A Bi-Life

Born during the late 1960's, with a Caucasian mother, and an absent African American father. Sounds like the making of a statistic waiting to happen. White people frowned upon the integration of whites and blacks back then and possibly still today. At times I called my mother a pioneer and at other times I cursed her for it. In any event, it happened; I happened.

A young bi-racial child, living in a white household. I look at the photo albumns that my white grandmother proudly brandished and think to myself, "Do I remember when these photos of me were taken?" A baby, a toddler, playing with a smile on his face. Eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner with my grandparents. Forging relationships with the grandparents who helped raise me while my young teenaged mother was out doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who. Excited about Christmastime, opening presents, and playing toys. Meeting new white relatives who appeared to be interested in me but secretly whispering behind our backs. I was a child unaware of the racial tension that existed outside in the open and sometimes behind our closed doors.

Introduced to the outside world, a child who struggled to understand this bi-racial life. As the feuding between my mother and grandparents escalated, my mother met an older black man who encouraged her to seek religion as a safe-haven and begin a new life. Just before entering kindergarten, my mother applied for public assistance and moved us to our first apartment. Shortly after, she married that older man and shortly after that, he died. A personal tragedy that for her was devastating and one that influenced the rest of our lives.

Who is this light-skinned kid? What is he? Is he black or is he white? For some reason, white kids never really seemed to care or be that concerned about what my race was. I guess for them, they decided I was white like them? However, the black kids seemed to be more in-tune with what was going on and seemed to make a much bigger issue out of my race. The black kids didn't just inquire about it, but were very judgemental towards every aspect of "me." Was it learned behavior on their part? Was it ignorance? Was it a "slave mentality?" I was too young to really know. I just noticed the difference in the way the black kids treated me. It was interesting and also heartbreaking that I chose to call myself "black" and the black kids seemed to disapprove of it. I was called names such as "half breed," "oreo," "yellow banana," and others. The very group that I tried to identify with seemed to somehow reject me as a black person. To me, at times it felt like I was being rejected as "a person."