My father's ancestry harkens back to Russia, and my mother's line winds its way back to Africa. There are other 4 other nationalities mixed in with both of their heritage as well - but for the purpose of this post - I'll just say my dad is white, and my mom is black.
And apparently, they didn't know that producing me or my siblings was an abomination.
Or.... that they were "doing a disservice to me".
At 8 years old, I can tell you - I was incredibly grateful for the caring people that were concerned enough about my welfare to inform me of my status. Before I was enlightened, I thought I was just a normal child.
But lo and behold, I was not.
I grew up in a white neighborhood. Went to a white school. And for the longest time - I thought I was white. (I'm laughing about that now because I actually DID look at myself in the mirror. But in my earliest years, it never dawned on me that my shade was any darker or that my hair was any curlier. When I looked through the windows of my eyes at the neighborhood children, I saw light skin all around me. I assumed I was the same.)
I remember when things changed.... getting very frustrated when I would take a brush to my springy coils. Instead of laying down straight, they would untwist and form a protective halo around my entire head.
A fluffy, puffy helmet of ebony locks.
I remember glaring at the confused girl in that reflection. Watching with annoyance, as the tears leaked out of her eyes and streamed in rivulets down her cheeks because her hair refused to obey the instruction of the brush.
It took me years and years to understand what was it about skin color that made me the "wrong" choice for their sons to take to the dance.
I had the highest grades in the class, I was the kindest person you would ever meet (of course, I had to be). I was classically trained in every way. Best schools. Why would that put me at the bottom of the barrel, instead of rising like cream to the top?
Before you think this is a free-for-all against white society, let me assure you - I was told I wasn't black enough by black society as well. In that gathering, I was uppity. High-yellow. Hi-tone. And any other number of beautiful phrases that are wielded as weapons - straight to the victim's soul.
It's been several years now. ha... several severals.
Now, I love my skin color. I love who I am. My genes do not define me, but they certainly contributed in shaping me.
Interestingly enough.... everyone proudly claims me now.
I don't seem to be any particular nationality, so I fit in seamlessly with all of them. Now, they jealously tell me that I belong to them - and no other.
Wherever I travel in the world, people eye me with barely-contained curiosity.
Russians match their bared arms to my own and proudly win in games of "who is darker?"
Mexicans wonder how I could have denied my heritage enough to not learn Spanish. (They refuse to believe I don't share their lineage.)
Filipinos state matter-of- factly that I descend from their neck of the woods.
Salvadoreans are certain that I'm one of them.
Egyptians know the rest are wrong - I must hail from Egypt.
Fijians speak to me in Fijian without even questioning if I understand.
Puerto Ricans assure me my rhythmic sway of my hips is a genetic gift from them.
I could go on and on.....
In 1987, aggressive stares would project the distance between us. Their expressions would warn me from getting too close.
But in 2017, I enjoy the warm and open invitations from seas of smiling eyes.
Yesterday I sat down, playing with my phone, waiting for my lunch to arrive. A bare-chested homeless man with a drooping left eye walked to where I was, and stood in front of me, mumbling.
I put my phone down. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
He repeated, "I just had to tell you that you are a very beautiful woman, in case no one else told you that today." Then he turned and walked away.
Photo credit: Images were originally take from a Google Image search for "mixed children" and then further edited by me. Snake: china.cps.com, Heart border: clipartkids.com Text added by m.e
