Walking Black While Biracial
By: Your Year Old Neighbour
Tags: Empathy, BlackLivesMatter, Personal Development, Apples For Hannah, Race

Hello, my dear. You know who you are.

Yours is the story of two girls. Two girls who walk with me everywhere I go. They hold each other’s hand and together as sisters, have helped to define who I am. They are both me, and I am both them — 3 are 1, and 1 is 3. But one girl’s walk is not easy and safe like the other’s. One girl struggles to find her feet as she trips and stumbles, desperate to keep up. All her life, her grip is weak and her walk is timid, as she is constantly left behind. You know this story. This is your walk.

You are the one I had favoured less.

This is my hardest confession because there was no playground bully. There were no monsters in the office or the streets. But you know this pain. You know what I’ve done.

All your life, people see you instantly but they don’t ever acknowledge you directly. But the other girl, they love to piece her together. They take their time with her, learn her stories, and try to see her in my face while you get left unspoken to.

I know you’re half-black, but what’s the other half? Come on, tell me. “My mom‘s Filipino!” Whoa, so you’re half-Asian? That’s so cool! I can see it in your eyes now. Do you speak Tagalog?

Because of my own encouragement, she knows little fear and walks more confidently, with her chin up and strides long. She is always considered mysterious, more intriguing, and as a result, I have leaned into her more. We’re more likeable with her around, right? She gets more nods and eyebrow raises. She makes us more interesting, right? She connects with more people and doesn’t scare them away.

So I chose to stand closer by her, walk faster with her and over time, I even let her walk without you. We bounded down the path, learning more together as you desperately tried to catch up. You never begged for attention. You never did me wrong. Yet still, I barely gave you praise, or even acknowledged you in most situations.

Those situations were few and far between, sometimes only seen as a token of someone else’s mild curiosity, and in difficult situations when my life wasn’t easy, I remember blaming it on your hair or your striking difference to all those who grew up around me. And slowly, without realizing it, I’d let you walk behind your sister and me, watching as we took the compliments and put down those that were meant for you.

Oh, I love your natural hair! You should wear it out more! “Thanks, but you don’t know how it frustrates me.”

You loved me and you needed me, but I downplayed your significance. You’d watch as I made my preferences known, my tastes outright: I stay out of the sun to keep my skin fair — when yours is a deeper shade of tan; I straighten my hair at all times — and never really bothered to learn about your curls; and I kept silent on issues that I felt did not directly affect me as a mixed-race person — issues that defined everything about you and your right to exist. And at some point, it must have felt like all I ever did was morph into my other half more than you, becoming 2 instead of 3, as you frantically tried to catch up from behind, or quietly slow down to let us move forward.

I left you alone. And I wonder in all this time, how has that made you feel?

Growing up, our parents didn’t treat our blended race as an issue worth separating with distinction or discussion. “Don’t worry too much about it,” as if to say, “You’re mixed. Isn’t that the one identity you just need to own?” And for all I know, maybe they are right. Yet it doesn’t excuse my choices, my conclusions about you. You never hurt me, you never caused me grief. Your presence never brought hate or scorn directly in our path as 3. I treated you like the hate I see — I hate I can’t fathom — everyday in the news and in our history.

Then the protests came. And the pride for everything that you are and exist to be, was everywhere that I could not look away. I watched people rise and shout and talk about how radiant you are — how much you belong. I didn’t respond much, didn’t say much — watched but didn’t contribute. And one day a friend asked me the question.

So do you identify as black? “…not really, no.”

But you already knew that. And I wonder all this time, how did that make you feel?

There it was: the disconnection. So proud to be half-Asian but wanting nothing to do with you. Too weak to stop the pride and prejudice built inside my head. I chosen to walk without you, willingly and without shame. For years, you stood at the sidelines and accepted that I favoured you less. And in that silence, I saw you the way that I had defined you — defined us.

I left you feeling lonely and made you feel forgotten. Your curly hair became a mess that I was too afraid to maintain, too lazy to control. Your skin never glowed because I hid you from the sun, and you were unsure of your place in my world because I made you feel like you weren’t worth fighting for. I know that you cried, felt dirty and unloved. In your silence, I left you defeated. I left you to die alone.

Why did I think you were any less than your sister? Why was I so eager to bring up one half of me and unconcerned with talking about the other? Why did I make you feel like a commodity worth only the few bits of who you are?

Yes, we are one identity because I cannot be me without defining you. We are unique and interesting because you are here, because you walk with us. Your identity, your black identity, should be worth every bit of effort and I’m so sorry that I ever made you think you weren’t deserving of care. I should have been kinder to you, paid you more attention. Then maybe now, I (we) wouldn’t feel so lost when confronted with new questions that I’ve (we’ve) never really been asked: questions directly about you, specifically about how you are and how you feel.

Would you ever forgive me?

I am trying to do better. I need to do better, for the path — which you both walk in my name — to feel safe and sacred once again. No more leaning into only one half and forgetting that we are 3. I need to pull you from the sidelines and make you want to walk as your best and beautiful self. I need to praise your skin when it darkens in the sun, to be proud of your hair and do more to wear it out, and to learn more and speak out about your struggles more than I ever have.

So please be patient with me. I promise that you will walk proudly again, side-by-side with your other half. I promise that you will have your own moments where I will stand closer, you can walk faster, through this mist. And I promise that your hand won’t ever be let go.

I don’t ever want to favour you less.

.

.

.