All Mixed Up

Growing up I always felt torn. I tried relating to everyone – every color; every culture; every religion.

From as early as I can remember, people would ask, “What are you?” My reply: mixed. I hated going into detail. So I usually left it there.

According to a DNA test I took a while back, I’m more mixed than I ever thought. A little over 50% East Indian and a little under 50% a whole bunch of other ethnicities. So where do I fit in?

Wasn’t too sure, but I always knew where I came from. I was born in Guyana. My dad is Indian and my mom is mixed. But my mom always made a point to tell me she is Black.

Only now can I appreciate the significance in that. The reason she never really called herself mixed. You see my mother is very light skinned. Some may even say looks European or Spanish. But her kinky hair, curvy hips, and the way she sees the world… tells a different story. When I was young she would proudly tell me… “You’re black,” when I asked her what box to fill in on my test papers. There wasn’t a multiracial box back then. So I filled in the African American bubble on the paper without any dilemma.

When I look back I think of all the ways some family and friends would innocently point out what they believed to be my best features. My light brown skin and long curly hair. You know… the features that separated me from my “blackness.”

Don’t get me wrong I am proud of my features. I love all the different DNA I possess. But little did I realize back then how much the admiration of European features were the effects of divisive tactics made by the colonizations of people of generations before me.

As a child I was told by some to stay out of the sun. “You don’t want to get too dark.” They had no idea that one day in the summer sun turns my skin bronze in an instant. I loved it.

Then there were moments like in Junior High where one kid called me milk. Then another said I sounded too white. Then another told me they would bring a lighter to school to burn my hair off. Or like when girls wanted to fight me on a daily basis because I was too Caucasian in their eyes. There weren’t too many people in school to relate to who looked like me. So I defended myself to the best of my ability. From a young age I knew bullying wasn’t okay with me and I didn’t want to be a victim. So I never stepped down from a fight.

High school was the beginning of everyone telling me “you’re Spanish right?” And me actually starting to believe it myself. I had to be some kind of Spanish or Hispanic to look this way, right?

By this time, Junior High had taught me to shake off my “whiteness,” just in case I had to defend myself. But thankfully my artistic high school nurtured every kind of person. Any color, religion or sexual preference. Talk about a melting pot! We were learning to accept everyone and we didn’t even know it at the time. I am so thankful for my high school. (Shout out LaGaurdia!)

Then there was college… being asked “how do you get your hair to curl like that,” from a girl who seemed genuinely curious about my kind of textured curl. The right out the shower natural kind of curl that only mixed race heads grew. I straightened my hair almost everyday for six months after that…

To top that off I felt like a cool science project to some of the guys I dated. Most of whom identified with one race. I was the girl they couldn’t place. I was classified at times as the “sassiest” girl they ever dated or the girl who would give their “future babies good hair.”

Only towards the end of college and graduation would I truly start to look into who I am as a woman. And how people perceive me. Especially how Americans perceive me.

In a time of high racial tension and political discourse I commend the people of our generation taking stands on social injustice. I commend people of every color coming together in a time of serious inequality. Colored children are being killed for looking like “thugs.” People are fighting over who is too liberal or who is too conservative. And let’s not start on how being a woman automatically increases the level of inequality a person can face. In the meantime across the globe children are dying in wars and families are fleeing their homes in fear.

So many people across the globe are terrified of individuals… not like them. Such a shame, considering we all bleed. We all cry. We all experience pain and love.

As I look back I’m happy to have had my experiences. I’m happy to have been a bit confused as to where I fit in. It taught me just how much to appreciate my differences. And the differences in everyone else.

One amazing thing about my multicultural DNA is being able to see it within my own family. My wedding was like the United Nations getting together to party the night away. So many beautiful colors. So many dots on the globe in one room. Proof that somehow through all the confusion and hatred… there were individuals who loved outside their race. Outside their views. Outside their own barriers.

More and more, little mixed babies are becoming the norm. That makes me happy. But let’s not get distracted at the fact that colorism is a real thing. While we are learning to love and understand mixed kids let’s remember to keep loving ALL our kids. White, Black and any color in between. For the world may try to tell them to change their natural beauty. Their beauty measures no bounds. The colonial brain washing has got to come to an end. Some way. Some how. By people like you and I.

Im mixed.

Im at least 6 different ethnicities.

And I’m still proud of the bubble I filled out on my test papers in school.

And not only cause my momma told me to.

❤️Namaste

My beautiful parents.

Little ole mixed me:

Us

Little me

With the Bros.