More than ‘other.’ My tug-of-war with my mixed identity and the world’s narrow labels | Opinion

My identity has many different names to many different people.

Golden.

Honey.

Piel Canela.

Caramel.

Cafe au Lait.

Morena.

Yellow Bone.

Hispanic.

Black.

Mixed.

On paper they read:

White.

Black (Not Hispanic).

Native American.

Asian.

Pacific Islander.

Other.

When you’re mixed, which box do you check? Other. Which one applies? Other. Where do you fit? Other. Other feels like an afterthought. Other feels like “and et cetera.” Other feels like “whatever,” “oh, yeah,” “that, too.”

“What are you?” is the defining question in my life. My ambiguous face and mane of spirals prompt the question incessantly: “Where are you from?”

Growing up in white suburbia meant my mixed identities were in a tug-of-war. Because being more than one thing was too many.

My conclusion: Mixedness is twofold. Too much. But not enough. It means my skin gets me treated a certain way, but I still don’t count.

The results of my ancestry test confirmed it — mixed. Very mixed. Not even 50% of one thing. The European ancestry edged out African by a few points. Too much, but not enough. As if I need a qualifying percentage of Blackness to count.

Can I get a qualifying percentage from the number of times someone called me the N-word? Like that boy in the fourth grade, that girl in the eighth grade, the Hispanic man, who then burst into a fit of laughter.

Or from the number of times a white person reached up to grab a handful of my hair?

What about the friends who told me I’m pretty for a Black girl? The ones who said I don’t talk Black, or act Black.

The hairdresser who, in her obviously limited training, said my mixed hair was “difficult” before taking a flat iron to it?

The time someone told me to “get on a bamboo boat back to Africa”?

The ones who provided a “no offense, but” warning prior to their offensive statement, or an “I’m not racist, but” disclaimer before saying something racist?

The woman who proceeded to tell me about layaway options and payment plans when I simply asked her the price of the dress I was going to purchase?

Those straight white high school boys who came on my Facebook post to explain racism to me?

The one who told me my opinion was “biased and therefore invalid”?

The people who compliment me on how well-spoken I am?

The times I got confused for an entirely different Black person, whom I look nothing like?

The many people who hold their arm out next to mine to compare their summertime tan to my year-round, rich, golden brown? When they still go out in the world and benefit from having the beauty of my brownness coupled with the privilege of their whiteness.

My first school bully in kindergarten, who in between picking on me told me her mom said she wasn’t allowed to play with Black children?

My white friend who confessed to me that her mother did not approve of interracial relationships with Black men specifically?

That guy who made a bunch of clicking sounds with his tongue and said that was my native language? And my best friend at the time who responded by busting out in laughter?

The white men who have shown romantic interest in me only to exoticize and fetishize the hell out of me? The white men who I know will jump at the chance to have an affair with me in the shadows but won’t be seen with me in public?

37%. Too much. 37%. Not enough. Do I qualify yet?

Because Blackness is not a monolith. It comes in various different colors and shades. It comes with curls and waves and coils. It comes in different shapes and sizes. It’s a mosaic of experiences. And all of them are valid.

And sometimes those experiences are labeled Other.

But I’m more than Other.

Not too much. Just enough. Exactly the right amount.

Adrianna Poindexter, a mixed woman of Black, Creole, European, and Native descent, is a dancer and choreographer living in Philadelphia. This piece is part of The Inquirer’s Wildest Dreams series, which is a collaborative mini-anthology of storytelling about Black cultural inheritance, legacy, and joy. inquirer.com/wildestdreams