in the back of my mind and carried on.
I remember going boating with my dad one sunny summer afternoon. Instead of going on the main strip of the river, we liked to stay on the creek in the country. My adventurous dad decided we would turn a different way and we found ourselves on a portion of the creek where houses were few and far between. I looked past the overgrown weeds and saw a small trailer with several confederate flags on display pinned to the aluminum siding, on the clothesline, and in the surrounding trees. I asked dad if we could go home. He didn't understand why but we did. This was several years ago, long before the debates on the confederate flag flooded the news and Facebook. But as a 14 year old mixed girl, a strange feeling whelmed inside me and I knew that I shouldn't be there.
My freshman year of college was the first time anyone had bluntly shown racism to me. I was out with one of my friends with some guys from her school. This was several years ago so I don't remember exactly what led to the incident (and frankly I wanted to forget what happened) but one of the guys began talking about how black and white people should not date or get married. The car grew silent because everyone knew I was mixed. One of the other guys finally spoke up and asked his friend to be quiet, saying "Don't you know Rebecca is mixed?" His friend laughed and said that he didn't care; he could say whatever he wanted to say whenever he wanted to say it.
I am a firm believer that there is a vast difference between a reason and an excuse. A reason answers the question why? but often times our reasons turn into excuses, which is an attempt to lessen an offense and to justify our actions in a way that puts the blame away from ourselves. There is a reason why I felt mad when my friends only suggested black guys for me to date, why I was confused their parents were opposed to them dating black gentlemen, why I felt uncomfortable around the confederate flag, and why I cried when I got home after the guy bashed mixed relationships. It all goes back to race. As a child it never phased me, but children's innocence shields them from such feelings. Growing up, I tried to not make race an issue but subconsciously it was. We can claim that race doesn't matter, when in fact it does. But here is the difference: My mom was right when she told me and my brother that some people would treat us differently because we are mixed; I realized that soon enough. She was also right when she said our identity is found through Christ and Christ alone. I am not Rebecca The Mixed Girl. I am Rebecca, Christ-follower, who happens to be mixed. At the end of the day, we are all people. Not white people and black people, just people. That isn't to say we should overlook race. Race is a big part of each of us. It is a reason why we are the way we are in a lot of ways.
I may still not be able explain what it means to be mixed, but I think to everyone it may mean something different. But just as Zora Neale Hurston ended her great work How It Feels To Be Colored Me: "who knows?"
