Contrary to popular belief, kids are aware of race. Well, at least brown kids are aware of their own sooner than their less melainated counterparts. I always remember being aware of my race in early childhood, but I did not understand the complete implications of it until far later.
I knew that my father was black, my mother was white and that made me. In the middle. I was brown, just not as brown as my cousins. White, but not as white as my mother. But that was fine, I was still a Parkins no matter what I looked like. I never felt different.
My family (more specifically my father's side) never made me feel out of place for being mixed, thus I never questioned being the product of an interracial relationship. In my mind I was normal. I think I believed everyone had a mixed family member so everyone understood that you don't always look like your parents, as ridiculous as that might sound. But children rationalize their realities to the best of their ability. What I saw, what my normal was, I assumed was everyone else's as well.
However, the more exposed I was to the world outside of running around in the country with my cousins, the more I understood I was far from normal. I remember the exact moment it clicked for me as a child. I was in an after-school program in elementary school.
One afternoon my Mom picked me up (I suppose my Dad usually did considering the reaction of my peers, but I cannot recall). As excited kids do, I popped up and exclaimed: "My Mom is here!". The boy next to me looked confused and replied "Where?", obviously searching for the brown woman who he thought could have reared me. When I pointed my mother out, he replied: "Are you adopted?"
Am I adopted? I thought. Well no, of course not. That's my Mom. My Dad is at work, my sister is at the next table, this is my family so why would he think my family isn't mine? My parents are married, we live together, we eat together, why would he think my family is not mine? I am a Parkins, just like my father, just like my mother and my sister and my cousins and my aunts and my uncles, so why?
Why would he think my family isn't mine?
I'm sure any minority in America can attest to a similar moment of realization of their otherness. Following that epiphany, I became incredibly aware of the oddity of my family. I started noticing the stares. The whispers. The blatant judgment or quiet bewilderment. I saw the cogs turning in people's heads trying to fit the pieces of our family together, to put us in a box we simply could not be defined by.
Most of it wasn't intentional. People simply did not understand what was outside of their normal, just as I once did not understand what was outside of mine. My life was riddled with microaggressions -like the fact that any time we ate out together the waiter always asked "Is this together or separate" – and a few blatant displays of racism -such as when my extended family tried to check in at a restaurant and we were told to our faces that we could not be family.
Being completely cut out of my family by strangers was a common occurrence growing up actually. There were countless times my Dad would take my cousins (who were blessed with gorgeously deep skin just like my father) and my sister and me out. We would hear "Oh your daughters are so beautiful, and their friends are lovely!". When my Mom took us out, no one was lucky enough to have assumed relation to a white woman.
Recently it has gotten even worse since we are all adults. There are very few reasons people can devise a group of young black women being toted around town by a tiny white woman- and a family relation is not at the top of that list.
A while back, the same cousins that were confused as my father's children when we were young went with my mother and sister to paint pottery. The entire time a worker stared us down, confusion written all over her face. Eventually, she plucked up the courage to approach us and implore to my mother, the only white one, "So are you co-workers?" She simply replied "No" and the woman stammered out her acknowledgment of my mom's response in befuddlement. She made as if she was going to walk away before turning back and blurting out "You guys are related?". We responded, briefly explaining our bloodlines and the woman sighed in relief finally turning to her work in peace having cracked the code of our relationships.
The older I got the more I felt I had to explain my existence to avoid situations like that. To preemptively strike and mention my heritage so I could iron out the wrinkles as soon as possible. The compulsion grew even stronger two years ago when my father passed away, the physical proof of my blackness-of the validity of my family- slipping away as well.
But in all honesty, I'm sick of it. I shouldn't have to whip out my birth certificate because you're pressed over my heritage. I shouldn't have to answer a string of questions, so you can piece together where I'm from "originally" or what my "ethnicity" is.
When I tell you that my mother is my mother, you should believe it whether we physically resemble one another or not. When I tell you this is my family, you shouldn't investigate the validity of my claim. My name is Tania Parkins. My mother is white. My father was black. I am me.
And that should be enough.
