2

I look better in pretentious black and white. I am a paradox.

TURN 👏🏾 THE 👏🏾 FUCK 👏🏾 UP 👏🏾

To all my black people

All my Afro-latinxs

All my Afro-Asians

All my black Caribbeans

All my mixed black folks

HAPPY FUCKING BLACK HISTORY MONTH!!! ✊🏼✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿

May this month be filled with melanin magic, clear skin, and carefree blackness ❤️

I love all y'all so much man

biracial kid problems

- not looking like either of ur parents

- ”oh, you look (other race)”

- ”is that your mom or is some woman kidnapping you?”

- not being able to fit in to either side of the family

- “but mixed babies are so cute!!”

- “where are you from?”

- people trying to guess ur race

- people speaking languages to u that you don’t know because they assume ur race

- oh dear god what box do I check

Biracial kid perks

- you’re beautiful!

- having two cultures to learn about/love

- having friends of all races

- cultural fluidity 

- being totally unique! go you!

learn to love your mixed self!

8

Bow’s first narrated segment on Black-ish is providing some much needed historical education and subtlety to the conversation about biracial identity

In the first-ever episode of Black-ish told from the perspective and voice of Rainbow, the Johnson family matriarch is forced to deal with an identity crisis when Junior brings home his first girlfriend, who is white. Initially, Bow tries to deny that she’s bothered by Megan’s race. But of course it doesn’t immediately work out that way, and there are some important historical reasons why.

Gifs: Tracee Ellis Ross

WATCH THE VIDEO

“So what are you?”

The question which plagued my childhood in suburban Kansas; the ponderance of which led me towards years of agonizing identity searching; the answer to which I still hesitate to deliver.

“So what are you?”

It is an innocent question; one I know I am not alone in hearing the echoes of. But what do I say? “I’m mixed” is the short answer, but it always leads to the question of “With what” so do I say “My mom is white and my dad is brown” but brown isn’t usually specific enough so do I say “my mom is white and my dad’s Pakistani” but that doesn’t flow right because white is a race and Pakistani is a nationality so do I say “my mom’s American and my dad’s Pakistani” but that isn’t true because my dad was born in Canada and he’s lived here his whole life and American sure as hell doesn’t mean white I mean my dad IS American so do I say “My mom’s a white American and my Dad’s Pakistani American” but that just sounds like I’m trying too hard so that’s out of the question and so do I just drop it and leave it at “none of your business” but that’s rude and it’s really such a simple question so what in the hell do I freaking say?

“So what are you?”

It’s a good question, really… why don’t you tell me? I am the alienation that I feel when my mom’s family talks about how dangerous those Muslim immigrants are over dinner and I am the strange sinking feeling in my stomach which occurs when my cousins tell me that whatever I’ve just done is haraam. I am the frustration which clouds me when people around me doubt that I am what the hell I say I am. I am the product of the millisecond long stares of confusion people give me when I tell them the pale as china blonde lady I’m with is my mother and the looks of disgust I get when I, the young, doll eyed light skinned girl, go out to dinner late at night with a big burly middle aged brown man, aka my father. I am the three and a half years it took me to decide what to call the pigmentation of my skin.

I am the sadness which clouds me when one of my Aunties asserts how lucky I am to be so fair skinned. I am the anger I feel each and every time I think about the people who called my full and plump Desi lips fat as a kid and now use copious amounts of lip liner to accentuate their tiny mouths on Snapchat. I am the hours of hoping and praying during and after shootings that it wasn’t a Muslim. I am the incredible lengths I go to, the precise and complex knowledge I feel I must have of my roots in order to truly claim my heritage. I am neither and I am both and I hate it.

“So what are you?”

I can’t stand here and tell you that it is all bad. That would be I lie, for I am also the cool, smooth feeling of the bronze crucifix which sits on one side of my bedroom wall and the sentiment of the words “Allah most merciful” written in beautiful Arabic script on the other. I am my large French hazel eyes and my thick and wavy South Asian hair, my favorite of my features.

I am the pride I feel as I trace my thumb over the intricate embroidery on one of my anarkalis and the anticipation I feel for Christmas as I help line my grandmother’s fireplace with garland. I am the rhythmic clanking of my bangles as I dance to bhangra music at a cousin’s wedding and the clicking of tongues by a sizzling grill as my grandpa flips our burgers during a Sunday night barbeque. I am the flavorful and savory taste of pulao my father makes and the creamy texture of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. I am the Maybelline mascara I coat my eyelashes with and the kajal I used to line the edges of my eyes. I am the flavorant meeting of two cultures melting in an incredible country in which such a thing is even possible.

“So what are you?”

God, but what am I thinking? I’m Jackie. I am the impending messiness that is my bedroom. I am my inability to fall the hell asleep before eleven o’clock at night. I am my love for all things fashion and glamour. I am my obnoxiously large collection of makeup. I am my hideous shedding of tears each and every time Spock dies in the Wrath of Khan.

I am my intense love for horror movies and my struggle to move in the dark for two days after watching them. I am my passion for music and Michael J. Fox and Kanye West and my unrequited love for Zayn Malik. I am my collection of records and of 32 scarves which I never wear, my brown riding boots, my belting of Christmas carols in the middle of July, my irrational hatred of algebra, my inability to sleep without my phone being on its charger, the Toll House cookie dough I eat straight from the bag and the four Beatles posters I have hanging in my room.

I am the scent of Aussie conditioner and my clumsy, spacy nature; my obsession with the Kennedys, my adamant love for Diet Dr Pepper, losing myself in my daydreams, my extreme extroversion and procrastination of literally everything, my weakness for Reese’s peanut butter cups, my A to Z knowledge about Mick Jagger, my ever changing mind. I am my dreams and I am my fears and and I am my tenacity and I am my mistakes and my courage and my insecurities and my abilities and my hope … I am so much and yet I am so little. I am me. I am unapologetically and beautifully me.

“So what are you?”

I am Jacqueline Renee and I am what I am and no answer that I give you to this question will make what I am any different.

C: I’m raising a biracial child and I decided I was going to raise her as a black girl and her father agrees. People think this is unfair and that I should teach her to acknowledge her white side too, but society will do that for her. I’m interested in raising a child who’s proud of their blackness more than anything. My biggest fear is having a mixed kid who doesn’t accept their black side.

lol so can I just say that it’s not ur damn place to tell someone that they don’t “”“look”“” the way you perceive a certain ethnicity… like just today my coworker told me i don’t look mixed w black, I look like ‘xyz’ and that my hair was “white people curly” like… do u ever think… before u open ur mouth… my hair isn’t urs to decide, it’s not white people’s and it’s not black people’s, I’m mixed and I have mixed hair. I don’t have to look white or black, and I can look like both or niether and that’s still non of ur fuckin business k