What We Talk About When We Talk About Race: Thoughts of the Bi-racial

I remember a time when I was ignorant, not in the sense of having an absolute lack of intelligence; instead I’m referring to a time when I chose to remain unaware. I had always thought that ignorance was voluntary, and that we all chose how ignorant we wanted to be. However I began to realize that life is weird, and because we’ve manage to create society with all its implications, nothing is ever truly in our control, and because of that voluntary ignorance isn’t exactly true. What do you do when it seems as though you have no other option but to remain ignorant? When the circumstances of life have automatically inducted you under conditions that you have to live with for the rest of your life? When something as strange as culture and something as permanent as race, along with how it intermingles in society, begins to take a toll on how you view yourself, your beliefs, fears, and who you wish to be?

            I remember the conversation as though it were one I had daily. My high school social science teacher, Mr. Kieser, jokingly (or so I had hoped) decided one day to say that only white people were cool. I turned to him and I said, “Mr. Kieser, that’s racist!” He then told me that he hadn’t said anything about any other race. Mr. Kieser (a white man from Williamsburg PA) had already spent ten years of his life in Honduras, and surrounded himself with and cared for people deeply connected with their Hispanic and Honduran culture, so I knew that he clearly did not have any negative emotions towards Hispanic people. I, being half Hispanic and half Black (being the minority wherever I went), felt a need for him to validate the value of my other race through a question with a less obvious response. “Well what are Black people?” I asked. He responded with rad and a couple of other slang words that I don’t even believe are stereotypically Black. I then asked him, “What are biracial people?” To which he responded with and only with confused. I was shocked, and in that moment felt quite offended to which I yelled, “That’s not true!” And ever since he made that statement, it has never left my mind. At first, I was convinced of him being incorrect, only to find out, he probably knew how I felt about my race better than I did myself, and the fact that I needed a white man to validate the value of my two races only went to prove that he was correct.

            As I began to think about what my race meant to me, I realized more and more that I truly as a teenager was only confused, and subconsciously (but never admitted to being) ashamed of my race. I remember going on websites like Omegle.com as a young adolescent in my times of boredom for the sake of talking to people all around the world. The questions, where are you from, what do you look like, and what’s your name, were some of the most frequent questions outside of my age and my sex. I could have easily told the truth and say, “I’m from Honduras. I’m 5’0 with tan skin and short curly hair because I’m half Black and half Hispanc. My name is Sophia.” Instead I would come up with ways to seem interesting and exotic. “I’m from Brazil; I’m tall, athletic with a big a*s, long curly dirty blonde hair with fair skin. I have green eyes because I’m mixed with all sorts of things, and I have freckles. My name is Lais.” I told myself that these were white lies that I’d spit for the sake of security, however I knew subconsciously that Lais is who I really wished I was. She became this online alter ego of mine, and for the two hours a day that I’d spend in front of a computer instead of a mirror, I felt confident. I felt beautiful. I held Lais to a higher pedestal than I held myself, and only chose to talk to males of certain countries. I fell in love with this Lais persona, and for those two hours, I’d forget all about Sophia. The way I talked changed in messages, and my confidence defied the law of conservation of energy. In moments where I didn’t feel beautiful, I’d go on the website just to look at a screen that read Stranger: You sound hot! Over time I’d find myself spending more and more hours on this website, and soon, I couldn’t stand being Sophia. Once I came to terms with myself and admitted that I’d rather be some character I made up, I realized it was time for me to leave the site alone. I haven’t been on Omegle by myself since I was fifteen. Once I realized that lying on Omegle was doing more damage to my self image than it was helping, I was forced to look around my surroundings, which I was in essence and what I was physically, and come to terms with what I was meant to represent. I needed to find out what it meant to be bi-racial.

             I saw my Black father approximately eight-ten whole days out of each month. I lived in a Hispanic country, and was raised by a Hispanic mother, and went to a school where there were only Hispanic kids, and very little or basically no afro-latino kids. I ignored any advance my father ever made to show us about his culture because I always thought that any advance made to show us what it meant to be Black, was an advance made with the intention of us gaining preference. However later on in the years, I learned that was simply not true, and he simply wanted us to truly be bi-cultural.

            Suddenly it occurred to me, that I knew nothing about my father’s side. I began making small almost insignificant advances such as gaining a deep love for jazz, and learning as much as I could about little proud moments of Black culture such as the Harlem Renaissance or certain beauty trends, that went on to influence pop culture. I gained an interest in HBCU’s and developed a dream to attend Howard University. It wasn’t until I spent a few of years at North Carolina A&T State University that I realized just how culturally confused I really am. I began to learn more about African American/Black culture and what it meant to be a Black woman in America. I learned that although I was part black, the part would be a great societal advantage. This forced me to pay attention to the media and how it chooses to handle diversity, especially with Black women. I began to count how many black characters were on a show, or how many bi-racial couples I’d see on television. I’d pay attention to the genders and races and reflected on how often I saw this in my everyday life, only to find out that the media under represents and romanticizes the acceptance of women of color. Of course, being a woman of color, this began to affect the way I saw myself, other women of color, and white women.   

            One day, my college roommate had asked me to attend an event with her, where many different black women of all shades, shapes, sizes, and backgrounds spoke about what it meant to them to be a Black woman in America. There I learned all about hair, skin, and body types . It wasn’t until that moment that I began to genuinely reflect on the many small things that have happened to my life in which I was put down for being half Black or looking the part. I remember growing up, I was always the smart one and my sister was always the beautiful one. My sister, however, did not look one ounce Black. She had the straightest of hair, quite a aquiline nose, skin whiter than a sheet of paper. She was thin with no curves, and was always described as having an elegant body type. No one ever regarded me as the pretty child or ever said that I too was beautiful. I on the other hand was very obviously a black woman, anyone could see it in the way my hair was kinky, and how I was darker than my sister, and how although I was small had more curves and more meat on the lower part of my body (that was always spoken of to look vulgar). I began to remember how I hated to get tan, how badly I wanted my hair straight, and how I wished for green eye contacts. I never admitted it because I didn’t even know it myself, but it wasn’t until about the my senior year of high school, I had wished I was white. I felt as though it was only right, they were everywhere. If you Google ideas for formal hairdo’s they’re always white women, or if you do the same for beautiful women, white women rule the page. Everything in the media would always portray women of color as something comical, ghetto, crazy, and classless. Could you blame a young girl of color for wanting to be white when it seems as though it is aligned in the stars?

            When I finally attended an HBCU where I gained acceptance and love for my curly hair, and any other African feature of mine, I developed a subconscious hatred for women who were white; as if every white girl was the reason I once hated myself. Whenever I’d see a white girl on campus I’d almost scowl to myself and ask, what are you doing here? Why do you feel entitled take the one thing I have, that being an establishment of color where I can feel myself and a bit more beautiful than normal? I noticed (recent) behavior of mine that wouldn’t be normal, like only being a crazed jealous girlfriend when my boyfriend checked out or talked to white girls. I knew the man I love had appreciation for everyone of every race, however I noticed when he appreciated any woman that somehow resembled me, I found it endearing, yet when he appreciated the beauty of a white female, it would only ravish me with anger. Being that many of his ex partners were white females (and not as many were Black or afro-latina) also did not ease my racing thoughts, and once again it felt as though the superiority was aligned in the stars. It then sometimes would make me question if he would even find me as attractive if I were of a darker complexion, or if he finds me as attractive as his white exes. It made me question if he had a preference and didn’t even know it. It even got to the point where I had even went as far as to ask myself if he himself wished I was white, and had all the privileges that came with it.

            I’d see tweets or posts on Instagram of women making nostalgic claims to their teenage years where they’d find someone attractive but wouldn’t ever act upon it because they knew that the man wouldn’t like Black girls. I’d think about my relationship and the questions I had and realized that even though I was black, I was the kind of black acceptable to society. Not pure. Not dark. Not “ghetto”. These thoughts made me realize that being only half Black gave me a societal and even perhaps even a psychological advantage and that even though I would endure what many women of color endure, I would never ever endure the societal circumstances placed against women of color to the extremities of those with a much darker complexion. I accepted that I couldn’t feel sorry for myself, when I was better represented, and looked at with positivity in the eyes of the American media. I also accepted that I couldn’t wail in my own sorrows because I’ve yet to understand what it means to be Black and Hispanic at once, or what it means to be a bi-racial minority. I began to wonder about my past, and where I came from, however when I began my search, I couldn’t seem to get past my parents.

            Both my parents were born in the 70’s. The post-hippie generation where the adults from there on out should strive for genuine peace and love. Although neither of their parents were a part of that specific movement, they lived in an era where racism in the United States was only swept further in the rug, and made less apparent. My father was born and raised in North Carolina by Black parents, and my mother was born and raised in Honduras by Hispanic people. Both grew up connected to their history and their culture, both proud, and due to circumstances of life they found their way to each other in the mid 90’s and had three children together. None but one of their children, would grow to question her position within her own race and culture.

            I used to believe that interracial marriage and relationships were a wonderful thing. I thought they went on to represent peace, tolerance, and acceptance. I also went eighteen whole years under the assumption that everyone in my family was blissfully in acceptance with the idea of my parents marrying each other. It wasn’t until I had questions, and my parents began to be more open about their relationship had I began to realize that was simply not true and that interracial relationships can and tend to be very idealized, and dangerous to the children that may be products of it.

            I’ve heard many people of a singular race joke about how they represented a different race better than their own. Sometimes that would bother the people being joked about, and sometimes it wouldn’t, but the negativity that came with the people that did care was always something I could easily divert to. It only made me more confused. My entire life I felt an obscure shield from many of my Black relatives, just as I did from many of my Hispanic relatives, almost as if no one wanted to accept me as part of their own. Yet, when I asked why, I’d always get the same response. “You’re not Black enough,” or, “You’re not Hispanic enough.” And when I would ask what it meant to be either, the people making such statements wouldn’t know how else to answer, or began naming stereotypes I refused to be a part of. The more I thought about it and the deeper I dug, the more confused I got, and the more I wished I was ignorant, and never asked a question to begin with.

            When I began to settle comfortably in my own perplexity, I saw my parents fight more and more about race, and I began to notice how it was affecting their marriage. Because they felt comfortable with being open to me about their thoughts, I felt as though it was the perfect moment to ask how they felt about being in an interracial marriage. With that question I learned a lot as to what they knew about one another’s culture only to find out that they both knew nothing or not enough. It was astonishing to me. They had been married for 23- almost 24 years! It was beginning to appear obvious to me that neither of my parents knew that they treated the other’s cultural difference as nothing but a novelty, and for the other, the novelty had worn off. As reality settled in for the both of them, 24 years later, they both finally admitted, “We were never ready for an interracial marriage.” 24 years later! Could you imagine? All of their kids were now officially over 18, and it took them 24 years to admit so! It took them 24 years to realize that they were too intensely proud of their own race to have a genuine desire to learn about the others. Understand the suffering and pain of the other’s culture so much so it allowed them to affect each other, to lose tolerance and love for each other, leaving me back at square one. How was I supposed to love myself, and my background, and this wonderful strange societal difference if the bond that was supposed to make me, was never genuine to begin with?

            My entire life I was told I was “white,” because I’d much rather listen to Paul McCartney and Kurt Cobain as opposed to Tupac or Biggie, or because I could tell you the first three sentences of Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov without reading but couldn’t do the same with a book written by an ethic author, or because I believe Marlon Brando is a better actor than Denzel. I’ve been told I’m brain washing myself to the white man’s liking and I need to realize who I am and think for myself. Yet, the same people who are telling me these things do not understand the perplexing implications of being biracial, let alone, do they understand what it’s like being the result of an interracial marriage whose future is possibly on a dead end road. They are the same people who make me wish culture didn’t exist, and push me further into the philosophies of the white man. They are the same people who keep me racially confused. They are the same people that keep me concerned with only myself, and not have too much empathy for anyone else, even my own kind, almost as if I’m pushed into a box and left in a corner, only regarded when we want to idealize something or not seem like optimistic idiots. Perhaps I am allowing myself to be brain washed by the white man, or perhaps the intolerance between the two ethnicities I find myself a part of, drives me to do so. It could possibly both, and because of so, what I end up talking about when I talk about race is sheer confusion. What even am I?