As a child, I didn’t quite grasp the concept of race, and the fact that I am indeed, a biracial woman. My mother was too focused on teaching me the fundamentals on being a functional human being, rather than my mildly tan complexion. It never occurred to me that the color of my skin was one that others took questioning to, until my late adolescence.
I was born and raised in a predominantly white and middle class neighborhood. My African-American father, who is now deceased, was an incredibly hard working man. I had a distant relationship with him, as he spent most of his time across the country on business trips. My Irish and Scottish mother was the parental figure who raised me. As I began to understand the concept of race, I truly believed that I was nothing short of a white girl. I tried to look past the fact that my hair was constantly tangled because my mom struggled to properly upkeep my 3A curls. I also threw a temper tantrum when I wasn’t allowed to wear a zebra print backpack, due to her being worried about my classmates using this simple animal print as some sort of microaggression directed towards me. Despite those few experiences, however, I felt I was as white as snow!
I will never forget the confused look that struck my face when an adult asked me the million dollar question. “So… what are you?” What do you mean, “What am I?” 12 years old? A young girl? Obese? It took a few moments for my puzzled school teacher to clarify what she had meant. When I told her my background, she almost looked disappointed. I couldn’t grasp why this answer upset her. Maybe it was because I’m not Spanish, as I now often get mistaken for. Perhaps my answer wasn’t exotic or intriguing enough. Either way, I began to feel disappointed with my own complexion. I would then spend hours looking in the mirror, wondering why I was born half black, especially since I didn’t feel connected towards my culture, or my father. Why does my skin represent half of a person who isn’t even fully in my life?
It took years and years to dismantle my own internalized racism. I cannot say that I woke up one day and decided that black is beautiful. Instead, I took it day by day. Some of those days, I struggled with my racial identity. On others, I took notice of my internal beauty, which began to shine through my external features. As an adult, I finally learned how to maintain my curls properly, moisturize my melanin kissed skin, and dress myself in a way that makes me feel confident. Once I stopped attempting to blend in with the porcelain faces that surrounded me, my tan skin only grew more radiant. My aura is now a force to be reckoned with, as I continue to attract those who are lovely, because I love myself, and the skin color that the Universe gifted me.
Now, when people ask me “So.. what are you?” I can’t help but to smile. I am a beautifully blessed biracial woman. I am full of abundance and light.. and I could definitely rock some mean zebra print.
