I am exoticized, and my olive skin, my big brown eyes, and black hair that falls in loose curls are the culprits. I am quick to be labeled as anything that will make everyone else comfortable: Latina, Indian, Asian, and etc. I am objectified with “Hey light skin” and “Hey Mami,” and the contours of my body are to blame. “I want to get to know you,” they will say. However, they only want to get to know this body that is the physical embodiment of the unknown. I am just a rare commodity.
People tend to not look beyond my appearance because it is too mysterious. It is truly baffling because you cannot tell ‘what’ I am by just looking at me. Get-to-know-you questions always begin with, “What are you mixed with?” My answer is never satisfactory, and therefore, people will argue with me about how I identify. At the end of the day, it is no one’s business but mine what my genetic makeup is unless I choose to make it their business.
I am a multiracial woman, but more often than not I am not accepted as such. I can distinctly remember in high school, this guy pestered me about what I am. After a while, I stopped dodging the question and gave him an answer. He kept telling me that I wasn’t that. He kept telling me that I was Indian and that I should stop lying and saying that I’m Black. It is funny to me that people already have an answer to their question, yet they still waste their breath on asking me anyway. It is as if verification is needed for them to feel the way they do about me, to think what they want about me.
I am too Black to be White, too White to be Black, and not enough Native American to claim my heritage. Growing up was difficult because there were racial cliques. My being multiracial made me the outsider to all of them. I ‘didn’t understand’ the struggles of thick, coarse hair management. I was ‘privileged’ for my lighter complexion, but was still overlooked to favor my White counterparts. I knew nothing about the reserves and the fight to keep those sacred grounds sacred, to defend against industrialization. I wanted to belong to something so much that I denounced everything that wasn’t Black and made that my new identity, but that only made matters worse. It gave way to incidents much like the one with the guy from high school.
All of my experiences bred a level of self-loathing for being different. I have never wanted anything more than to be able to not stand out wherever I go. I wanted to be able to just go about life without being questioned in most conversations about my race. Now, being a young adult, I’m learning to love the melanin in my skin that allows me to be pale like butterscotch in the winter and dark as cognac in the summer. I’m learning to appreciate each curve of my body and not try to diminish myself every time I step foot out of the house. That is doing myself a disservice.
I am a Person of Color, and never will I ever again be ashamed of being more than just one color.
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This article was originally published on 12 February 2019.