No, My Children Are Not Mixed
By: The Single Black Guy
Tags: Biracial, Parenting, Race, Racism, Family

“Dad, am I part Black or part Asian?” My son asked me that question while we stood in front of the bathroom mirror; I helped him brush his hair to get ready for bed. My son was in first or second grade at the time. It was an age-appropriate question.

I have always told my children that they are both Black and Asian. But I had not explained why that was true and why they aren’t mixed.

I stopped brushing his hair and gazed down at him in the mirror, considering how I would respond. “Well, I don’t know for sure,” I replied. “Can you show me what part of your body is Asian, and what part is Black?”

I am a big fan of using the Socratic method for answering the difficult questions kids sometimes ask. It works great for the not-so-difficult ones, too. For any age, you can also try, “Did you Google it?”

My son thought for a moment. He pulled up his pajama shirt to have a better look at himself. Then, he looked over his shoulder at me with the face he gives me when he’s figured out I’m playing a trick. His look said I’m not going to fall for that again.

I wasn’t trying to trick him. I was trying to prepare him to confront an issue he would deal with one way or another for the rest of his life.

I asked, “What is Daddy?” He said I was Black.

I asked, “What is Mommy?” And he said she was Asian. Then I asked him, “So, what does that make you?” He didn’t know the answer.

I explained to him that he would always be both Asian and Black. That he didn’t have to pick which he was. That all of him was Black. And all of him was Asian. No one could tell him he wasn’t Black enough or Asian enough unless he let them.

As the years go by, I make it a point to talk to my kids about race and racism the same way we discuss the latest Marvel movie: matter-of-factly. I also talk about sexism, gender identity, LGBTQ+ issues, poverty, drinking, sexting, and so on. Avoiding sensitive issues with kids leaves them vulnerable. At least, that’s my approach to parenting.

If I allowed the world to tell my kids they were mixed, I’d enable the idea that they don’t belong. Inaction would send the message that they don’t have a right to either racial identity. They don’t have a right to be like their dad or their mom. It would place them in a racial purgatory they could struggle with the rest of their life. I did.

Many of my ancestors are of multiple ethnic and racial backgrounds. The so-called mixing happened far back on my family tree, and all of my relatives only identify as Black.

But both of my parents identify as Black. My siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles all identify as Black. At least, I’ve never heard anyone in my family refer to themselves as anything but Black.

My grandfather was a chemist on a team that discovered two elements on the periodic table. Formal education had been my grandparents’ paths to financial security and how they created safety and opportunity for their children.

My grandparents’ formal education and their ability to effectively code-switch and assimilate into the dominant White culture made it possible for them to live a very comfortable life. Don’t get me wrong; my grandparents were Black as fuck, and proud of it. Though my family was more the Huxtables than the Evans, we were very Black and very proud.

I attended an affluent, predominantly White elementary school. My teachers were always White, and the majority of my friends were White or Asian. Most of the few Black kids I went to school with were related to me. In elementary school besides learning reading, writing, and arithmetic, I also learned to talk and, in many ways, act like an affluent White kid. It wasn’t until I got to middle school that the majority of students were people of color.

These kids (not just the Black ones) fluently spoke a different dialect of English than I did. In middle school, I could more or less code-switch (mostly less), but this is where my problem with my racial identity began. As far as many of these kids were concerned, I spoke White, acted White, and looked a little White. To them, I might as well be White or, maybe more accurately, I wasn’t Black like they were Black. They knew, and I knew, and we probably weren’t best friends because of it.

By the time I started high school, I willingly began to refer to myself as mixed, something I had picked up from my peers. In a way, it made logical sense. I wasn’t their idea of a Black kid, and I wasn’t White, so they decided I was mixed.

At the time, I fully accepted this conferred identity. With my acceptance came preparation (I’m a solid Type A). I was always prepared to list all the other ethnicities or races my ancestors had been if the topic came up. My great-grandmother on my mom’s side was Native American; my great grandmother on my dad’s side was Irish.

Everyone has the right to self-identify in whatever way feels right and authentic to them. But side-eye to the growing list of Rachel Dolezals out there.

When asked the crude, “So, what are you?” question, biracial acquaintances have told me it’s easier to reply with two syllables: “I’m mixed.” Imagine taking the time to list all of your ancestors’ ethnicities to a near stranger.

I have no regrets about having children with an Asian woman. That was the only way I would have been blessed with the two perfect little humans that call me Dad. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t challenging, or if I said I didn’t notice the side-eye some Black women gave me.

Some parents of biracial or multiethnic kids aren’t comfortable enough with their own identity to talk with their kids effectively about race and identity. They might even feel shame for being in (or having been in) a relationship with someone of a different race. If one parent is White, they might not have made peace with their privilege. Or worse, they haven’t admitted this privilege exists for them.

We should not try to pretend that all mixed people experience the world the same way. A mixed kid who presents as White (or mostly White) is going to experience the world differently than a mixed kid that doesn’t present as White (or mostly White).

You can not protect biracial Black kids from racism, bigotry, or police terror by calling them mixed. My light skin didn’t protect me. My light skin did not protect me from harsher treatment in elementary school. Being mixed didn’t protect me in middle school. It absolutely didn’t protect me in high school and college.

I know that I am treated better because my skin isn’t dark brown. But I’ve still been called a nigger (with the hard “r”) more than once. I’ve still been followed in stores. The police have pulled me over for driving while Black in a car that was “too nice” for me.

When I returned to finish my college degree, I was even asked, “Are you here on a basketball scholarship?” It didn’t matter that I was 35 with an undeniable dad bod.

The police brutalize multiracial, light-skinned, mixed, Black men and women (cis or trans), and gender-nonconforming folk just like those with darker tones. Calling someone mixed does not protect them from racism.

There is nothing wrong with being multiracial, but the word “mixed” obliterates identity without any gain. If I allow you to call my kids mixed, I’ve let you erase their mother and me from their life. I’ve allowed you to question further their right to be in this world. I’ve made it that much harder for them to resist the racism they will face.

For children of color, a strong sense of pride in their ethnic and racial identity has been shown conclusively to positively correlate with good life outcomes. Children of color who have a strong understanding of their ethnic and racial identity have fewer instances of depression, are less likely to use illegal drugs, attain more education (college and grad school), and live longer, happier lives.

Sometimes I regret that I didn’t call out my daughter’s adult cousin. I guess it was the right call at that time because I didn’t have the language to adequately explain what she was doing to my daughter and me. I have the words now.