I am a junior in high school. I am smart. I am driven. I am nice. I am lively. And I am biracial. My mom is a white woman and my dad is a black man. For most of my life it never occurred to me that being biracial affects me, but it does. Being biracial affects me all the time. I am a mixture of two cultures, and I am always conflicted and sometimes confused. However, I am not the only one. My race also confuses others who are not biracial or not educated on what it means to be biracial. My race affects how people treat me and what they think of me.

The most common judgment of my race is though my appearance. In my family I am the middle child, blessed with the darkest skin and the kinkiest hair. Many people often mistake me for being full black. Many people do not think to ask me what race I am, I assume because of my appearance. For example, in the fourth grade I explained my race to a white friend for the first time. I explained that I am only half black and I am also half white. My friend replied by accusing me of lying. She told me it was impossible to be white if I was black, and that my mother couldn’t really be white. I was so infuriated that she tried to tell me my mother was not my mother, as if my whole life was impossible and I’m delusional. I later told my dad about this incident. Instead of being outraged-like I was, he simply said that society was always going to see me as full black and I shouldn’t be too upset. I was confused about his statement for a while, but learned that my father was right. Everyone refers to me as a black girl and I decided not to let it bother me, and not to correct them.

In addition to people assuming I am full black, other people think I act too white. I have often been called “whitewashed,” an “Oreo,” or a “phony.” First, people mistake me for being full black, and then they insult me when I don’t fit their stereotype of how a black person is supposed to act. In fact, they go as far as to say I fit into a stereotype of how a white person is supposed to act. I guess because I am educated, nice, trustworthy, punctual, nonviolent, and I’m not “ghetto,” I am thus too white. Or maybe because when I am asked what my favorite meal is I don’t reply “fried chicken, greens, cornbread, and mac-n-cheese with a side of watermelon and Kool-Aid”. Being called “whitewashed” seems to be a compliment of my character. It only insults the people who use this name to hurt me, it shows their ignorance and misguided views of what is “black” and what is “white”. I am black and I am white, and that will never change, no matter how I act.

Furthermore, school is where I am most often insulted. When I was in the seventh grade Barack Obama was running for president and many black people were filled with pride. I remember I was at lunch, hanging out with my friends, when a group of black students came up to me and asked me to be in their new group, a club supporting Barack Obama. I agreed to join a meeting. When we finished eating, my friends and I went to meet with the group. But I guess the group was unaware of the integration in schools these days, because they told me white people were not invited to the meeting and my friends could not join us. I was completely appalled by this and I told the “Barack Obama Club” exactly what was on my mind, using a few choice words in the process. They answered my tone by telling me I hung out with too many white people and I could leave along with them. I was insulted because I was white. I was mad because it was wrong to exclude white people. And I was confused because they were unaware of the fact that I was white and they did not understand my reaction.

Nevertheless, there is another side to this issue. White people are often uncomfortable with my black culture. When the black side of my family gets together we can only be described as “loud and proud.” We laugh, we yell, and we have a blast. However, sometimes to outsiders we seem outrageous and it can be a culture shock. This happened to my best friend in the third grade. It was my birthday and all my family and friends came over to my house, but my best friend left early. I did not know why she left and I was disappointed. I later learned that my friend had asked my mom how she could be so comfortable around so many black people. My friend was uncomfortable with my family being there and felt the need to leave early. This confused me, I had no idea how she could love my company but feel uncomfortable with my family’s company. I realized that it was a cultural issue. In school I come across as “civilized” which made her more comfortable, but at my party the black “came out of me” and I came across as a totally different person; a person whom she no longer felt comfortable being around. I was confronted with the realization that not everyone was like me. Not everyone understands, accepts, and feels comfortable with the mixture of two cultures that are so close to my heart.

In finally consideration, it is obvious many people do not understand my race. People have grown up as one race and one culture, so they see people as having only one race and one culture. People jump to the conclusion that I am full black. This sparks other problems such as people stereotyping me and feeling as though I act too white or hang out with too many white people, without realizing that I am white. Other people do not realize that although I do not fit a black stereotype, I do fit the black culture. However, I do take partial responsibility for how people have treated me. I realize that many problems would have been easily solved or even prevented if I had explained the little known fact that I am biracial. I know people do not understand my race yet I do not correct those who call me black, I do not explain that I am also white, or explain my culture. Race affects me but I have never really addressed it in my life. Honestly, I believe this has to do with the fact that I am just as confused about my race as everyone else.