Tuesday, February 6

"BLACK" OR MIXED OR "MORENA" OR "WH"AT"E"VER"


There was a time where my need to belong was overwhelming. I grew up in a liberal, interracial family, which led to a bit of an identity crisis during my adolescence. I felt that in order to be who I was supposed to be, there were certain things I was supposed to do, specific ways to act. I knew I was a phony, that my behavior wasn't a reflection of who was inside. My mother would constantly tell me that I should never define myself by my ethnicity, but I wasn't sure how that was possible, especially when the rest of the world said otherwise.

A facade is a hard thing to maintain. Eventually I decided to shed the burden of everyone else's notions of what I should represent, how someone of my ethnic background should behave. I knew I could be proud of my ancestry, without conforming to stereotypes - and that didn't make me a "sellout" or someone "trying to be White". It's amazing how that confuses people; they get this bewildered look in their eyes when they find out I refuse to watch B.E.T., that I would sock Beyonce in the face if I ever met her, and that I'd rather never eat again than ever take a single bite of bread pudding.

So whether I rock a mohawk when I salsa dance, enjoy a glass of Valpolicella with my greens and fried chicken, or belt out a Tina Turner song during kareoke night at the local tavern, it doesn't matter. I refuse to be any less authentic, and I think my ancestors would be proud.
Of "me".

Obama for Presidente.

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