I’m biracial and it’s not my job to ease your discomfort.
Tara Hackley

I’m also biracial, but my father is Hispanic. I look white, green eyes. My surname is obvious to most people and but not to others. I grew up with my best friend who had no idea I was of Mexican decent until we were seniors in high school. How is that even possible? I’ve never identified as a Hispanic girl or woman. I grew up in Wisconsin which is predominantly white (and dare I say, acutely racist, though most will deny it) so I just became what people wanted me to be, and didn’t make waves. To this day I still identify as white and only think about race when filling out forms. I wish I didn’t even have to think about it. I have no idea how many times opportunities were closed to me because of my last name. I suspect now that being Hispanic is even worse than being black in this country. I’m happy sometimes that I’m mixed, because of the novelty of it, but also sad that I have to worry about where I fit in. And wonder why we can’t live in a world where people are just people; without judgement.

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