Walking the Line: The Balancing Act of Living Between Black and White
I am biracial.
For anyone who has met my parents, this is no surprise. To anyone that’s heard me talk about my family knows that my mom is white and my dad is black. But what most people don’t know is that I identify as biracial.
Most people see a darker complected woman with big curly hair.
Black is what they see.
As humans, what we see tends to lead us to assume. But there is often more to the story than just our assumptions.
This is my story.
In a time where we all have been presented with the opportunity to learn more and to love better, I want to share.
I battled back and forth writing this, let alone sharing it. Telling my story seems so contrary to the point of what is happening in the world, “It’s not about me,” and that is true. But this is about me, here in this space I am here to share about how the Lord has moved and shaped my heart for how He created me.
I am a person of color.
A woman of color.
I am created by the hand of a Perfect Creator and set in an imperfect world.
I am imperfect.
My story is imperfect.
I wish I could tell you where this will go, or my reason for writing this down, but I can’t. All I know is that in 2020 the Lord has shaken up my heart, and I am trying to understand who He created me to be. Honestly, we are learning on the go together. So from here, I will let the Holy Spirit and my fingertips take the lead.
Do you remember the first time you knew your family was different? There are so many unique things about each family that make them special. But when you grow up somewhere and that is all you know, it’s not always instantaneous, discovering that what makes your family special is also what makes it different.
I always knew that my parents were different races. I saw it with my own eyes. We talked about it around the dinner table. But it was my normal, so it never fazed me.
Growing up, I knew I was different. I’m thankful my parents taught me to always be myself. I grew up knowing I was half of my brilliant black father and half of my compassionate white mother (both of whom could trade adjectives easily). I knew that half of my family didn’t look like the other. I knew that I didn’t look like a lot of my friends. And I knew my sense of identity was never grounded in how I looked but in how I treated other people.
As a kid, I was surrounded by books that represented all kinds of people. I learned about America’s history, presidents, the three branches of government, all of it. But I also learned about black history. We had piles and piles of books about amazing black inventors, researchers, and civil rights leaders. Because of this, I never felt like I missed out on the opportunity to learn about my history as someone who was both black and white.
I loved to learn about black history; I still do. There is still so much I don’t know! This spring, when I was in D.C., I had the chance to go to the African American Heritage Museum, and it was so cool! To see and hear such incredible stories about black culture from America and around the world was unbelievable.
And while this season has been filled with lots of learning for me, it has also lead to lots of reflection.
This semester I took a philosophy of race course at OSU. On the first day of class, Lawerence Ware asked us the question, “How do you identify racially?” I knew my answer right away, “I am biracial,” I declared proudly, there was no question about that for me. But, once my turn to share had come and gone, I looked around the room at the most diverse group of classmates I’ve had at my predominately white institution (PWI), and I saw so many different faces. White, black, brown, some of them looked like me, and some of them did not. But I realized in that moment, even when people looked like me, no one had identified like me.
I was the only one.
I know this feeling well. You see, I grew up in a mostly white but (arguably) above average, diverse town in Oklahoma (I say above average because while the minority students were not overwhelming in number, we represented our fair share of races, ethnicities, and countries of origin). But, even in a “diverse” environment, I still felt isolated because the one group I wanted to be part of never really accepted me.
The tricky thing about growing up biracial is that I never felt like I had a home base. Most of my friends are white, I, of course, make friends with most people I meet but, the vast majority of the people I spend my time around and are close to do not look like me. It wasn’t until middle school I noticed that all the black kids tended to hang out together, and I never found myself invited. It wasn’t that we weren’t friends, but I felt like they treated me differently.
It was in elementary school the first time I was ever called an “Oreo.” What I didn’t know then was that this statement would set me on a course to become the “white” black girl. The kids in my class used to say, “you act white,” or, “you talk white,” as if black and white kids have anything other than red in hearts. When we see people as different than us, our instinct is to find similarities. Common ground means in the scary moments leading up to knowing someone there is a safe space for us to coexist before diving in a little deeper. But, what my mostly white classmates didn’t know is that their words, said with the best of intentions, left me wondering why I didn’t sound like me. In their effort to include me, they ultimately excluded an important part of who I am.
I have long forgotten the words said, but the feeling will stay with me forever. One day at school I was talking with my friend (who happens to be black). I don’t know how we got on the topic of race, but I remember the moment she confirmed my fears. We talked about friend groups like most junior high kids do, and she said something along the lines of, ‘you’re not really black’ and then explained to me that having a white mom disqualified me from the group of ‘real black kids.’ Startled, shocked, and hurt, I didn’t know how to respond. Truth be told, it hurt me a lot; it still hurts. But I am once again thankful for a father who knows a thing or two about race and has helped me navigate my racial identity.
“No one gets to tell you if you’re black enough.”
To give other people, who in the grand scheme of my life don’t matter, the power to determine my identity seemed foolish to him. To let someone have a stake in who I am or who I will be in the world was never something my family taught me. And it isn’t something I plan on starting now or in the future. I get to decide who I am, and I have chosen to lean into the calling of my Creator, who gave me an incredible set of parents, two dynamic families, and people who love me because of what lives inside of my soul.
But, I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a time in my life that I did identify as black. I found myself wrapped up in what I looked like and what the world saw me as, what people assumed about me. And what I now realize is I was trying to prove who I was. I wanted to prove that I was black enough to be accepted by the black people in my life. But please hear me on this. I do not identify as biracial because I felt like I am not black enough. I am biracial. This is a fact. And for me, choosing to identify as black meant I was leaving behind a piece of me that carries just as much weight in who I am as the black part.
It is not always easy to declare who we are. To boldly proclaim aspects of our lives that people choose to define us by. I am proud to be biracial. I love getting to share this with people. But, sometimes taking the first step in sharing who I am with the world is scary. Thankfully, the first step is always the hardest.
I would be lying if I didn’t say I was afraid to share this part of who I am with you. Not because I am ashamed of who I am or how I was created but because not everyone agrees with me. Contrary to popular belief, not all people of color think and feel the same about every racial issue (or any issue for that matter). And how I choose to identify may very well contradict what other members of my friend-groups, community, and even my family believe. But as I continue to learn and grow and understand who God has created me to be and what purpose He has placed at my feet, I will mess up. I will stumble. I will say the wrong things and maybe even hurt people. But I am endlessly thankful for never-ending and overwhelming grace from both the Lord in heaven and the people I love dearly on earth. Because learning about myself is hard, but I am committed to learning and growing to continue to become more like Jesus every single day.
“Life is simple.”
My father has told me this from a young age (and I’m sure he’s probably said to me today at some point). We make life complicated. Humans have found a way to muck up God’s perfect design for a long time, and unfortunately, it doesn’t look like we will be stopping anytime soon. But, even when we get caught in our mess and mess-ups, He uses us anyway. Our stories are part of His greater narrative, His overarching plan, His great purpose. We have the opportunity to love each other better because of Jesus. So tonight I hope that you love and listen more. No matter what you look like or where you come from, we all have so much to learn.
There is so much to my story, just like your’s. I don’t know if I am ready to bear my soul on all of the heartaches I have just yet. Talking with my friends over the last few months (both before and during George Floyd and BLM), I have struggled to grasp and allow myself to feel all of the feelings I have about who I am as a biracial human being. But, even when everything else seems unsure, I will sit at the Cross until I figure it out. I will take my direction from the One who created me first. No matter how scared I am to dive into this part of who I am. I will cling to Jesus. Hoping desperately, He will have the answers for me, even whiling knowing in my head He does. But, the barriers around my heart are stubborn. So until we can break the walls down together, I will stay in step with the Holy Spirit as we take it one step at a time. Maybe someday I’ll be able to share, but until then, thank you for listening, reading, talking, and sharing with me. It means more than you know.
All my love,
Kaitlyn