Cultural appropriation?

Someone had the nerve to fix their mouth and say my locs are culturally appropriative. 

I know I’m lightskinned as FUCK but I’m black

Not that “trans-racial Rachel Dolezal” bullshit, no…

I came from my mother’s fucking vagina.

Ethnically, I am half black and half Irish.

Racially, I am black. 

I’m fucking black and proud, get the fuck out of my face. 

Sometimes I get so angry inside when people try to discount my Filipino half, because my skin is so pale.
Like skin color is a polygenic trait.
My mother is German and Irish.
And both my last name is Orias, which is of Spanish decent, and my grandmothers maiden name Estrada, also of Spanish decent, because Spain occupied the Philippines for many years, intermixing their light eyes and skin with the dark eyes and skin of Filipinos.
And like every single other race or ethnicity, Filipinos come in a range of shades and hues. I’ve known and met plenty of mixed girls, who are also porcelain Filipinos.
I have my fathers eyes, I have my fathers freckles, I have my fathers curls, I have just as much of my fathers genes, as I have from my mother.
I remember being so proud to be half Asian when I was little. But as I got older, the more I realized I didn’t fit into the stereotype of dark skinned Filipino, the harder I had to try to convince people of my heritage. Until I kind of just started giving up.
I mean, having white skin has given me plenty of privileges over those who are darker. But within both white and poc communities, it’s also done nothing but discredit me, and make me feel as though I’ve had no ability to express pride in half of my heritage. To the point where in the future when I get married, I feel like I will have trouble giving up my last name, because it’s feels like the one and only thing connecting me, giving me proof and validation of half of my heritage.
I shouldn’t have to provide every person I meet with some kind of proof to be able to be comfortable in expressing my heritage.


Although it has been a process, I have grown to love my hair.

Growing up with bi-ethnic hair has been a challenge, especially when your mother is virtually clueless as to what to do with it. For the longest time, my hair had two styles: poofball on top or two poofballs on either side of my head. My hair as been burnt, chopped off haphazardly, pulled from my scalp and literally tied into knots. When the time came for me to take care of my own hair, I had no clue what to do. In attempt to conform, I tried to straighten it. Of course, by the time I got to school, my hair became a fried mass atop my head. 

It wasn’t until a few years ago I decided that I was going to leave my hair alone and let it do its own thing. My hair may have a mind of its own, but I love it. It’s frizzy, it’s wild, it’s untamed, it’s gorgeous. 

That being said, I will wear my hair as natural as I fucking please. I’m talking to all the girls who stare at me when I fluff up my hair in the woman’s restroom. And I’m talking to you, Taylor, for throwing paper balls in my hair while I was sleeping in Chemistry. That shit isn’t funny.

I’ll wear my hair however I want, dammit.