As a biracial 20-something woman, I have grown up in a predominantly white school system. Half my family is white, and I have a lot of white friends. To simplify matters, I just say I'm black to move the conversation along and get to what really matters. I realize that this omits the other half of who I am, but I'm not about to sit and explain my entire life story to a complete stranger, either. Being in a small community where you are the minority, people sometimes feel they have license to ask you whatever they please.
You get asked if your hair is real.
Um, excuse you. Is your hair real? What kind of question is that? Of course, my hair is real, and it looks better than yours half the time.
You refrain from speaking in class on issues of race.
OK, maybe not everyone who is a person of color does this, but I personally refrain from speaking. I don't feel that I have to be the spokesperson for all persons of color. It's not a one-opinion-fits-all kinda deal here, sweetheart. I've had several classes where the issue of race has come up and let me tell you, it goes from zero to 60 really quickly, especially when one of your classmates compares black people to animals.
You get asked how to pronounce your name.
It's not hard. My name is part of an annoying Christmas song, for goodness sake. Yes, this has happened to me twice at my previous job. Bless your little country heart.
The "what are you?" question.
You meet a new person. You shake their hand. You're having a lovely, if not intellectually stimulating conversation, when the other person spoils the whole thing by asking, "What are you?" I get it, you're curious. But that doesn't give you the excuse to low-key turn me into an object. No, what are you? A caveman?
The double-take people do when they see your family.
I'm always amused when people first meet my mom, because they're so confused. My mom is white: blonde hair, green eyes, straight hair, and then there's me: dark complexion, dark hair, brown eyes. They stare from me to my mom, and you can hear the question in their head: How? I actually had a friend ask why my mom was white. I was about 9 or 10 and I immediately responded with, "Why are you white?" What makes it even better is when my mom tells people we look exactly alike and she doesn't understand why people are confused. "What do you mean?" she would ask. "We're twins. Duh!"
"You're so ___ for a black girl!"
Pretty. Intelligent. The one that irritates me the most is "articulate." Imma need you to stop, collaborate and listen, homeskillet. I am pretty and intelligent. You don't need a modifier, because I'm not modifiable.
"I wish I could be black!"
So what I'm hearing is that you want to be a second-class citizen, who has to prove yourself in order to be taken seriously, and has to deal with being overlooked for opportunities because of the stereotypes about your race? Yeah, OK. Let me know how that works out for you.
Being biracial certainly has its challenges, but these challenges me made the hilariously smart, sassy and witty woman I am today. I'm proud of who I am, and I wouldn't change it for anything.
