‘So What Are You?’ Being Biracial in a ‘Colorblind’ Society

Growing up in the 90’s, you’d frequently hear the phrase “I just don’t see color.” So when it came to race, we just didn’t talk about it.

Let’s talk about being biracial. I’m 34 years old, and I’m finally ready to dive in.

In the words of my favorite president, whose book I’m currently devouring:

It was as if, because of the very strangeness of my heritage and the worlds I straddled, I was from everywhere and nowhere at once, a combination of ill-fitting parts, like a platypus or some imaginary beast, confined to fragile habitat, unsure of where I belonged.

A Promised Land by Barack Obama

Biracial people share a lot of the same issues. Which box do I check on the ethnicity section of this form? Why do people insist on saying I look ‘exotic’ or ‘ethnic’? Why do people feel the need to ask ‘what I am’? Since I’m only half of one ethnicity, can I fully claim it?

I would never want to speak for all biracial people, but being half in one world and half in another can make you feel like you don’t belong in either world. And the pull to choose one world, Black or White in my case, is so strong that it’s hard to walk the tightrope in the middle.

I was never sure of where I belonged, so growing up, I tried to belong everywhere. I didn’t often consider the fact that I was biracial, but being biracial had almost everything to do with the person I grew to be. I think that’s how this story starts.

A Different Kind of Black

I grew up in a household with two Black parents. My mother, the woman who gave birth to me and died young, was White. But my dad is Black. My stepmom, who I call ‘Mom’ and who has raised me as her own, is Black. So I grew up as the lightest Black person in the house. 

I always identified as a Black person, but I was also acutely aware that my experience as a biracial person was different than my Black parents’ experiences, especially growing up in a mostly-White suburban town. Mom grew up in the segregated South where, as a child, she wasn’t allowed to sit at the front of the bus or use Whites-Only restrooms. Dad grew up near Boston and was raised by a Black woman who believed White people to be superior. So needless to say, my loving home and kind suburban surroundings made racism less apparent in my life.

My skin made it evident to the people around me that I was unquestionably “something.” I would never pass as White, and I frequently had to field the “What are you?” question. But I never felt that different. I never really felt that I didn’t belong because of my skin color.

Whenever I identified myself as “half Black, half White,” my dad would correct me. “If you have one drop of Black in you, you’re Black,” he’d say. (This goes back to the one-drop rule, which I’ve since learned dates back to the Jim Crow era). But my parents also made it clear that I was a different kind of Black than they were. I was the creamier, more palatable version. People could accept me more easily because I was lighter; because I almost fit right in. Depending on the season, you may not immediately spot the Black, biracial girl in a photo of me and my White friends.

When I was younger, I fought hard against this notion that I was any different than my parents. I had Black skin too, right? Why would someone be okay with me, but not be okay with my darker-skinned parents? No one could ever quite explain this to my satisfaction.

But I’m older now, and I know better. What I know now is that colorism is real. And it is pretty hard to explain, especially from a Black dad to his lighter-skinned daughter. Especially when that daughter just feels ostracized for not fully fitting in with her Black, non-biracial parents.

I may not have White privilege, but I do have light privilege. My dark skin walks into any room before my voice does, but my lighter skin opens doors that may have previously been locked for people with darker skin than mine. It’s impossible to overlook the opportunities afforded to me for being “light enough.”

Because of that, I’ve tried so hard not to perceive myself as a victim. I don’t have it (that “it” being “racism”) as bad as people who are darker than me, so it’s fine. But I rarely allowed myself to sit with the reality of what that “it” meant.

So I’ve lived in this strange in-between world where I don’t want to appear to complain about racism to White people, or to “take on” racism in a group of Black people. I’m not fully White. I’m not fully Black. It’s lonely in the middle.

When You Don’t Belong, You Adapt

When you’re in the middle, the pull to “choose a side” is strong. So you learn to adapt. Up until recently, I thought I was “blending in.” But what I was doing was much more of an active skill.

I’ve been adapting in order to fit into every environment I’ve been in. I look back on my time growing up in mostly White schools. I never felt that different from my friends and classmates. And I’ve been digging deep to try to uncover why that is.

Does it have to do with the fact that in the 90’s, society told us not to “see color” or comment on color? Probably. And that was a huge problem, by the way. But after really thinking about it, small memories surface that seem to get me closer to the truth.

I used to wear my hair in a tight, slicked back ponytail that made my big, curly hair bounce behind me when I walked down the hallways. My friends and I affectionately called this “the poof.” But people felt they had the right to tap it, or even hit it so that their hand would bounce off my curls. I always hated this, and I would always tell people to stop. But I’d say it with a giggle. Nothing too forceful. And it continued happening all the way through high school.

I remember the reason I always pulled my hair back was because I thought it looked too wild when it was out. If I wore it down, it would be drenched with gel so it fell somewhat tamely down my shoulders. And I used hair products from CVS that were intended for White people, because that’s what my friends used and that’s what I was seeing on commercials and in magazines. There were no products for mixed girls at the time. And I remember resisting using products Mom got for Black hair, though I couldn’t articulate why at the time.

I remember a friend calling me “Milk Chocolate,” even shortening the nickname to “Milky,” though I asked him not to.

I argued so fiercely when my parents told me that some of my schoolmates’ parents were racist. I shot back that these parents were nothing but nice and welcoming to me. But my parents maintained that I just couldn’t see the bigger picture, and that just because these people were okay with me being friends with their children didn’t mean that they weren’t racist. I defended these “colorblind” people with passion. (Side note: Many of these people who were so lovely to me would go on to vote for, or at least consider voting for, Donald Trump. I think that’s all I have to say on that front.)

Why didn’t I ever think that race motivated any of this? Why did I fight so hard to protect the White people in my life from criticism? I was adapting. I was constantly doing what I could to make everyone else comfortable and to normalize or laugh off any questionable behavior. I was adapting because I didn’t want to be different. I spent my entire childhood trying to convince people that I was the same as them. And from my vantage point, I was.

I spent my high school and college experiences blending into (no, adapting to) White environments. Then I got into theater and started getting cast as Black characters in shows, and I had to adapt based on expectations of Black women in theater. I started online dating (very short-lived) and remember being taken aback that 95% of the men who messaged me were Black or Latino. I had only ever dated or crushed on White guys, having grown up in a mostly White town. But it was eye-opening to see which guys were interested in me based solely on my picture.

I basically spent my life blending into White spaces. And then I grew up and realized my skin color placed me more firmly in Black spaces. When people look at me at an audition, on an online dating profile, or likely anytime or anywhere throughout my entire life, people see me as a Black person. My skin told a different story outside the bubble of my hometown, where skin wasn’t discussed. However, constantly adapting to White spaces made me feel like I didn’t belong in Black spaces.

As my 2-year-old son would say, “A mess!”

I’ve frequently been the only person of color in the room and not recognized that I was the different one. But I was different. Of course I was different. We just never talked about it, and I was constantly, subconsciously, adapting to fit in.

Of course I was tokenized as the only Black friend in most of my social circles. Of course I was hired for certain projects because the mostly-White people in charge were looking to diversify. Of course people looked at me in any given room of privilege and assumed I was there, in part, because of the color of my skin.

All of these feelings leading up to a racial reckoning in the United States left your Black, biracial friend here in a jumble of confusion and chaos.

So Who Am I Anyway?

Being biracial, I’ve not only struggled to take up space, but struggled to learn what it meant to take up space. If you barely fit into any group, how do you dare to be a loud voice within either group?

I don’t think I’ve ever opened myself wide and said, “Hey! This is me! Here I am!” I’ve come to know who I am depending on what room I’m in, and depending on what that room looks like. And I realized this about myself long before I considered that being biracial might have anything to do with it. The pieces are all coming together now.

I’ve always had a hard time feeling like I fully belong in any setting. Check! That’s actually very common among biracial people. Not Black enough in a room full of Black people. Not White enough in a room full of White people. Not knowing where you fit in when in a diverse room.

I’ve always felt invisible pressure to prove my worth. In fact, my husband’s wedding vows revolved heavily around the fact that I’m needed by so many people. Check! That’s a coping mechanism shared by many biracial people. This is what happens when you’re neither here nor there. You have to work hard to feel like you belong. You have to be the glue that holds the pieces of your life together.

Being biracial can sometimes be made less complicated by choosing a side and staying there. Sometimes, our skin makes the “choice” for us. I know White-passing biracial people, and I know darker-skinned biracial people who firmly identify as Black.

But I’ve come to the conclusion that “choosing a side” negates who I am. And claiming to be “half Black, half White” makes it seem as though I’m not fully anything. I am Black and I look it. I am White and I don’t look it. Because of these truths, I’ll always identify as Black and biracial. But I am both Black and White. That is my makeup. Not half and half. Both.

Being biracial is obviously a journey I’ll continue to navigate. But in this time of racial turmoil, this time of feeling unsure where I belong in the national dialogue, I’m constantly pondering what a biracial person’s place is in all of this.

I think the answer is not to shy away from any of the above. We have to acknowledge everything we know. Racism is real. Colorism is real. And I am on opposite sides of the spectrum when it comes to both of those things. The beneficiary of colorism and the discriminated against when it comes to racism. Both. And.

So I will use my unique position of both oppression and privilege. I will use my voice in the service of anti-racism. I will continue to fight back against the urge to “choose a side.” I will be a proud shade of brown in a world that wants to label me as Black or White.

Not half and half. Not either, or. Both, and. Simply stating this feels like a great act of self-acceptance, and simultaneously a small act of rebellion.

“Hey. This is me. Here I am.”