I got my DNA tested!

After years of wondering where  I came from, wondering if  I really belong, wondering who I actually am, I decided to take a DNA test from Ancestry.com. A friend of mine had come to visit me at my job and she's been pressuring me to take the test for some time. So during the holidays Ancestry.com had a sale on DNA kits and I ordered one. I can't remember how long it took for the test to make it to me, but I was super excited to take it.

The mailman left the test in my mailbox and I literally squealed when I found it. Now, when you take the test you have to wait at least 30 after eating or drinking anything. Luckily, I hadn't had anything for about an hour and was able to take the test right away. 

I opened the box and found this ancestryDNA packet inside with instructions to register the test before actually taking the test. This way Ancestry could send the correct results to me. The company even gives you the option to link it to a tree on the site. When you open the kit, there is a tube that you have to spit in. It's only about a tablespoon of spit, but it took me a couple of tries to fill the vile up to the line. After you fill it, you put a top on it and then you shake it a bit before packaging it up in the pre-addressed box to mail back to Ancestry. 

Waiting for my test results was the longest couple of weeks of my life. I mailed the kit in around the 14th of December and Ancestry started processing it on December 28. A little over a week after processing began, my DNA results were back. Now, I jokingly told my mom that if my results didn't have anything from Africa, she would have some explaining to do. She said, "I'm not explaining anything." Luckily, when my results came back, she didn't have to explain anything.

I knew there would be an overwhelming abundance of British Isles in my DNA. What I wasn't sure of was how much African ancestry I would have, or where that DNA would come from. Finding out that 19% of my DNA comes from Nigeria was kind of an anchoring moment for me. All my life I've been trying to figure out who I am, trying to see if my biology matched what I was raised believing. Seeing Nigeria, Ivory Coast/Ghana, Benin/Togo and other African nations in my DNA helped me no longer feel like I was a Rachel Dolezal-type person. I wasn't faking my heritage. I wasn't a "Mama's baby, Daddy's maybe" like I'd been jokingly told as a child. I wasn't just my siblings "White sister". 

Getting these DNA results did something that 35 years of life experience couldn't do-- helped me feel more centered and like I know who I am. The results gave me a sense of belonging that I've been searching for my entire life. I think I'm starting to find my own identity in a world that wants me to fit their mold.

*This post was NOT sponsored by Ancestry.com

Growing Up Biracial in a World that Wants Me to "Pick One"

Growing up, my parents and siblings had very different ways to describe me. If you had asked my Dad, he wouldn't hesitate to tell you I was his "cream colored" child. His very light-skinned daughter. My siblings would tell their friends that I was their "White Sister", and my mom would always tell people I was biracial. Growing up, I thought everyone had a family like mine-- a black father, a white mother and two black siblings with a different mom. I thought everyone had a "black side of the family" and had a Granny who was the neighborhood candy lady selling Lillie Dillies for 25 cents. (For those of you who don't know what a Lillie Dilly is, it's a wonderful dixie cup filled with frozen Kool-aid.)

As I got older, I realized that not every family was this way. My cousins didn't count in my mind because they all had at least one black/white relative through my parents. I honestly thought every family had at least one black or white relative. Once I realized not every family was like mine, I started paying close attention to every family around us. I started paying closer attention to reactions from kids on the playground, adults at the mall, and I didn't understand what I was seeing.

Other kids had families that, for lack of a better word, matched. Mine didn't. Other kids knew where they came from, who they were and seemed to have a better grip on their individuality. I didn't. I grew up confused and wondering where I actually fit in this world.

I went to a predominately white school for 13 years. (12 at one school, 1 at another). I was lucky to get the education I did because my family couldn't really afford the school I attended. I was able to go tuition free because my dad worked there. My graduating class had 73 students at the time we graduated and there were a total of 2 black kids, and that's only if you added me and another biracial girl together. So finding my own identity was not an easy task to attempt during high school. It wasn't an easy thing in college either.

One of the most difficult things I've had to do is fill out forms that demand I chose a race. From forms for school, employment, even the US Census, I've had to try to choose what race with which to align myself. Every time a form said to pick one, my insides were screaming at me to not deny the other part of me. I had a difficult time trying to rectify my desire to check all that applied and listening to the instructions given me. Worse were the times people tried to convince me to pick "Other". Oh, how I loathe that option. In my opinion, "other" meant not human. "Other" meant not worth having a true classification-- not worthy of being. I refused to be an "other", but what could I mark on those forms. I had taken to marking both Caucasian and African America, but  I wonder how often my choice was accepted by the form takers. Did the census list me correctly, did my refusal to bow to the pressure to choose one or other cause my results to not be tabulated? Did my desire to choose my own classifications keep me from positions?

The answer is. . . I don't know. I do know that even now, I'm still trying to fight for the ability to accurately depict my race/ethnicity. The county I work for will not allow biracial as an option. I have to pick between my white side and my black side or other. Since I refuse to be an other and they won't let me leave it blank, I've picked African American, for now. I'll keep fighting until I make them understand, make them actually hear me.

I'll leave you with this powerful set of lyrics from the musical Ragtime. Sung by Brian Stokes Mitchell, the song is called Make Them Hear You. 

"And say to those who blame us

For the way we chose to fight

That sometimes there are battles

That are more than black or white...

And I could not put down my sword

When justice was my right

Make them hear you

Go out and tell our story

To your daughters and your sons

Make them hear you

Make them hear you"