Identity isn’t just black and white
The straightener on my countertop bears a painful reminder of my past. The cord is worn and frayed, the metal clamp overworked from years of hard work. I have spent years trying to smooth over the roughs, every pass over my hair inadvertently reminding me that most of my effort was spent trying to erase myself. For fifteen years of my life, I associated being white with being simple, easy and fitting in, and I excruciatingly wished for it.
For every birthday, every blown candle was spent wishing that I would wake up white. Every Christmas, I prayed and prayed. Looking back now, I can see how futile and silly those wishes were, but at the time, it felt like the only solution to the weight I carried.
When I was eight years old, attending softball practices, my teammates noticed that neither my mother nor my stepdad “looked like me,” and questioned if I was adopted. I would respond with, “No, that’s just my stepdad.” When I would go to the airport or restaurants, and strangers would ask where I was from, I would say “I don’t know,” and look to my mother for help on answering what felt like the hardest question. After countless times being labeled as “exotic,” I felt more like a spectacle than a person, defined by being Black, French, Indian, Native American, and Fijian.
Living in the small bubble of Newbury Park for most of my life, I was acutely aware of the ways in which my difference manifested itself. Neighborhoods, schools and all of my friend groups reflected a single narrative of identity, in which my presence was an anomaly. I felt that blending in often meant suppressing the parts of myself that were the most distinct. This, however, to my peers meant being “whitewashed.”
The first major shift in my mindset occurred when I travelled to New Orleans, Louisiana in the summer of 2023. For the first time, I was surrounded by people who looked like me, who carried the same warmth in their voices and depth in their heritage. It was a fundamental moment for me, allowing me to finally see that communities can be built upon the celebration of diverse backgrounds. I remember the first time we walked around the city, the rain that pattered on the street corners carrying a rhythm that the precipitation back home could not compare to.
Although I am incredibly grateful for growing up in such a nice area, that trip made me realize how sheltered my environment had been. Diversity was something that I could see for all of my life within “token black characters” or Disney remakes, yet I had never felt represented until I saw it with my own eyes.
As I go into my junior year and begin to think more about my future, the less I struggle with my identity of being mixed. My race does not have to define how I see myself, my values or what I stand for. Although it was hard to see it back then and hard to see it right now, the world is an expansive melting pot, and I do not need to exist within a category to be complete.
