No, My Children Are Not Mixed
No one can tell my son he isn’t Black or Asian enough unless he lets them
After my grandmother heard me refer to my children as “mixed,” she asked, “Were you making a cake?”
She gazed at me with a grin on her face, her head cocked to the side, one hand on her hip. I knew that look. I had seen it all my life. She had just finished teaching me another life lesson. And she had done it in five words. She was just waiting for me to catch up.
My grandmother, a retired community college professor, was a world-class teacher. She taught her best lessons in 10 words or fewer.
That day was the last day I referred to my kids as “mixed.” It was also the last time I allowed anyone else to use that term about my children.
My aversion to the word started when we brought our first child, my daughter, home from the hospital. We lived with my daughter’s mother’s family at the time. In that house, everyone hung out on holidays, for birthday parties, and even lunch breaks.
The day we arrived home with our newborn daughter was no different. My new daughter’s (adult) second cousin was visiting when we came home. She rushed to greet us at the door, but really she rushed to greet my daughter. No one greets the parents once a new baby arrives.
