Before I began, I was very hesitant about writing this article. The thought of any negative comments, backlash, and judgement (if I’m being completely honest) made me want to crawl under a rock and never come out. What if I come off as anti-Black? What if everyone thinks I’m just some tragic mulatto who can’t come to terms with what she really is? What if, despite all the thought and time and research I’ve put into this issue, no one actually cares? That would suck. But even if this is a non-issue, it’s nice to finally have a platform to talk about something that’s shaped my entire life. Plus, maybe somewhere out there there’s a biracial guy or gal that feels as unsure and/or as isolated as I once was who could use some sense of solidarity. I know I could have. So if there’s any biracial or multiracial person out there who is in a constant battle between “What are you?” and “But you don’t look mixed!,” this article is for you.
My mother is white and my father is Black, so I call myself biracial. That makes sense, right? You wouldn’t think that the subject of my race would be all that controversial, but it can be. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gotten into heated conversations with people who think that I should call myself Black, not biracial. Or the number of times my correcting someone who’s called me Black prompted eye rolls, tongue clicks, or (if I’m lucky) a winning combination of the two.
Sometimes getting people to acknowledge my whole race and not just one half of it is like pulling teeth. It’s like talking to a brick wall. Or shouting into the void. You get the point.
A majority of the time, the half of me that’s acknowledged is the Black one. It’s understandable, I know that I could very easily pass for Black. And I know that it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be mistaken for white in that same way. That doesn’t bother me. Why would it? However, what does bother me is that even when I explain that I’m actually biracial, some people will still call me Black. It bothers me because a lot of these people are friends, people that have known me for years, people that I’ve explained myself to time and time again. These are the ones who erase my identity. And although I don’t fully understand, or agree with, the rationale behind this, I can think of a couple of reasons why this happens:
Most of the time, at least in my own personal experience, those pushing hardest for me to call myself Black and not biracial are Black themselves. My pursuance of a biracial identity is sometimes seen as an act of betrayal to the African-American community. I’m often reminded that we are all the same, that there is no difference between being half-Black and being Black. Don’t I know that white people will still see me as Black? Don’t I realize that, back in the olden days, I’d be a slave, too? Am I too stupid to see that we’ll all be hanged by the same noose at the end of the day? Trust me when I say that I’m very aware of all these facts. I know that a lot of different kinds of people, not just white, will see me as Black. I know that if the Delorean time machine was a real thing and I was forced to travel back 200 years, I’d be forced into slavery. I know that somewhere out there, there’s a Confederate flag-waving, gun-toting racist who’d love to see us all hang. But here’s the thing: literally none of that changes what I am. I’m still biracial.
And then, of course, there is the One Drop Rule - a rule enforced by many but recognized by few. The One Drop Rule was used from the days of slavery until the days of Jim Crow laws to ensure white supremacy. It defined a Black person as a person with any black ancestry. So even if the only Black person in your lineage was your great-great-great-great grandfather you’d be considered Black too. Basically, the rule enforces the idea that any 'drop' of Black 'blood' will taint and make impure the blood of other races. It’s pretty racist. You’d think the rule, or at least the general idea that one Black parent plus one white parent equals one Black offspring, would’ve grown less popular as time went on. But it hasn’t. Everyone - from the President of the United States to my friends - keeps this rule alive.
So the question still remains: Why don’t I call myself Black?
The answer is pretty simple: because I’m not Black. I’m not white either. I’m a combination of the two. I know that I’m Black-passing and that calling myself Black would make a lot of things easier for myself and for others. But I’m not interested in making things easy. I won’t frame my thinking around some racist two-hundred year old rule. I call myself what I am and nothing else. I don’t care if that confuses, angers, annoys, saddens, and/or offends others. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not to make everyone else comfortable.
I am biracial and that’s all there is to it.
