Black? White? Grey.
Growing up, I loved how different my family was. My mom was crafty yet outdoorsy, and I could always depend on her if I had a project due soon and hadn't started it yet, or if I wanted to grow watermelons in the backyard. My dad, on the other hand, was passionate and very book smart. I could walk up to him with all of my questions, and he always seemed to have an answer. "How are olives good for you?" "What was the significance of the 1972 Winter Olympics?" "What's that thing on Geordi La Forge's face on 'Star Trek?'" These were all questions my dad could answer without Google or an encyclopedia.
No one ever really pointed it out to me either. My friends knew that my mom was my mom and my dad was my dad. My family didn't treat me any differently, and my teachers didn't seem to care either. School projects about my family tree were always cool, and I enjoyed listening to my parents as they told me about different family members-both living and dead-what their lives were like, and what they had accomplished. I felt cool. Complex. Like I had an extra layer of *oomf* to myself that others didn't get. It didn't really occur to me that this difference between myself and most of my peers could be viewed as negative.
Until one weekend in 2007.
I was at my cousin's house (let's call her Susan) visiting her and her kids because my dad felt like I wasn't spending enough time with his side of the family. I felt shy about going but my parents assured me it would be fun, plus Susan was going to have a big birthday party for herself which my parents would be attending, so I wouldn't be on my own for the *entire* weekend.
On the day of the party, the house was full. All of Susan's friends, and a lot of my family were there. Her daughter's room became the designated clubhouse for all of the kids to hang out in, and before long it was a hot, sweaty, loud cacophony of laughing and roughhousing. I had started out the evening with my cousin's daughter and a couple of her friends, but as the room became more populated I gravitated towards a spot on the floor beside the bed, and quietly observed everyone. At some point, a little Black girl found herself beside me, and asked me something I had never been asked before:
"Are you mixed?"
I remember furrowing my brows at the question. Mixed? Mixed with what? Butter, sugar, and eggs? What is "mixed?"
The room got a little quieter. Some other kids stopped what they were doing and looked at me expectantly, as if they had wondered as well but had been too afraid to ask. I remember the energy in the room changing, and my heart pumping a little more anxiously than it had been already. To this day, I don't know how I figured out what she meant without having to ask her to explain, but something deep down inside of me figured it out.
"If you mean my father is Black and my mother is white then yes, I am," I answered.
"Hm. Interesting."
And then, without anybody telling us to, we separated. All of the other kids, who were Black, spent the rest of the party together, and I found the only white kid at the party and spent the rest of the night with him. Nobody outwardly rejected me, and I wouldn't have been mad if one of the other kids broke the invisible barrier. But we didn't. And it wasn't until much later in my life that I even realized that we had put a barrier between us at all. It was just what we did.
As I got older, I started gravitating towards my identity as a Black woman. Black history and popular culture had me completely spellbound and I loved it. The growth of the internet as a resource was a huge help. I was able to more deeply understand the facets of Black culture that my father and his side of the family shared with me, as well as discover my own role models and entertainment icons. When left to my own devices in the computer room of my parent's house (remember computer rooms?) I was BlackBlackBlackedy Black all day every day, and you couldn't tell me nothing.
Unfortunately, however, I couldn't go much farther than my computer room if I wanted to be BlackBlackBlackedy Black. Sure, I had my dad if I ever wanted to pontificate about the lives and greatness of people like Muhammad Ali, Jimi Hendrix, Malcolm X, or any of his heroes, but the man didn't exactly share my passion for Beyoncé, Rihanna, Brandy Cinderella, or The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl. And my friends at the time were mostly white, and their interests were simply different than mine. So, outside of the computer room (and eventually my bedroom once I got my own laptop), I partook in their interests, and saved my own for when I was at home by myself.
To be fair: it's not as if I didn't like doing some of the things my white friends did. I had an entire emo phase, which resulted in the discovery of a lot of media that I still enjoy to this day.
My fashion, however, has since evolved past this:
foundyouremophase.jpeg
But deep down, I hated having to hide half of myself from everyone around me. I was growing, learning, and changing, and I was pushing it all down because I was scared people would think I was weird or different if I shared. But the things that I thought would make me "weird" or "different" were my culture. Things that I had a birth-given right to.
I wish I could tell you that some magical catalyst came along and showed me the way to walk the line between the white side and the Black side of me, but I'm really only just figuring it all out for myself right now. The COVID lockdowns gave me a lot of time to think about my life, who I missed, what I missed doing, and what I really should do, because tomorrow is not guaranteed.
At the beginning of the pandemic, I started doing research on being biracial. I had heard it mentioned a couple of times in some of the Black-centered media that I had consumed over the years, but never in any sort of depth or out of any kind of appreciation for what we go through. I watched season one of mixed-ish, found an entire catalogue of search results on The Huffington Post, and even found a couple podcast episodes that talk about it-but nothing really hit home for me. They would talk about how their parents met, a couple of times when they were bullied or othered, and then talk about dating/marriage for a bit, but never really come to any sort of helpful conclusion. In short: I noticed a gap. And I am going to fill it.
My new play mixed(er) is about a young woman who learns that her family has planned a surprise birthday party for her and have invited all of her friends-including her only Black friend-to celebrate. As she panics to try and stop the party from happening, hilarity ensues in the form of multiple miscommunications, as she eventually learns that maybe-just maybe-the space between her two cultures is where she's supposed to be.
Writing the play has been extremely eye-opening for me. I've had to confront a lot of feelings that I've always avoided or pretended weren't there. And you know what? It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought it would be. In quiet moments between writing the play, Zoom meetings about the play, or applying to grants for the play, I'll just sit with myself, and think about all that I am. And the conclusion I've come to is that...
I am Black and I am white. And I am allowed. I'm allowed to dip my toe in both of those pools and be as much of one or the other on any given day that I want. I used to think it was a crime, but it's not. No one is going to physically stop me from expressing myself using all the parts that make me, me. And it's not a crime that I got one more part than the average person. If anything, it's an advantage. And it's an advantage that I am going to express and love and revel in and share with those I love and those I don't even know. Being biracial is my light that I have to shine on the world, and I have no business dimming it for anyone out of fear of not being understood. Finally, after years of secret self-loathing, I can confidently say: if you don't get me, that's your problem, not mine sweetie!