When I was younger, I was constantly confused. Confused about who I am. Not in the coming of age, finding yourself way of confusion, that would be too easy. I was confused about who I should identify with.

I am biracial. Mom is white. Father is black. Simple enough right?

Growing up black in a white family was the norm for me. Color was something that I couldn’t ignore. I noticed that I was different from my family at a very young age. I often joke now when looking back at family photos, captioning them with “Which one of these things are not like the other” referencing my mocha skin, to my ivory cousins.

I have never once felt unloved, or like I was treated differently. My family has never use the color of my skin against me. But my family also has no idea what society says about my skin or how I am treat. Being an outcast based on the one thing you cannot change really just sucks!

For some reason being bi-racial is a constant struggle for others to comprehend. Can they say that comment around me or will I get offended? The black kids at school like to use my whiteness against me, while the white kids at school used my whiteness for me.

“You act like a white girl” -Black classmates.

“You don’t act black; I like that about you.” -White classmates

Both comments hurt me to the core.

I never felt proud of being black, and never felt as if I was even remotely white. The black kids in school would get angry at me for “acting white”. While the white kids liked me just enough to be their token black friend. Anytime I would become frustrated or annoyed, I was deemed a sassy black girl, followed by innocent giggles. I knew my friends didn’t mean to be mean, but it hurt nonetheless. You would think that the slightly racist comments would just come from peers who didn’t know any better, but no they came from my family as well. On my dad’s side (who I rarely saw, and haven’t seen in almost 10 years), they would mock the way I spoke, and say that I have been hangin’ round them white folk too much. My Nana (mom’s mom) would correct me immediately if I said something she deemed as “ghetto” she would tell us, that we aren’t ghetto trash. Now my dad’s family nor my nana realized how racist, and ridiculous their words were. I don’t think they are bad people nor do I believe they meant harm. But just imagine growing up with conflicting thoughts and viewpoints on the 2 races you are. I was constantly having an inner battle with my selves.

The comments from my peers and family were just the base of the cake, the icing and fondant are a collection of many other things.

Let’s start with my appearance.

My skin is my favorite thing about my physical appearance. It is something that I take care of, that others compliment me on, and the one thing about my body not really effected by the thyroid disease (that is another post for another day). I had a very hard time accepting my skin and admitting aloud that I love my skin. The first time I ever realized that I was different from my peers whose parents were of the same race, was in 3^rd grade. I came to school late and my mom walked me to my classroom to talk to my teacher. When my mother followed in class behind me, the whispers started. “Who is that?” most of the kids, like any third grade class were curious as to who was paying their class a visit. Also, like most third graders, I was annoyed that my mom walked me to my classroom. I went to my cubby put away my stuff and sat at my seat, hoping that no one would realize she was my mom (even though we have the same mouth), because having your mommy in a big kid grade is just not okay—unless it’s a field trip day or your birthday and she is toting cupcakes. When she left she waved at me, and I waved back. A kid raised their hand and asked Mrs. Litermiller who the [Tall, white, red-haired, blue eyed] woman was. “Porshia’s mom!” People started laughing, I was confused. I became offensive because I thought they were laughing at my mom, a woman I found beautiful. Then a boy turned around and asked if I was adopted. I was very confused as to why he would ask me that. I furrowed my eyebrows and shouted NO! I told him she was my real mom. He shook his head and told me, in front of the entire class still “You didn’t come from her belly, so she isn’t your real mom.” I became upset, and yelled “I DID TOO COME FROM HER BELLY, STUPID!” he yelled back “WHITE MOMS DON’T HAE BLACK BABIES IN THEIR BELLIES, DUMMY” My teacher told us both to calm down and stop. She assures this kid, that the white lady was in fact my real mom and that was the end of the topic. Since then, I have had my fair share of comments and situations that have had me wishing I was just one race.

Most of my insecurity comes from normal adolescent insecurities. But a lot of it comes from what others had to say about my appearance and what the media had to say about my appearance. I was by no means the only mixed chick in my school(s). There was a lot of us. But we were all treated different. The girls who were lighter than me were the prettier girls. They had hair that was more manageable and lighter color eyes They had everything white people found desirable of colored people. But they had the stereotypical black booty that drove the boys crazy. I did not. In fact, my ass seems to be inverted. I would often hear from immature, ignorant BOYS—who teenage me gave value to, how flat my ass was, and how that must have been my white side. Again, someone putting down my race in order to justify what they want to be true. For the longest time, I would wear long shirts or tie a jacket around my waist to hide my nonexistent butt. “You have no ass to be a black girl” As crazy as it sounds, that made me insecure of being white. When the white girls would have such straight hair, I would beg my mom to relax my hair. Even with a relaxer, my hair wouldn’t lay as flat. I then became insecure about being black. The insecurities didn’t stop at aesthetics. I would pretend to like music that I didn’t like because I was afraid to the black kids would laugh at me for being too white. I recall one time in middle school my phone went off in class. My ringtone was Hung up by Madonna. I LOVED (still do) Madonna. I am an old soul, and felt as though picking a more current song by her would be cool. I was wrong. The students in class instantly made fun of me—for having a white girl ringtone. I scoured the right one store for ringtone that would please those who taunted me. I ended up picking Laffy Taffy by D4L. Yup. 12-year-old me was a gluten for punishment and needed some saving. As middle school became high school, I accepted the fact that I was the black girl who “acted white”. It was how people knew me. I didn’t mind the ignorance from my peers as I got older. I was always wise beyond my years and would start to laugh at their ignorance. But when teachers would make comments, it was just a reminder to me, that people will forever be insensitive. My all-time favorite “compliment” is “You sound so educated.” Now, readers, let’s be honest. White friends, how often are you told you sound educated? Now, my black friends who speak well, how many times are you told you sound educated? Which, by the way, is never a compliment.

Growing up black in a white culture was the norm, but not always easy. Pools and water activities were always a constant struggle. Before natural hair was something embraces, I would have to miss out on water days and pool parties. My mother didn’t want to keep paying for my hair to get fixed. She had no idea how to do it, and I hated when it was done. I became a pro at avoiding water to hair contact at a very early age. But my white friends never seemed to understand it. One time, my mom told me I could get my hair wet and I was over the moon, thrilled. Until, one of my friends, Ian, decided to keep pouring water on my hair, because it didn’t look wet. Oh, bless his heart, cultural shock was on him, not me. As everyone else turned lobster red even after wearing sunscreen, I became several shades darker in just a few hours. Also, having to explain that my hair washing routine was weekly, not daily, deemed me as dirty to some, while others were envious that I was able to take quicker showers.

School is brutal for most everyone. But the one thing about school that sucked more than the ridiculous comments that came along with people using my races against/for me was that I didn’t belong anywhere. Not even on paper. I was an “other.”

A few times a year when I had to take standardize testing, I hated having to fill out the introduction bubbles, with all my information. Not only was I annoyed that my name had 3 too many letters, but what really irked me the most was the fact that I couldn’t pick more than one race. I had to choose between black or white. I remember raising my hand in middle school when we were able to fill in the bubbles ourselves. “Which one do I mark?” I asked my homeroom teacher. “Black/African American” She said confused as to why I was asking such an obvious question. “But I am also white” I said back in a whisper as others bubbled away. “Well then mark other” she pointed to the other bubble and walked away. Other, I thought to myself. What is that supposed to mean? I am equal parts black and white, why couldn’t I equally bubble in both. Then I thought to myself… what has every teacher I have had since 1^st grade bubbled in for me? What gives them the right to determine my race. We are way too ambiguous of a nation to have an “other” bubble. Just because the dominant gene of melanin decided to shine through, doesn’t make me an “other.” I am black. I am white. That shouldn’t be complicated. I have heard it all from teachers and peers. “Well I am 1/16 Creek; can I mark Native American?” No. I am 50/50. Not the same struggle. “Well you look black so just bubble in black.” Well you look ignorant, but where is your label for other to see? As the years went on, I became complacent with marking “other”. There was no reason for me to get upset and voice my opinion, every single standardized test. Let’s face it, I wasn’t the Gloria Steinem of bi-racial rights. I was the girl who just loved to complain…in the name of justice. There were…are, a lot more mixed kids have to deal with. So, I go on…

I have often had my opinion or feelings ignored because I do not know the “struggle” of truly being black. With the black lives matter movement, I have been told that I am not black enough to feel the oppression. I have had people make ridiculous jokes about my white family owning slaves, and that mother was just trying to piss her family off by dating black men. Mixed kids, tally up how many times you have heard these: “So do you prefer black men/women or white men/women?” “What are you?” “So, do you prefer that white side or black side?” “You talk so well…because your mixed” “You don’t look mixed!” “So who is white, your mom or dad?... I knew it!” “So are you allowed to say the word 'nigger?'”

After a while it becomes quite humorous. After a while you can take the discomfort people place on you and put it right back on them. “Oh, you’re mixed! That’s why you speak so well” Oh you’re white, that’s why you say such racist shit.” But always make sure you say it with a smile, wouldn’t want your black side to intimidate anyone.

Now let me say, I know that mixed, doesn’t mean black and white. I am black and white, so this is what I know. Replace black and white with any other races and I am sure it fits just as well. Same stereotypes, odd encounters with strangers, lots of questions, racist remarks… and on and on.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love who I am. I love being mixed, and I love my family! I would be lying if I said I was colored blind. I see color. I love color. I love that we are many shades of beauty. I just wish the ignorance around color would disappear. But until it does, I will continue to love and be loved by those who notice my skin color is different from theirs—my crazy family!