"What are you?" My journey to cultural, racial, and self acceptance.
I don’t usually preface my posts with anything, however this is probably the most personal post I have written thus far so I felt it warranted special circumstances. I’ve been wanting to write about this topic for a while or to share my story but was always afraid. I had a phone conversation with my best friend a few nights ago and she helped me to realize something very important. That I had become the person I wanted to be as a teenager. I think in life we go through many journeys and I had reached the end of one, the journey of self acceptance. Coming to this realization gave me the courage to write this in hopes that it may someday reach someone out there who might be going through the same struggles. So this is my story.
“What are you?” This is a question that has plagued me most of my life. Well first and foremost, I am a human being. Secondly, I’m a woman. However, this answer doesn’t seem to appease the strangers who regularly come up to me to ask that question. I believe what they’re searching for is the elusive answer of what my ethnicity is. For people whose origins are pretty obvious it may not seem so strange. But to me it is alienating. It’s not the fact that people ask me, it's how they ask me. I’m bi-racial, the product of an African American father and a Caucasian mother (Italian with a bit of Swedish and English.) I don’t mind telling people what my ethnic background is when asked in a polite manner. But so often people approach me as if I’m a science project in a test tube with no preface or nuance. Just, “What are you?” Or, “What are you mixed with?” The funny thing is, is that I get these same questions from people of all races. Being of mixed ethnicity is apart of who am, just as anyone’s heritage is apart of who they are. But it certainly doesn’t define me.
It’s no secret that growing up I had difficulties growing up. But I think people of mixed race have an especially challenging time because it’s very difficult to figure out where you fit in. I’m not white, but I’m not black either. I’m both. Throughout my adolescence I found that I wasn’t really accepted in my mainly Caucasian community. However when I was in areas with a predominately African American population I didn’t really fit in there either. To white people; I had darker skin and curly “poofy” hair. To black people; I was light skinned with an olive complexion and a “white girls nose” as I was once told. So you can understand my dilemma.
During my teen years I thought that I needed to “choose” a side or a culture to identify with.
My parents divorced when I was eight and I grew up with my mom and her family, who are white. So I opted to identify with my white half. I think a lot of this was because of the discrimination I faced growing up bi-racial in a mainly white community. I think there were three black families in my town, including mine. I remember the first time someone called me, “the N word.” It’s a moment I will vividly remember for the rest of my life. I was nine and in fourth grade. My family had recently moved back to my mother’s hometown following her divorce. My favorite teacher, my art teacher, had died suddenly as a result of a car accident. And as children we didn’t understand death so in response my school had offered counseling. I was sitting outside of my classroom at a table waiting for the counselor to arrive when a boy who was a year older than me came up to me and knelt down so he was at ear level with me. He whispered, “You’re a nigger,” in my ear. I didn’t really know what it meant but I knew it was something bad. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I had many racially driven incidents throughout my youth. From being called the N word, to having my sixth grade teacher ask me if I celebrated Christmas or Kwanza in front of my entire class, to getting banned from a movie theater. This happened because my friends, being the juvenile delinquents that we were, would purchase tickets to PG movies and then sneak into PG-13 or R rated movies. We were caught once and told we had to go back into the movie we purchased the tickets to. We did it a second time and everyone of my white friends was free to leave but I was banned from the movie theater. The owner said it was because I was, “the only one he recognized.”
Growing up I was also extremely sensitive about my height and my curly hair. My hometown is predominately Italian so most of the residents are of shorter stature. Currently I’m 5'8, which is tall for a woman but not abnormal. What was abnormal though was that I hit 5'8 at eleven years old but then stopped growing. When I was in fourth grade our teacher did measurements and everyone in my class ridiculed me for being so tall because it had to be “because I was black.” They joked that I should add an extra couple inches to my measurement because my hair was so poofy. Because I was so self conscious about my curly hair I always wore it in a pony-tail. My classmates would always want to touch my hair and ask to see it down. I remember having mini anxiety attacks during the swimming portion of gym class because I was so afraid to take my hair down and dry it after class. One day when I was about twelve years old my friends offered to help me straighten my hair so I could wear it down. I reluctantly took it down and brushed it out and they tried to make it as poofy as possible and took a picture and then posted it on my locker. I was mortified and cried about it for weeks on end.
I used to get terrible anxiety when I knew that topics relating to slavery or civil rights were coming up during school because I could tell it made the other students and occasionally the teachers uncomfortable with me being there. I remember feeling embarrassed when we went through these units year after year. I think it was because I knew everyone was focusing on me and it almost made me feel like I had less self worth because of what my ancestors went through. After class other students would occasionally makes jokes about slavery to me. I remember in fifth grade my teacher took me aside before the civil rights unit began. She told me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed because of what we were about to learn. That is was an important part of my heritage and I should proud of how strong African Americans were that they dealt with such adversity. Those words stuck with me throughout the rest of my education and helped me to get through the rest of my high school career.
The result of growing up dealing with this on a daily basis caused me to become extremely depressed and I had severe anxiety. I remember having one of my first panic attacks during homecoming my first year as a cheerleader because we wore football players jerseys for the homecoming game and no one wanted me to wear their jersey. So every year I would have panic attacks the closer we got to homecoming. My sophomore and junior years of high school I almost never socialized. Many of my friends were to embarrassed to go to parties or social events with me because of my African American heritage. I contemplated suicide on a number of occasions. Throughout all of this I blamed my black heritage for me being alienated and harassed. I often wished that I wasn’t black or that I was “normal”, which in my town was white. I didn’t want to associated with anything that had to do with black culture because in my mind that was the reason I experienced what I did. I hated myself and thought that there was something wrong with me. We had a black boy who briefly transferred to my high school my sophomore year. He was a foster child and his foster family lived in my school district. I remember seeing him being harassed by my fellow classmates once. They grabbed his books out of his band and through them on the floor and called him the n word. He stayed for about three weeks and then transferred to another school. I remember going home and crying that day because if this is how people of black descent were treated then what did I have to look forward to?
I remember one summer I took a modeling class because I wanted to compete in a pageant and I think my mom thought it would help my self esteem. There was a black girl in my class who once approached me and asked me what I was mixed with. I told her I didn’t understand what she meant. She responded that, “Well you sure as hell aren’t full black. What are you mixed with?” I told her my mom was white and she said, “mmmhmm, makes sense,” gave me a dirty look and walked off. I’ve been called a mutt by many black people as well. And as a result of all of these experiences I truly thought that I was abnormal or that I was “wrong.”
Upon the realization that I would never change the opinions of those around me, I decided to move away, roughly 3,000 miles away, to Los Angeles. I remember one of the first friends I met here, let’s call her Kelsey, invited me to a party one day. She told me that a lot of affluent people were going to be there and she wanted to bring someone who was pretty, intelligent, and enjoyable to be around and that she thought I possessed all of those qualities. I remember crying because it was one of the first times I had received a compliment like that from a friend. I was nineteen or twenty at the time. I did have a few friends who lived outside of my hometown and closer to Buffalo, which was our closest city. They weren’t as small minded and I found solace with those friends who I truly believe helped me begin to regain my self esteem and gave me a few happy memories prior to moving.
I believe 1997 was the first year that the census recognized two or more races as an option when filling out the census form. However I remember years later, in the mid 2000s filling out an online application for some department store and they asked if you wanted to answer what your race was. You could only check one box, and there was no mixed race option. Whenever those forms or questionnaires came around I always checked “other.” I never quite fit into one box. I was in a car accident years ago and while filling out the police report the officer asked me, “I hate to ask this but you’re white right?” I laughed and responded that I was bi-racial and he said that he could only choose one box and asked which he wanted me to check. I told him I didn’t care and later found out he had marked white. Recently more forms have listed a two or more races option. I remember the first time I filled out an online application that listed that as an option, I was so excited and I called my mom to tell her that I finally had a box to check. Because as a culture it’s so important to put people into boxes and that day I finally had one to call my own. It seems so trivial, not having a box to check when filling out surveys but it was yet another thing contributed to me feeling alienated.
One thing I find interesting is how different races identify mixed race people, because like I said, people love putting others into boxes. I’ve found that white people generally consider me to be black but black people consider me to be mixed. For example President Obama is widely known as the first “black President.” But he isn’t black, he’s bi-racial, just like Drake, Alicia Keys, Halle Barry and a plethora of other bi-racial celebrities. All known as black, not mixed.
My grandmother passed away when I was one but my mom has often told me something that she often told her. That being Italian, our family was heavily discriminated against when they first came to America as many Italians were. And because of that we should never discriminate against others. This message has stuck with me most of my life. My great grandfather on my mothers side grew up in a tiny one room home in Italy and my ancestors on my fathers side were slaves. One of my ancestors, was also one of the first slaves to buy his own freedom. Both sides of my family have experienced discrimination, but through the adversity they prevailed.
It has taken me years to accept myself for who I am. I’ve dealt with racism and prejudice from both sides. But throughout it I have gained so much strength and compassion. I feel deeply when it comes to the suffering of others. I have so much pride in who I am now. I might be different but beauty is in the abnormalities. I have so much pride in my heritage and I am strong because of the struggles both sides of my family went through. I was at The Grove one afternoon a few years ago (an outdoor mall in LA), and an African American woman came up to me. She had two young children who appeared to be of mixed race. She approached me and told me she thought I was beautiful and asked if I was mixed. I told her I was and she said that her children were as well and she hoped they grew up to be as beautiful as I was. It brought a tear to my eye and she hugged me and then went on her way. I have learned to find beauty in my differences. Because my differences are what makes me special.
I am so much more than the color of my skin or what part of the world my ancestors hail from. I am the strength of my convictions. I am the fierce loyalty I hold in my heart for those I care about. So next time you see someone and are curious about their race, don’t ask what they are. Because they are people, just like you. So to answer the ever asked question, What are you? I’m a feisty, quick witted, sharp tongued, tattooed, pierced, rock loving, compassionate, purple haired young woman with a small butt, tan skin, an olive complexion (thanks mom for the Italian green skin and the never ending foundation match hunt lol), an affliction for dark makeup, and a big heart. But more importantly I’m just me. We can’t change who we are or or the cards we were dealt. But I never, not for one day, wish I was anyone but me. The trials and tribulations I went through make me the person I am today. And I can say with complete conviction that I love myself and the woman I have become.
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