I am a biracial woman who identifies as Black. This is not uncommon. Many biracial children tend to identify by the way they look and feel. My complexion had most Black people referring to me as "high yellow" growing up. My facial features are easily identified if you know what southern Italians look like. Still, to many, my features say African American. No matter what descriptions you come up with, America made me choose my identity by the time I was in the 1st grade. I attended St. Joseph Catholic School in Yonkers, NY. I started kindergarten as any other child did at five years old. I wore a cute little outfit: green corduroy pants and a matching striped short-sleeved shirt. Although Italian, my mother learned how to braid my hair. It was thick, long, and considered 3C by today’s description of Black hair. Cathy parted and twisted my hair into four perfectly symmetrical braids. My Pro-Keds were brand new, and I felt as cute as my clothes and sneakers were. I wasn't nervous. I was an outspoken, extroverted child. To be honest, I was somewhat bossy.
When I walked into Sister Mary Michael's classroom, I sat in the front row, center seat. A little white girl beat me to it. When I walked over to the desk, I pouted and had an attitude. Take it up with my ancestors if you're questioning how a five-year-old can even understand what an attitude is, but I can assure you, I had one. When I returned to my parents, believing they would do something about it, they told me to pick another seat—the audacity. What happened next framed my thought process about Black and white, even if I didn't understand it then. Joanne (not her real name) walked behind me and, with what seemed like an attitude that matched mine, shouted out, "Your daddy is Black!” The vitriol in her voice stunned me into saying, "No, he is not!" And I kicked her. Ricky (my father) almost shook my arm from its socket and said, "First, keep your feet on the floor, and second, I am a Black baby girl.” My mother had walked off with Sr. Michael, and they both walked back over when they heard the commotion. The nun scorned my behavior and gave my parents what looked like a warning. This was in 1975. She didn’t say a word to Joanne or her parents.
This began my journey of understanding not only did my parents not match, but my concept of the world was different. Not unique because “biracial” children have existed since the races were constructed by an inferior white man trying to wield supremacy (I digress), but what made me feel like I was different was that my parents were together, in love, and my grandparents accepted it. I was my (Italian) grandpa Charlie’s heart, and he was mine. Aside from a few unimportant great aunts and uncles with too much to say, my safety net was my home environment. Oh, but when I left the nest for school, the color of water changed. When it was time to take an assessment test in the third grade, the same nun who warned my parents about my behavior stood over me like a dark cloud while filling in a bubble that made me choose a race. She could tell I was confused. I filled in both Black and white. She told me I couldn't do that and told me to erase the bubble I filled in next to white. So I did.
My mother recognized that I was trying to "pass" when I was around other white children. She brought me into the bathroom one day and asked me what I saw when I looked at her in the mirror. "I said, my mommy." Then she asked what color she was. I said white, right? She said yes, but you're not. You are a beautiful mixed girl, but the world will only see you as Black. No matter how light-skinned you are. No matter how far down your back your hair grows. People see a Black girl no matter how much I run a hot comb through it. My passing days came to a screeching halt right then and there. I was nine years old.
I struggled with identity growing up. I hated the term half-breed, quickly correcting anyone that used it, making it clear that I wasn’t half-dog. I wanted to fit into whatever environment I was in. The Catholic school I attended was predominantly Italian. When I was in Brooklyn with my family, I was Paisan (an Italian name used for or by Italians). When I was around my Black family, I was all things Black. This didn’t go on forever, though. By the time I hit high school, I was unapologetically Black. New York had entered the Spike Lee Do the Right Thing racial unrest period, and picking a side became an easy choice. If you grew up in New York, you knew the white kids down with you were cool, but their parents were not. You knew if your white friend met you at the door and you couldn’t go inside the house, their parents were racist. This never happened when I visited my Black or Latina friends. I was starting to understand that a square peg can fit in a round hole…if it shrinks enough. I refused. I assimilated where I felt loved by everyone.
I was 18 years old; I knew what the culture of "wildin' out" meant. The arrest of five Black and Brown boys that would become known as the Central Park Five solidified my Blackness and activated my activism. These brothers were probably in the park up to no good, but rape? Hell no! That just wasn't the norm for Black and Brown kids. , So I joined the protest and followed Al Sharpton's lead. I was young, and like him or not, he had a voice and used it. I remember watching the Guardian Angels protesting against the five young men accused of this heinous crime and thinking if Lisa Sliwa was representative of what feminism was supposed to be, I'd pass. Kevin Richardson, 14, Raymond Santana, 14, Antron MsCray, 15, Yusef Salaam, 15, and Korey Wise, 16, were inevitably convicted of raping a white woman, only to be exonerated 13 years later.
My activism would continue throughout my lifetime, following me to Memphis, TN. In 2017, my name was added to a blacklist that violated the First Amendment and a consent decree secured by the ACLU_TN in 1978. This prevented the Memphis government from monitoring constitutionally protected political activities in the future after creating a political surveillance network, which the City of Memphis secretly operated from 1965 to 1976. The ACLU intervened in the Blanchard v. City of Memphis lawsuit challenging the city's creation of the list that included members of the Black Lives Matter movement and other local activists. My name was eventually removed from the list, and the consent decree was modified.
My identity as a Black woman became clear to me by the time I was in high school. My righteous-conscious mind was developing. I understood what Black Lives Matter meant before it was a hashtag. I couldn't sit back voiceless and watch the injustices in my community.
Many sisters acclimated to referring to themselves as feminists, but the title never sat right with me after watching a pack of angry women protesting to convict five teenage boys of color before they got a chance to tell their side of the story. I was not a feminist but a Womanist, coined by Alice Walker in a short story she wrote in 1979 called Coming Apart. The difference between the two is that while fighting for my rights as a woman, I can never fight solely for myself; I would always have to fight for my community. That includes Black men. By the time I graduated from high school, I was solidly comfortable in my skin.
While I negate no part of my identity, I understand how the world sees me and identify accordingly.
I am a Biracial Black woman, and I stand on that. Please do not refer to me as mixed.
Sam said babies come here all innocent and perfect then they have parents… this applies to all children every color. This is so true. Love you lady thanks for showing me you.❤️
Sam said babies come here all innocent and perfect then they have parents… this applies to all children every color. This is so true. Love you lady thanks for showing me you.❤️