Guest Author: Briana Keo-Williams

When I was in high school, my Art teacher posed a question: “Why do biracial people always say they are Black when they are half Black and half white? Why not say they are white?” At the time, she asked this question to a predominantly white class. Why? Maybe she was trying to get them to question their world view. No matter her motive, her reaction to my response of, “It is because we are treated as Black. We do not get any other privileges” highlighted her own ignorance. I was the only Black kid in the class and the question pertained to me specifically as a mixed race person. Yet, she ignored me and just walked away like I hadn’t said anything.

            The world has a tendency to not look beyond the surface and accepting perceptions as facts. Personally, I never really “feel Black” until someone or something reminds me that I am. When I was younger, my identity was less about being a Black American and more about being my parents’ daughter. My father is Jamaican and a quarter English, while my mother is Cambodian and Chinese. Thus, I am not new to the question “So, what are you mixed with?” or “Wait, you’re Asian?”. It’s clear to everyone that I’m Black, and it’s clear to me that I am treated as such.

Like so many other Black kids growing up in the United States, I resented being Black for a very long time. I did not have the capacity to question or reflect deeply about what it meant to be Black, all I saw were the drawbacks. Being Black meant my skin and hair were never going to be pretty enough for a magazine. It meant I stuck out in school. It meant that I didn’t look enough like my beautiful mother.  It meant the same people I wanted to like me, used slurs and names that were hurtful. So maybe there was just something wrong with being Black? My skin felt like a flaw, not a part of my identity, so I tried to distance myself and imagine I was anything else.

I encountered the ignorance and discrimination that Black people inherently face. Growing up, I lived in a white suburb where my house was vandalized more times than I can count on one hand. Skinheads would gut animals and throw them all over our porch, they would spray paint “N*gger go home” and swastikas on our house and car.  All the while, tapping at windows and rattling doors. My sister and I were young enough that we slept through these “visits.” I do not remember seeing the men or hateful words. I only remember the police visits in the kitchen while I kept my little sister occupied with barbies in the next room. This was my introduction to discrimination. By the time I was old enough to put the pieces together and understand it, I had become a bit numb to it.

In middle school, plenty of kids assumed I was dumb because I’m Black. I remember my teacher applauding me for a nearly perfect test score and how confused my tablemate looked. Realization washed over his face as he said: “Oh that’s right, your mom’s Asian, that’s why you did so well.” It seemed clear to him that me being half-Asian gave me an academic edge and that my Black half would lack.  Even more disappointing was the fact that I accepted it. Never mind that my father was an engineer with a 150 IQ and my mom never graduated from college, my estimated worth was determined by the fact that my mother was Asian, and I believed that.

These are just some examples, albeit blatant ones, of the way Black Americans are treated at a young age and how that impacts their self-image. I know the term “White Privilege” can get controversial, but I think this is an apt example of it. There is the moment in every Black person’s life where they realize they are growing up differently from their white counterparts. As a kid, I listened to my father warn me about people who would wish me harm and think of me as lesser. He grew up a Black immigrant in the 1960s and having white men with violent intentions on his front lawn was nothing new to him. He had already given my older brother his stories and advice, and it was my turn.  It’s a conversation we wouldn’t have had to have if we were white. He told me that it was more than just people being mean, it was about my safety. My dad has always believed that his job was to prepare his children to live in a world without him. In his case, teaching his children how to handle and respond to discrimination was just part of that.  It hurt him because it was something he could not protect us from. His usually goofy disposition was replaced with a new intensity, his teasing jokes replaced by stern pleading words; in minutes you could see him become a different man. My white peers did not have to dissect and digest that. They did not have to look at their skin in the mirror and remember all the things that have been said to them because of it. They did not have to fumble and find it hard to love.

This is something I don’t think my mother understood or that my father even knew I felt. I struggled with wanting to be liked. I struggled with wanting to be accepted. I struggled with wanting to be conventionally beautiful. I was deeply insecure and it stemmed from how I knew the world saw me and its familiar capacity for cruelty, a collection of feelings and experiences I know so many other people of color share.

I know now I wasn’t alone even during the worst moments. It was the way my friend of ten years urged me to tell our teacher that two boys had been calling me slurs and vandalizing my things. It was the way my 7th grade humanities teacher held my hands and cried when she told me it was okay to be upset. It was moments like these that helped me learn my worth. I was a shy kid who internalized every insult hurled my way, and it’s heartbreaking to think that other young people feel the same way. It was allies like them that offered real time support and validation. It’s musicians like Kendrick Lamar, Beyonce and Solange Knowles that continue to remind us it’s okay to be unapologetically Black. It’s people like Serena Williams, Ryan Coogler and Barack Obama that exude and celebrate Black Excellence. They show us there is not just one way to be Black and that the ignorant do not deserve our admiration. To quote the late icon, Nina Simone, “We must begin to tell our young, there's a world waiting for you. This is a quest that's just begun. When you feel really low… there's a great truth you should know. When you're young, gifted and Black, your soul's intact.” Every Black kid deserves to embrace and cherish every part of their identity, and it’s important we teach them that.