Chocolate Milk
“Mommy, you and Daddy look different from each other.” I’m not sure when I first noticed this or when I said it out loud for the first time. I was constantly reminded in my homogeneous white town growing up that there weren’t a lot of families that looked like mine, and this confused me as a kid. My dad was Black, my mom was white, and my sister and I were two different shades on the spectrum in between. I still remember the analogy my mom used to explain our family to me, and I still remember how much better it made me feel. She would say, “Daddy is the chocolate syrup, and I’m the milk. Shake it all up, and you get chocolate milk, you and your sister. You’re both of us.” I came out a little heavy on the milk, my sister with a bit more chocolate, but yes, we were both of them.
My thick head of hair comes from my Spanish-German mom and my African American dad. My mom grew up between England, western New York and Las Cruces, New Mexico, and my dad was born and raised in Grand Rapids, Michigan. They met in Colorado Springs, CO where I was born and lived until I graduated from college. While they were dating in the 80's, people would give them stares and horrified looks in public. Even then, interracial relationships were looked down upon despite interracial marriage being legalized by the Supreme Court in 1967. Once they had me the looks of disapproval transformed into something softer at the sight of the very real child that was the product of a seemingly unreal union.
I didn’t grow up around many people of color, other biracial kids, or much Black culture. Insecurity was a feeling I would become very familiar with but was unable to name or make sense of for a long time. Learning about slavery and the oppression of African Americans in our country evoked despair and guilt as I chewed on the truth that my parents descended from opposite sides of America’s race war.
Being unable to find anyone who looked like me further compounded my guilt and complicated my confusion. Was I betraying something or someone by merely existing? I felt as though I was defying the laws of the universe, and everyone knew it.
Like any adolescent, I sampled various flavors of fashion, music, movies, and pop culture, but it wasn’t until college that I realized that most of these things were devoid of Black influence. Did I have to balance out the music I listened to? Should I take a census of my friend groups from time to time? Was I supposed to act a certain way? Did I actually belong anywhere? I searched for the elusive balance between my cultural choices and the default of my surroundings.
With these questions hovering over my consciousness, I continued to celebrate and express myself how I wanted, eventually drawing from worlds outside of Colorado Springs. While my tastes in all things became more eclectic over the years, I still felt a tension between embracing the nonconformity that came with my biracial identity and the absence of Black culture in my life. I questioned whether or not I was allowed to say I was half Black because I was told I “acted white.” And well, if I was acting white, what did that make me? Had I unknowingly erased entire parts of my identity?
I felt far away from the history of my ancestors, and I felt like a fraud in both communities. I began to realize that despite my internal struggle, I was still being seen differently than my darker sister, darker friends, white mom, and African American dad. I’m sure my biracial cousins and friends had very different experiences than mine growing up in different corners of the country. Even my sister and I could have had vastly different experiences over time as we got older and left our hometown. She was a touch darker than me (depending on the season), and her *sigh* great hair looked and felt different from mine. Strangers and acquaintances took stabs at “where we looked like we were from.” Alissa was mistaken for being Hispanic or Hawaiian while I looked Middle Eastern or (full) white to some.
Over time I came to understand that the outward forms of self expression I wrapped myself in were not wholly disconnected but still different from the subjective experience of being Black or white in America at any given time. Further, these expressions were also different from the collective experience of being Black or white in America.
My clothes didn’t make me Black, and the way I talked didn’t make me white. I embarked upon the daunting task of teasing apart where my own experience ended and my understanding of the Black experience began.
Untangling mixed racial awareness isn’t so black and white (forgive me), and my personal understanding may always come to me in chapters and amendments to previous stages of comprehension. Matters of mixed racial identity on an individual level are extremely complex and subjective while the broader narratives of non white communities are steeped in oppression and erasure by white supremacy. Because of this, no two experiences within the same mixed family or group will be the same. Unfortunately, the shade of our “biracial-ness” can and does profoundly shape those experiences.
I wasn’t always cognizant of being biracial in public spaces, which was a product of my light skin privilege. My awareness spiked when I was forced to categorize myself on paper as my eyes anxiously darted between the “Black/African American” and “Caucasian” boxes before there was an “Other” or “Mixed race” option. I had been told by some to choose the “minority” one while others suggested the more socially favorable one, depending on the purpose of the form. As I got older, I wanted to connect with my biracial identity by evoking feelings of enthusiasm and curiosity rather than insecurity; I had the opportunity to learn from multiple cultures after all.
As I think more about my place in the Black community though, I grapple with a host of complicated feelings because of my light skin. My personal experience hasn’t been the struggle that it has been for others. I haven’t dealt with overt discrimination, and I haven’t been denied anything because of the color of my skin (though this certainly doesn’t mean that I haven’t experienced microaggressions because of my gender or perceived race). I fear that would be rejected by the Black community because I am able to occupy most spaces without having to think twice. I pass in a multitude of contexts, so this privilege cannot go unchecked or unacknowledged.
I didn’t realize that I was passing for much of my life and for that lack of realization, I’m ashamed.
On the other hand, white people in the past have either been mystified or in denial upon finding out that I’m half Black. “No, you’re not!” was something I could never craft a response to. Another line that plagued many an introduction was, “What are you?” What am I? This one is the obnoxious, inadvertently (but extremely) offensive standard question posed to brown folks who cannot be put into a box upon first sight. I’ve been called “exotic,” which flattered me coming from pretty white girls at first until I realized that it was rooted in the same ignorance as the other comments. Others have given me the more subtle, “Well, with your hair I could tell you were something…” Thanks?
The whole hair journey could be its own conversation. I had light skin and “crazy hair,” and people didn’t know what to make of me. I didn’t know what to make of me. I don’t even want to talk about how jealous I was of Alissa’s hair. Her hair was straighter and thinner than mine and therefore much easier to manage. The tears I would cry in middle school because my hair wasn’t straight and didn’t follow the rules of gravity by falling just so over my shoulders like it did on the other girls. It was thick and curly and frizzy and coarse. Brushes broke, hairties snapped in the morning while my mom was styling it before school, and tears of frustration were shed by all as we tried to get out the door on time. It was natural, and I didn’t like it. I felt so ugly, so out of place, and so unnatural. It devastates me now that I felt this way, as though I wasn’t born beautiful because of the way my hair grew out of my head. The white girls were just lucky like that.
Have people perceived me as a non-threatening novelty? Maybe. Has it been easier for people to say certain things around me because I’m a bit Black without fulfilling stereotypical expectations of what being Black means to some people? Yes. My presence in the room has given people an unspoken permission to say things they wouldn’t dare say otherwise. My skin has led people to think that it’s okay to make jokes, share confessions and use slurs because I’m the gateway friend or the free N word pass. An astounding number of hands have plunged into my hair without consent accompanied by amusement at how frizzy or rough it feels. Their ignorance masked in complimentary tones made it difficult to challenge despite my hurt feelings. “No, but it’s really cool!” they would say.
These combined instances infuriate me, but I struggle with how to process my anger, because at the end of the day I can step onto the train or walk down the street and be white (enough) for the world around me. I’m passing, and I reap those benefits on a daily basis. I’m learning that I can still be angry, and I can still call out the microaggressions and injustices that happen to me. Only recently have I become comfortable with referring to myself as a person of color. I have had to unpack what that means to me, and I’ve had to allow myself to claim that identity with a unique mindfulness.
Pride is hard to enjoy when the source of my pride is also the source of someone else’s social fetish. I exist in a vague space where I can be tokenized without having to carry the same weight of adversity that comes with being a darker person of color. Too many people aren’t as safe as me because they stand out in ways that white society doesn’t want them to. Black and brown people are feared, hated and misunderstood with just a passing glance. People seem to think they “understand” me just fine.
How do I reconcile my anger towards the oppression that continues to face the Black community as a person of color with benefiting from light privilege?
Do I advocate on behalf of myself, my family, and my people, while also being an ally of sorts? What exactly does that look like? Merging the two parts of my self is simultaneously effortless and exhausting. I feel split and whole at the same time. My upbringing and self realization have been a mix of blind assimilation and a fear of colonizing my own mind and Black and brown spaces. So, I’ve tasked myself with consuming everything I can and educating myself on the Black history I didn’t learn about in school or in my day to day life.
Ultimately, I can’t let myself become paralyzed by what I think other people think about me and my experience. I can continue to work on the taxing yet necessary journey of loving myself and staying committed to learning more about the struggle and my place in it. I can promise to listen to the voices of those who have faced greater hardships than me. And I can honor my history while synthesizing my binary streams of self analysis. In a world where visibility is a fight for marginalized individuals, and the displacement of communities of color is rampant, I am figuring out my role in the ongoing fight for justice. I subscribe to other marginalized identities as a queer woman in a world that systemically oppresses and abuses women and the queer community, but I also carry privileges beyond my skin tone that I must aggressively check and stay aware of at all times in all spaces.
I’m biracial, I’m mixed, and I am both. I am proud to come from strong families that have endured. Multiple genetic and sociological strands moved through time and eventually intertwined precisely when they did. I find it profound that I came to be when I did in an interesting little pocket of conservative Colorado Springs, just across town from the Unitarian church that performed my parents’ interracial marriage in the 80's. Amidst my questions, my guilt and my ongoing education, I have found that the relationship I have with my hair is my anchor. Since I realized the powerful link between natural hair care and self acceptance, I’ve begun to embrace and nurture my hair as it is, as a way to nurture my fully mixed self. I no longer treat it with chemicals and burn it into straight “pretty” submission. This is what I got the day I was born and I (try to) love it. Though hairties still snap and expletives still fly when I was supposed to leave the leave the house ten minutes ago but, you know how it goes.
Finally celebrating the thing that embarrassed me in hair salons full of gawking white women is what now allows me to proudly enjoy my mixed heritage.
I am working to learn more about my family on both sides and to resurrect traditions that connect me with my Spanish and African roots. I’m also searching for more mixed narratives to learn how others have embraced, struggled with and celebrated their identities. I have worked in the field of education my whole adult life, and I believe that everything circles back to our youth and our systems that impact them, especially as upcoming generations are becoming more mixed.
We all need to be telling our stories and become comfortable with hearing others’. Those exchanges are where the refuge of shared experience will be found along with the learning and solidarity that is bred from difference.
I’m eager to broaden the scope of my agency by leveraging the power of storytelling and using my privileges to lift up others. To do this I will stay grounded in self care and the act of listening to those who came before me. There’s no doubt that I will continue to battle with insecurity, and at no point will my identity feel fixed or static. I am becoming okay with this. I can continue to ask questions and process complicated feelings while staying committed to the empowerment of others. Whatever the analogy, shade or breakdown, each of our stories are valid, inherently valuable, and they cannot be taken from us.
