‘Michael, You’re Black’: Coming to Terms With My Mixed Identity
Acknowledging my history helped me lower my family’s smoke screens
“Michael, you’re Black.”
This statement of sheer fact made me turn away in frustration and embarrassment. For 10 minutes, a Black girl in my class and I had engaged in a conversation about my ethnicity — a topic I eagerly wanted to avoid. I managed to make it more than three years in my New York City public high school without talking about my ethnicity in any serious way. And unlike many Black and Brown children across the country, I hadn’t been confronted about my race before.
In that high school office room, where I had lunch with a small group of friends and while others watched, she quickly tore down my façade.
“No, I’m not Black. I’m Italian, German, Trinidadian.”
“But, your dad is from Trinidad?”
“Yes.”
“And his dad is Black?”
“Yeah.”
“Then boy, you’re a n****r.”
While everyone laughed and pointed out how clearly Black my hair was, I sat at a loss for words, mentally frustrated. That word shook me to my core.
