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Confessions Of a Biracial

From Pain to Passion

By Stormy R SealPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 14 min read
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Confessions Of a Biracial
Photo by Caique Silva on Unsplash

I walked down the hallway with a tense sensation that consumed me. The dark feeling of a knot in my stomach is brewing. Soon as I walked in, she spotted me. Her eyes scanned me from the top of my head to my feet. She was ready to find any sense of weakness or flaw to exploit me. Waiting to devour me, Like a lion to its prey.

This was my reality every single time I stepped into my 9th-grade classroom... the one that I happened to share with one particular bully. However, during these years there was no shortage of hateful females who couldn't wait to inject me with their venom. "What are you mixed with?" I would get a lot. "Is that your real hair?"

The stigma of being a bi-racial girl in America was a bit odd and confusing to me. Maybe had I grown up in a more predominately mixed area... somewhere like L.A. or maybe even New York, being a half-breed might not be such a crime.

I was on the outskirts of Atlanta. And not only did I have to deal with the ignorance and bullying for being mixed race, but ATL's black males' fetish for bi-racial, or black females with a lighter complexion. "Hey miss red!" Would be a common theme when I would set foot outside. A newbie to the area, I had no idea what the term "red," or "redbone" meant. In fact, I was so disturbed and offended by the term that I rarely responded. I mean, after all... why would I even give my attention to a man... a stranger at that... when they couldn't even have the decency to approach me and ask my name? Shouting "shawty red" at me seemed very vulgar, even if it was meant to be a compliment.

Then there was of course the trauma from my childhood days that haunted me for years to come. Identity issues stemmed from not quite knowing where it was that I fit in. I knew for certain that I was black, but the responses I got from the world had told me otherwise. When going to sleepovers with the black kids that had both black parents, I didn't really consider that I was not "black enough". After all, I had a golden tone of skin that was more melanated than that of some fully black light-skinned kids. Especially when tanning out in the sun. Also, I had short curly hair. Sure it was fine-textured, but black people no matter how mixed could also have "fine" hair.

It wasn't until I started to hear the indirect whispers... being excluded from certain things such as sharing a hairbrush. "No... don't let her use that...that's different hair." As if implying that due to being half-white my hair may contain lice, (a common stereotype that I heard black kids say when talking about white people's hair) or that my scalp may contain "different oils", and maybe have a "wet dog" smell... Another common remark that I would hear black kids discuss when talking about white hair.

Then there were the black kids who put biracial kids on a pedestal. But not the ones with the more dominant black genes such as myself. They wouldn't hesitate to display their dismay at my short and curly hair to go play in a bi-racial with back length sandy colored locs, and an olive skin tone.

Now, When I was with my white friends, they didn't really consider me "black." Not that they didn't acknowledge the dominant black genes that I possessed, but labeling me in that gray area felt safe for them. For a while, I was convinced that I was at home with my Caucasian side...

That was until a friend of a friend revealed her envy towards me. All due to my friend's preference for me as her Best friend...

Her long-time friend was sure to remind her and me, that I after all was just... a nigger.

The lack of full acceptance from both the white and the black side made me feel that the only safe area for me to be, was to embrace that I was indeed mixed. This helped me find freedom in expressing myself... not confined to feeling like I need to ascribe to one particular culture. As the years had gone by, I noticed more and more mixed raced babies being introduced to the world. Mixed couples were more affluent. So the terror would stop there right? So I had thought...

On the other hand, The bullying at school seemed to get worse as I got older. And they claimed it got better in high school! Maybe that would have been the case had I been to a more diversified school. But the onset of harassment and rejection from the kids made me feel that maybe school wasn't the place for me.

I had contacted several counselors, and even my step-mom insisted on not placing me in class with these particular bullies. Yet the school did not do anything to ease my torture. And as a matter of fact, placed myself with this bully of a kid my sophomore year. I was a gentle-mannered girl and spoke very articulately. So the southern slang and mannerisms that the black girls had were foreign to me. And they were not shy of letting me know that my "proper" way of speaking and conducting myself was somehow a sign of me somehow rejecting my blackness.

"Are you from England?" One of the females in the cafeteria asked when I asked nicely if I could have a seat and their table. The other females at the table stared at me as if I was an alien, and loud obnoxious laughter echoed across the cafeteria. Now, while I realize I was not from the south, so what could be interpreted as a racial prejudice could very well just be cultural... but slang was prevalent in the black community regardless of what region you were from. And in fact, I had been a target for black female bullies even in other states due to simply being lady-like and well-spoken. Me being feminine and mild-mannered was mistaken for "stuck up" or "bougie"... and weak, or "soft". After skipping class every week... the class where my bully would torment me for the entire session... I made the decision to drop out of High School altogether.

After so many years of being passive, I became an adult who despised black women. And a hot-tempered woman who spoke vulgarly, and used a lot of profanity. I was quick to clap back, and even fight if I had to (although I hadn't gotten into many physical fights).

And even the scars from dealing with white women bothered me too. I found myself befriending those of mixed race, or minorities of other ethnicities. When I say mixed race... It could be any mix. Mexican and Italian, Puerto-Rican and Hawaiian... I just felt safer with people who were not black, yet not exactly white either. I seemed to forge stronger friendships and bonds with Asian, (including Polynesian) and Hispanic women especially. I decided to exclude myself from anything associated with blackness. Including my hair.

I would apply sunscreen vigorously and avoid the sun as much as I could. I would dye my hair as blonde as it could get, and even fry it with super perms. My delicate hair had gone through so much that finally I cut it all off and began wearing wigs. I after all had resentment for my hair... Although in the black community it was still regarded as "good" hair, I had no clue how to care for it, and I didn't really love myself enough to apply that self-care. I didn't want to go to the beauty salons because of the experiences I had with black women. The bitter remarks about my grade of "fine" hair, how it was hard to work with...And the lack of them providing me with quality customer service.

A few years down the line in my 20's I decided to try out going to a salon again. I was now residing in Texas. My hair had grown back quite a bit since the big chop, and was healthy enough to manipulate... so I was going to get micro braids installed. I was happy to embrace one of my culture's popular styles (at the time). Sadly, soon as I arrived at the shop, I could sense the sinister energy of the black women that were in the salon. The refusal to look up and acknowledge my presence. The cutting of the eyes when they did look up at me.

I handed over the packs of straight brown hair to the beautician. She looked at me and tsked. "You're hair is too fine for me to use that hair... You're going to have to go get some curly/kinky hair or I cant do it."

I was in shock. After all, isn't she a professional? How is it that she cannot make the style work that I desired with my choice of hair? Hadn't she worked with fine-textured African-American hair before? Not wanting to argue with the quote on quote "professional," I politely cooperated with the stylist's requests.

After finding the exact hair brand and style that she named for me to pick out, the stylist began braiding my hair just about as loose as she could braid it. I couldn't believe that this woman was serious. I was about to pay $150 for micro-braids that I would have hoped to last at least a month or so... and now even after claiming she was concerned about hair weave slipping off due to my hair texture being too silky... and after I had gone out of my way to get the hair selected for me by her... she still proceeds to braid it as loose as possible?

I didn't know if it was because she figured I was too "tender-headed" (a term to describe those who are sensitive to their hair being pulled too tightly). Once again another stereotype I've encountered with being a lighter-skinned or mixed black woman.)

" You can braid tighter if you like," I encouraged the salon beautician softly. Not trying to be rude, but just to let her know I was not in pain. I didn't see any harm, as I was instructing as a customer should when they are paying their hard-earned cash. The beautician said nothing, and cleared her throat. She then proceeded to yank my hair whilst braiding, yet not even braiding the braids in tighter. At this point, I was sure that jealousy was at play.

The other females began making remarks and giggling looking in my direction... all of whom were black also. I couldn't wait to get out of that salon! She made a point in my opinion that she didn't ever want me to set foot back in her salon. And that was not the only time I was treated rudely... or when hair weaves as well as the style itself were chosen for me.

I would often be in amazement by the beautiful full head sew-in styles of sistas coming out of the beauty shops. Seeing that I had very fine hair, that was even thinner once straightened, I figured it would be a great protective style for me, and a way for me to achieve a full head of hair look.

Unfortunately, every single time I went to salons, the beauticians would never allow me to select which hair I was to use... or if they did they wouldn't use the whole pack... or packs... which defeated the purpose of fulfilling the illusion of a full healthy head of hair.

"This is more natural-looking," One beautician told me, as she used my natural hair to cover over the thin straight black hair. I knew that she was capable of doing the hairstyle using a closure piece to fully cover my hair, as I witnessed it with my own eyes. In fact, instead of sewing the hair in with a cap and leave out (which would have protected my hair), she glued the tracks in. Whether she was being lazy or wanting to destroy my hair... or both... I didn't know.

Once again me being naive, not questioning the beautician; (as I didn't know what was considered healthy for black hair at the time), I went along with the stylist's decision and got the style done anyway.

She ended up braiding my hair in tight cornrows under the tracks of hair weave, placing rubber bands on the ends. hich I later found out is not ideal for black hair as it can cause breakage. Ultimately stopping the hair from retaining length.

I then thought back to the black and mixed females with "good hair" I'd spoken to in the past. Their horror stories about why they decide to do their own hair instead of entrusting their own sisters to do it professionally. How the black salon workers would insist on cutting their hair (if it was long)... Or how they would put questionable tension on the edges to cause traction alopecia. I even recall stories of them telling me to pick up any hair that was left on the salon grounds, as some of the stylists would even be so envious as to use the remaining hair for Voodoo spells.

Although it seemed rather far-fetched, I was started to see a theme in going to these black salons. Now seeing that anything was possible if a woman with a catty and bitter woman.

The end style was acceptable, but far from the full sassy/sexy look, I was thriving for. I began to lose faith in going to black salons and stopped going altogether. I started to experiment with going to white salons, although the customer service and treatment were far more professional, they didn't seem to know how to work with my not quite black but not quite white hair.

Eventually, I discontinued going to salons altogether.

As the years had gone by and I became in my 30's, I noticed that I still got the primary hatred and teasing from black women. Of course, there were rude white women... But interestingly enough were typically the unattractive or outcasts. What society would consider...white trash. Yet with black women, it was never just the unattractive ones or the attractive women. It was both. I couldn't really figure out why exactly they couldn't stand me, and why they wanted to exclude me... when so many other bi-racial women were being introduced and embraced, even in their own families. I later decided to accept that I didn't need the embrace from my own kind to solidify that I was black.

It took a lot of time to heal from the trauma I dealt with, but being more open-minded than the traumatized child I used to be, I began to do more research into my black culture, and the history of our dysfunction. When I saw how colorism and colonialism played such a huge role in the division and resentment among our race I realized it was much deeper than me just being bi-racial. My black people had long rooted self-hate and passive aggression toward each other in general. This was not just from ridicule from white slave masters, but from the current media also. Once I began to understand how society played a huge role in shaping the trauma and ignorance in my community, my mind began to shift from hatred to bonding, empathy, and acceptance for my sisters.

Over the years I began to reconsider my choice in regards to allowing black stylists to work with my hair. Independent black hairstylists had become my go-to. They were not only more passionate about their craft, they were dedicated to properly caring for their clients. I suppose this was likely because they needed to rely on a significantly smaller client base than that of salons.

I found peace in knowing that I could not only save a little money by not paying salon costs, but that I could still contribute back to my community...

After all is said and done, I realized that every experience molded me into the woman I am now. Powerful, outspoken, and determined. Who once looked to be a powerful competitor, now looked to be a broken woman in need of uplifting and celebration. In need of recognition and appreciation. After all the healing and education, I still considered myself mixed race, because that has been ingrained since childhood, but I also acknowledge my blackness and identify more closely as a black woman. That does not mean that I align with every stigma associated with what it means to be a black woman...But I stand with our women who are fighting those stereotypes every single day.

Secrets
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About the Creator

Stormy R Seal

I am a freelance journalist that's been working since 2016. I have been gifted in the realm of Literary Arts and began writing poetry, songs, and short stories as a child. My journey is not yet over.

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