My identity as a Black woman is ever-changing, constantly developing and refining itself. Most of my life, race was not on the forefront of my mind; I have this privilege because of how light-skinned I am. I defined myself as a biracial girl, and this classification was not a part of my identity. But, removing myself from my comfortable home setting, where everyone knew who I was, to here, where that is not the case, was reawakening.
The Shaker Heights school district prides itself on its diversity. Most of my friends and I embodied the “melting pot” ideal; African American, Peruvian, Thai, Nigerian and Mexican, among our other, fewer white friends. So, when things were said to me that were questionable, mostly in middle and high school, I wouldn’t take these remarks to heart, thinking that what was said was not meant to be taken seriously. However, upon coming to college — entering a world unknown to me — and facing the same language that I thought was intended to be light, I have realized how heavy it is. I have been asked on multiple occasions to define and defend myself when I’ve never had to before — “What are you?” was a question; the following, “Really?” was an accusation.
Among comments from friends and strangers about what ethnicity I “look like,” there is a particular instance I remember: I went to get a background check downtown last year, and whilst there, the nice white woman inputting all of my identities quickly inserted “white” into the racial classification category. I stopped her, telling her that I am not white. She asked the question, giving me a once-over, and I told her. The words “pick one” struck me; I had never been asked to choose one race — one parent, one family gathering, one vacation — over the other. But I did remember many of the things my friends had said and done in high school; making fun of how red I’d blush, wondering where on my body I was black (“From her shoulders to her thighs!”), touching my hair and so on. It suddenly brought the two words — “Black” and “white” — to the forefront of my mind.
Remarks about my appearance that were not meant to be taken seriously translated into my race not being taken seriously. The danger of “living in a bubble” is actually believing that you live in one. No one is free of microagressive language because it is so normatively built into our society. One of my professors asked me recently why race becomes such a problem for mixed students of color in college. I responded that it isn’t a problem; it is a reawakening. Leaving a comfortable environment, even one that is quilted out of microaggressions, and entering a new place where one is forced to introduce and define themselves again is challenging and imperative, and it happens to everyone. If I had kept the pretense of Shaker Heights over me, I would not have thought about how Black History Month relates to me; I would not have been able to fully embrace my identity.
So, what I will say, just by virtue of what the word means to me, is this: Blackness is inclusive — a state of being and becoming, striving and defying conventions. My biraciality is a not up for negotiation.
Margy Adams, a Contributing Writer for the Voice, can be reached for comment at MAdams19@wooster.edu.