Thursday, May 31, 2012

The day I learned the meaning of stereotype...

In my elementary school only the 6th graders were allowed to be cheerleaders. Being impatient to start my dance career, in 5th grade I decided to join the Pom Squad. Coincidentally all the 5th grade girls on the squad were black. Of course, this excluded me. 

The time comes for our first performance, sharing the halftime show with the cheerleaders at the big game. It was actually just a regular basketball game, but I'm from Indiana. Therefore all the games are important. So we're getting ready with the cheerleaders in the cafeteria, when a few of the 6th grade girls come over and ask to see some of our routine. A few of us do the intro and the 6th grade girls seem impressed. Then the tallest 6th grader looks at me with a puzzled look. "Are you half black?" I nod my head to say yes. Then she replied. "That explains why you can dance."

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

From the beginning...

This is as much of the beginning as I can remember... Here is the moment I realized that I was different. 
I had two close friends in my neighborhood. Often our parents called us the Three Stooges, because we were practically inseparable. So here's the A-ha! moment. Third Grade. It was one of the many days we would walk to the park, probably to feed the ducks. Then here comes a high school boy walking towards us. At least I assume he was in high school, because back then I also thought that being 20 meant you were older than dirt. Just as well. In passing he speaks, "look at that; chocolate, vanilla and butterscotch." 


And there it is. This probably explains my disdain for butterscotch. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Introduction to When In Mixed Company

Growing up biracial has some advantages... The compliments about my effortless year-round tan and naturally curly hair are the most frequent side effects. But then there are the days when I get assaulted with questions. I'm not sure why strangers feel the urge to know my race. I assume because some people feel lost without labels. Usually they seem relieved to know my racial identity, like it were a game of Clue. But instead of Mrs. White in the Conservatory with the candlestick, they open the envelope to see mixed, biracial or milano. 




So here it goes. Don't worry; I'll start from the beginning.