My Story #BlackLivesMatter

The day someone told me I looked like my mother, I almost cried. For years, I've always heard that I looked like my father. And when I think about it, I can maybe see it.

My nose.

My height.

And when my dad had hair, we have the same hair line. 

We especially can't forget these baby cheeks!

But when people say I look like my father, I wonder if that's what they see or if it's my beautiful milk chocolate skin that relegates me as black.

And that's why I look like my father.

Black = black, right?

I wonder, did other biracial kids ever think about this? Did they wonder if people thought of them as charity cases when they were with their white parent? That my white parent wasn't mine? 

So often, I would have these thoughts, but have no one to talk to about it.

Being biracial puts you in a spot that you can't get out of. I'm not fully black, but I'm not fully white. I will never know the true experience of either side. On one side, I'm supposed to have privilege and the other is oppressed and lost. I have both and none. 

I can't say when I started to put myself to a lower status than my own mother because of the color of my skin. I do know it was around the time I started to notice people's gazes on us. At some point, I would try to hide my 'blackness' when I was with my mother. I would take care of how I would speak. I would do whatever I could to promote my German half over my black half. 

And is that weird. I don't see my white half as white. But German. I have never labelled myself as "half-caucasian/white", only "half-German". Bi-racial and bi-cultural, that is who I am, but growing up, I couldn't reconcile both sides. 

Believe it or not, when I was younger, before the stares and fumbling attempts at adulting, I took pride in the color of my skin. It was what set me apart from those around me. Goodness, I can remember looking up to my older brother and thinking he was so amazing. And that I could never surpass how cool he was. 

But I had something he didn't have and that was my milk chocolate-y skin color. It was also the one thing that I could see at any time that I wanted without a mirror and have a connection to my father. After all, being an Army brat isn't easy. Sure, you get to travel and meet new people and experience new cultures, but at what cost?

Did you know there was a point in my life that the first time I 'met' my father, I couldn't communicate with him? That I thought he was a stranger? It wasn't because I was a baby and just recently born. But because he was doing his duty for America and hadn't been around those first few years. I spoke German and he spoke English. I can't even imagine what that must've felt like for him to come back and not even be able to speak to his only daughter. 

I am proud of my father and proud of what he's given me. 

I am proud of who I am and the color of my skin. 

But growing up....I was ashamed. My milk chocolate skin was becoming a hindrance and I hated...I hated that I was shunning half of who I am because others thought of me as less. 

It took me years to learn how to accept myself again. 

You know...I wonder why I never spoke to my parents about how I felt? I mean, parents are supposed to fix it all, right? I'm like 99.99% certain my mother is magic and my dad would move heaven and Earth for my brother and me just to ensure our happiness. 

Yet...I said nothing.

I couldn't confide in my awesome older brother, either.

All of my thoughts and emotions, I kept them all to myself. I wonder if that's why I felt so numb when I was younger? Why it took forever to notice my depression and anxiety? 

I was so focused on being perfect and not a burden for my parents and brother, that I forgot about me. 

I can speculate that the reason I never said anything was because at home, skin color wasn't a defining piece. We were simply, mom, dad, older brother, and me. I know my family kept me sheltered. I was the baby of the family, after all. It was like an unspoken rule that we didn't let the outside world come between us. 

The first time I joined the race discussion was in college. Of course, I was confronted by racism every damn day. Just because I didn't know what words to use or how to express my experiences, doesn't negate what was happening around me, with me, inside of me. That first semester in Sociology is what gave me the first tools to express my own experiences. 

While kids younger than me were getting the 'sex talk', I was getting the 'race talk'...at least...the beginning notions of it.

Since then, I've been doing my own readings, joining discussions, and learning to come to an agreeable peace within myself.

But every time I think I found peace or made progress in someone getting it, I see another brother or sister taken away.

I hear that even when doing nothing, we are still targeted, deemed less.

Just the other day, amidst the protests and a day before George Floyd's funeral, I learn of something that leaves me disgusted with certain individuals that I know. Instead of speaking up, instead they hold their silence. 

Must be nice having the option to be silent, but I guess you can still breath. I guess you don't have to keep your hands up or worry that you'll be shot in your own home by the police. I guess someone says your name just fine.

To those who do speak up, thank you. Thank you so, so much. 

To those who want to do more, it's hard to find what you can do. Maybe you're limited financially or you're not the type to protest in front of the capitol. There's always something you can do. Spread the word, educate those around you, show your support when you can. (Twitter thread for #BLM resources)

For me...this is how I can contribute. Let me show you how racism has effected me. Let me tell my story.

#BlackLivesMatter