Black, White, Neither
Neither One, Both, and My Own
No one knows the struggles of not being just white or Black but living in the world where you are of mixed race and of both worlds. You are biracial, mixed race, different than a Black person and different than a white person.
You may look Hispanic but you are not. You don’t even speak another language. You are American and you have your own identity. Mixed people that say they are one race are fooling themselves. You will never be Black or just white. We are our own race and I was fortunate to see how both sides treat me.
I never identified with being one race because I am a combination of two races. I have slave master blood mixed in with Black blood where Black people were treated unfairly and given light skin and looked more pleasing than a darker skinned person. That’s my history. That’s in my face. That’s in my hair. That’s in the way strangers try to guess what I am before they ask who I am.
Being mixed is being a bridge with traffic going both ways. White relatives say things around me they would not say around my Black cousins. Black relatives say things around me they would not say around my white friends. I hear it all. I see how quick people are to claim me when it’s convenient and how quick they are to remind me I’m “not really” one of them when it’s not.
Black spaces question if I’m Black enough. White spaces act like I’m proof they aren’t racist, then get uncomfortable when I talk about race at all. If I straighten my hair I’m “acting white.” If I wear it natural I’m “making a statement.” If I get sun, I’m “exotic.” If I’m pale in winter, I’m “passing.” I’m not doing anything but living in my skin.
People tell me to “just pick one.” Pick one? I didn’t pick my parents. I don’t get to pick my grandparents. I don’t get to erase the history that made me. To say I’m only Black is to lie about my mother. To say I’m only white is to lie about my father. To say I’m Hispanic because of how I look is to lie about both of them. I’m not checking a box to make you comfortable.
The hardest part is not being seen. There is no Jim Crow sign for “mixed.” There is no month, no category, no easy story. You grow up translating two families, two cultures, two sets of wounds. You learn that colorism is real because you lived it. You saw how light skin got you called “pretty for a Black girl” or got you pulled aside and told “you’re not like them.” You saw how it put distance between you and cousins who shared your blood but not your complexion.
But it also gave me sight. I was fortunate to see how both sides treat me. I saw the assumptions, the bias, the quiet rules. I saw who clutched their purse and who asked to touch my hair.
Don’t ask me to choose. Don’t tell me I’m confused. I’m not confused — you are. I know exactly who I am. I’m the race that came from both, that belongs to neither, and that won’t be erased to make your categories work.
