(Privileged)(Colored)

I think this was in middle school. Though this was just one time in my life, it stuck and engraved in my brain. I was told: you’re not black enough (colored) and told I acted too white (privileged). I remember how both sides of their mouth moved and the giggles afterwards and it lit a spark in me. Another time, I was on a list for high honor roll (privileged) and was questioned by my peer: How can you get an A? Are you sure? It didn’t matter which side, they always had issues and questioned my appearance. I'm a Jamaican, Vietnamese, and French woman. When they denied my culture, and painted a different narrative on my skin, it hurt. This was told to me many times in my life. If I used utensils and had etiquette at the dinner table (privileged), I was stuck up. If I ate Jamaican coconut rice and peas and jerk chicken (colored), I was too different. My mother (colored) and my father (colored/privileged) — their heads turned away when I didn’t have the Jordan shoes, but had the Steve Madens and Michael Kors bags (privileged). They looked at me with disdain and you could read their faces ‘oh, you think you’re too rich now’. 

My skin color didn’t reflect the blank paper (colored). My hair is 3c (colored) with curls that are defined and reflect my natural beauty. Some may describe curls as messy, but I observe the tightening coils in many different shapes and sizes. Each coil is unique, something that deserves to be placed in a museum. Once, I was talking to a friend who was also mixed (colored/privileged) who decided to make fun of my culture despite us both being partially black (colored). Within the mixed community (colored/privileged), there is always a competition to appear whiter (privileged). I was told by mixed people (colored/privileged): I’m more french than you. You’re only a quarter white. However, white people (privileged) said: You’re not really one of us. 

Another time, I was in the lunch cafeteria, playfully joking and talking about clubs. I spoke about how I joined a black student union. My classmate responded with: Are you sure you're black (privileged)? Kids are ignorant, but that doesn't justify their words. They denied the melanin on my skin and my ancestors who fought for their place. Do you accuse Alicia keys of not being black enough (colored/privileged)? Do you accuse Mariah Carey of not being black enough (colored/privileged)? Do you accuse Zendaya of not being black enough (colored/privileged)? Why do you try to confuse me (colored/privileged)? I erupted in anger and connected to my ancestors and that calm voice came over me. You can’t fix ignorance. It’s an incurable disease. It felt like rocks being thrown at me, words trying to manipulate me. I know what they meant. 

My mother (colored) experienced the same. She wasn’t taught the importance of black girl hair or the term “black girl magic”. She was raised under the condition that because she was Jamaican and understood the British ways, she was forced to learn, talk, and sound proper. There was an embarrassment to being known as the true Jamaican who eats everything down to the chicken bone or throws improper words like “bumbaclot” publicly. My Jamaican side couldn't fight racism so appearances meant everything. Don't get me wrong, my roots pop up when my family comes around and the traditional food like coconut rice and peas, saltfish and boiled banana always makes me feel at home. No matter how proper my mother tried to be, she could never escape racism, judgment, and the true ignorance on both sides. It wasn’t until I was born that she embraced her natural hair, the softness of her curls, and it left me astonished that she would ever hide these beautiful curl patterns. It naturally flowed. When I asked her to put on protective hair styles such as braids on me, she tried her best.  She hoped to teach me of my culture and didn’t encourage me to become more ‘white’ or resent my skin color.

My father (colored/privileged) is Vietnamese-French. I inherited half of him (colored/privilege) and half of my mother (colored). During the summer before eighth grade, I met two people who were Asian like me, but judged me entirely. They said things like: You vietnamese are too dark. Whenever someone discovers I’m part Asisan, their eyes widen slightly, mouth a bit agape, making a ‘ahh’ fluctuating sound, and their heads nod. One time, when I went into a nurse's office, I was spoken to in spanish; I politely corrected them, asking if they could speak in English for me. They agreed and apologized, but the next day it happened again and again after that. Another time, when I went into a doctor’s office and filled out my race as Asian, I was met with a surprise and countless docter’s notes afterwards completely changing that and checking a different race signed by my doctor. They correct it as if I’m mistaken about my own race. I was told I wasn’t Asian enough,didn’t fit the beauty standards, or was continuously denied my race. 

I’m(colored/privileged) stuck in the middle. I can’t win.

From the author: My thoughts on how the world perceived and how it’s like being mixed race in a Martina and how people on either side of my race accept negative stereotypes to perpetrate where you belong. It continues this cycle of hate that references inner racism.

Abigail is a woman of mixed race, Jamaican black, Vietnamese and French. As she is navigating the world of socializing and making friends, she can’t quite find a group to belong to because she is either not black or white enough. When she meets others of mixed race, there is a sense of hierarchy within that place. Her intelligence, and overall actions are questioned because of these racial stereotypes.