Multiracial: mul·ti·ra·cial [muhl-tee-rey-shuhl, muhl-tahy-]
adjective: representing more than one race.
We are also called red people, oreos, milk chocolate, coffee babies, spoilt brats, black people trying to be white, white people who can dance, black people who can swim, kids with untamed hair and tan.
In some countries, it’s a wonderful thing to be multiracial. In Burkina Faso, for example, my family and I were called “métisse” which means “mixed” in French. Métisse people were different in so many ways, constantly being singled out by their beautiful skin color.
People assumed we were rich. People assumed my mother was white. People assumed I didn’t know I was black.
The funny thing is, most of the mixed kids I know, know exactly where they’re from. I have a half-Nigerian, half-French friend, a half-Canadian, half-Ivoirian friend. I even have a Blackanese friend.
Where am I from? Those of you who’ve read my “Random facts about me” page because you were bored, in love, mesmerized, curious or one of the Beatles, you would probably have read that I’m supposed to be American. But my parents are Carribean. And their parents aren’t even fully Carribean. And their parents had some European, Indian and African and maybe even Chinese in their blood.
If you ask me, depending who you are, I’ll say American. Or Carribean.
Some people tell me that I’m typically black. Others are like, “Giirrrrrl, you such an oreo! You white as heyll.” So uh, the thing is: to white people, I’m black. To black people I’m white. This shows exactly how much each race knows about one another.
I can sing, I used to love Kentucky Fried Chicken, I don’t get sunburns, I am sassy, I love Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, I grew up watching the Proud Family, I went to a lively church where people spoke in tongues & we danced and sang for HOURS.
After Sunday service, we’d go over to Grandma’s house, all my cousins would be there, and there’d be pumpkin pie and a huge cake on top of the fridge while my whole family was busy eating pork, fried this, fried that, collard greens, grits, potatoes, sweet ham, mashed potatoes, bacon, Kool-Aid and all of that in Grandma’s living room.
I’m supposed to be as black as they come.
I cannot dance to save my life. On the phone, people think I’m Caucasian. I speak FRENCH. I love the Beatles. I can listen to death metal. I like Loreena McKennit. I like COUNTRY music. I can tan. I called my cat Ali Baba. I was born in Connecticut.
My favorite store is Forever 21 and I love flower print dresses.
If I was living in the 60’s, I would have gone to the Woodstock festival and I probably would have been a hippie. I have no behind, but I’m a decent size 34C. I’m a vegetarian.
If I were in Fresh Prince of Bel-Air I would have been Hilary’s friend. I like Taylor Swift.
You get the point.
I call myself a citizen of the world. And I don’t tan, I blacken. When I blush, you can’t see the color, you just notice my stupid smile. It took me five years to realize that Kid Cudi was black, only black people can say nigga to other black people (in this case, mixed kids also), that Destiny’s Child broke up, that collard greens gives your body curves, that I eat butter with everything and that vegetarianism is not a black people’s thing.