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"