Exploring what it means to be "mixed" by questioning, redefining ourselves, and celebrating
the beauty of multiethnic identities.
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Ive always identified myself as “mixed” rather than Native American, Mexican, or  Puerto Rican. Becaue i simply never fit in with any if those categories, I was never hispanic enough, native enough or carribean enough. I look different and im begining to be okay with that (:

Ive always identified myself as “mixed” rather than Native American, Mexican, or  Puerto Rican. Becaue i simply never fit in with any if those categories, I was never hispanic enough, native enough or carribean enough. I look different and im begining to be okay with that (:

thenewamericanpie:

A Somalian and Japanese Wedding

weareallmixedup:

butchrobot:

butchrobot:

what i have the most difficulty with being mixed is the way that this relates to decolonization. 

I have no homelands to return to. There is no region of the world that I could go back to, because my existence is the product of a long line of colonialism and white supremacy.

I’m not white but no matter where I go and what I do I will never have a place where I am not an intruder who was never supposed to exist in the first place. 

everyone reblogging this post needs to stop telling me how to conceptualize my own race

Yes can we not do this? Please? Thanks.

—Veronica

Thank you! I reblogged it because I relate. I have a similar experience. You don’t have to relate. It doesn’t automatically equal your experience. We all have different experiences. Don’t tell anyone their feelings are invalid because it doesn’t “sit right” with you.

-Jas

"I didn’t know know you were adopted"
"You’d look so pretty with your hair straightened"
"Wasn’t your mum scared of AIDS?"
"I didn’t know there were black people in Australia"
"You’re really pretty for an Aboriginal/Islander/Arab/girl who’s not white"
"Oh your dad’s from Malawi… I knew you looked like you were from Tonga or something"
"Why are your sister’s so much blacker than you?"
"Is your dad from a tribe?"
"Was your mum volunteering in Africa? Is that how your parents met?"
"That doesn’t really suit you- black girls don’t look good in red lipstick"
"You look like Scary Spice"
"Wow, I wasn’t expecting your mum to be that white"

WHY DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY THINK THINGS LIKE THIS ARE ACTUALLY ACCEPTABLE THINGS TO SAY?

"I didn’t know know you were adopted"

"You’d look so pretty with your hair straightened"

"Wasn’t your mum scared of AIDS?"

"I didn’t know there were black people in Australia"

"You’re really pretty for an Aboriginal/Islander/Arab/girl who’s not white"

"Oh your dad’s from Malawi… I knew you looked like you were from Tonga or something"

"Why are your sister’s so much blacker than you?"

"Is your dad from a tribe?"

"Was your mum volunteering in Africa? Is that how your parents met?"

"That doesn’t really suit you- black girls don’t look good in red lipstick"

"You look like Scary Spice"

"Wow, I wasn’t expecting your mum to be that white"

WHY DO PEOPLE ACTUALLY THINK THINGS LIKE THIS ARE ACTUALLY ACCEPTABLE THINGS TO SAY?

Race matters to me, but not in the way you might think.
As a beautiful summer day in Milwaukee took its last breath and surrendered to dusk, I strolled with my two musketeers on either side: my twin sister Sam and my cousin Whitney. We proudly possessed the carefree mindsets of seven-year-olds; thoughts of tomorrow did not cross our minds once, much less the different amounts of melanin that graced our young features.
“Hey,” a neighborhood boy’s voice emerged among snickers. “What are y’all? Are y’all white?”
His eyes locked onto mine, waiting for an answer. I looked down at my hands, which did, to my surprise, appear lighter as night fell.
Embarrassed brown pupils met another set from across the sidewalk. Mustering all of the confidence I could, I declared, “I’m not white! I’m golden!”
Those two boys laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks, but I, on the other hand, was puzzled by the whole reaction. I tried to put the mortifying thought out of mind, but after that fateful summer night, I began to wonder about the strange concoction of mediums that made up my caramel-colored skin and the genetic combination responsible for my thick, curly mane of hair. My story was not merely skin-deep.
In 1978, my African-American father, a quarterback for the Wisconsin Badgers, and my White mother, an aspiring nurse, met for the first time on the UW-Madison campus at the thrilling age of nineteen. They grew close instantly, but their parents did not share the enthusiasm they felt for their budding love. A troubling past experience with another Black man tainted my mother’s family’s view of my father, unearthing a bias that stubbornly remained in my grandfather’s heart. Despite this, my father never uttered a foul word to him and cared for him when he fell ill. As my grandfather’s health faded, so did his uneasiness toward his daughter’s relationship. My father’s mother also had reservations about my parents’ relationship, a relationship that, in her eyes, was doomed. She had lived through the case of Emmett Till, a boy beaten to death after daring to look at a white woman, and she feared for her son. Yet over time, my grandmother’s developing love for my mother eclipsed the potential threat of her fair skin. After facing doubt that their relationship would survive, my mother and father emerged as stronger human beings and cultivated a more powerful sense of love for one another.
This love that radiates from my parents every day manifests itself in me. I am proud to be a woman of color when I feel the warmth of the hugs I receive from my father’s family, when I taste spicy greens and warm corn bread, and when I sing Stevie Wonder songs in the back of the car with my father. I am proud to be a woman who recognizes her European roots when I hear stories of young immigrants from the beautiful lands of Germany, Switzerland, Norway, and Ireland, when I share stories with the O’Brien side of my family, and when I savor bites of lefse during the holidays.
Yes, race matters to me, but not in the way you might think. In this nation, we have used race as a means of diminishing other humans for selfish reasons. For me; however, one’s race does not have to be viewed in a negative light; it need not be a reason to categorize or to dehumanize. It can be a powerful way to recognize what you embrace as part of your own flesh and blood. I no longer see my biracial heritage as material for a racial identity crisis, but instead as my way of connecting to others and ridding the world of searing stigmas and stereotypes. 

Race matters to me, but not in the way you might think.

As a beautiful summer day in Milwaukee took its last breath and surrendered to dusk, I strolled with my two musketeers on either side: my twin sister Sam and my cousin Whitney. We proudly possessed the carefree mindsets of seven-year-olds; thoughts of tomorrow did not cross our minds once, much less the different amounts of melanin that graced our young features.

“Hey,” a neighborhood boy’s voice emerged among snickers. “What are y’all? Are y’all white?”

His eyes locked onto mine, waiting for an answer. I looked down at my hands, which did, to my surprise, appear lighter as night fell.

Embarrassed brown pupils met another set from across the sidewalk. Mustering all of the confidence I could, I declared, “I’m not white! I’m golden!”

Those two boys laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks, but I, on the other hand, was puzzled by the whole reaction. I tried to put the mortifying thought out of mind, but after that fateful summer night, I began to wonder about the strange concoction of mediums that made up my caramel-colored skin and the genetic combination responsible for my thick, curly mane of hair. My story was not merely skin-deep.

In 1978, my African-American father, a quarterback for the Wisconsin Badgers, and my White mother, an aspiring nurse, met for the first time on the UW-Madison campus at the thrilling age of nineteen. They grew close instantly, but their parents did not share the enthusiasm they felt for their budding love. A troubling past experience with another Black man tainted my mother’s family’s view of my father, unearthing a bias that stubbornly remained in my grandfather’s heart. Despite this, my father never uttered a foul word to him and cared for him when he fell ill. As my grandfather’s health faded, so did his uneasiness toward his daughter’s relationship. My father’s mother also had reservations about my parents’ relationship, a relationship that, in her eyes, was doomed. She had lived through the case of Emmett Till, a boy beaten to death after daring to look at a white woman, and she feared for her son. Yet over time, my grandmother’s developing love for my mother eclipsed the potential threat of her fair skin. After facing doubt that their relationship would survive, my mother and father emerged as stronger human beings and cultivated a more powerful sense of love for one another.

This love that radiates from my parents every day manifests itself in me. I am proud to be a woman of color when I feel the warmth of the hugs I receive from my father’s family, when I taste spicy greens and warm corn bread, and when I sing Stevie Wonder songs in the back of the car with my father. I am proud to be a woman who recognizes her European roots when I hear stories of young immigrants from the beautiful lands of Germany, Switzerland, Norway, and Ireland, when I share stories with the O’Brien side of my family, and when I savor bites of lefse during the holidays.

Yes, race matters to me, but not in the way you might think. In this nation, we have used race as a means of diminishing other humans for selfish reasons. For me; however, one’s race does not have to be viewed in a negative light; it need not be a reason to categorize or to dehumanize. It can be a powerful way to recognize what you embrace as part of your own flesh and blood. I no longer see my biracial heritage as material for a racial identity crisis, but instead as my way of connecting to others and ridding the world of searing stigmas and stereotypes. 

(Source: fuckyeahmixedbeauty)

Anonymous asked: Alright so about a week ago in my Macroeconomics class I overheard these three white girls talking. All of a sudden they began to compliment one of the other girls in the group about her tan. This is what I heard one of the girls say. "I like your tan, it's soo pretty and bronze. When I tan I look Mexican..." Then the group proceeds to laugh as if it was a fucking joke. She generalizes a group of people by A skin color (Mexico is a country anyone can live there) and pretty much calls them ugly.

Ugh

yarriinwonderland:

No. I can’t let that post go.

I’ve struggled to long with self hate for me to accept any kind of self-hating bullshit. To see it tactically endorsed by blogs like wereallmixedup and fuckyeahmixedbeauty hurts me. How are the words “I will never have a place where I am not an intruder who was never supposed to exist in the first place" any different from mono-racial asshole, white and black and whatever else supremacists alike who tell us that we are.

Soy latina tambien. I’m a mixed woman of color as well. My roots stretch from Puerto Rico to Ireland to Ghana and West Africa and back to America. My roots are whereever I choose, my homeland is that land that shaped me, and will not tolerate anything else. If this vision of decolonization means that these gifts, this heritage is lost to me, then I reject it. I reject it as the next matriarch of my family, I reject it as the future mother of mixed children, I reject it as a woman attempting to understand the complicated web of histories that inform my world.

We are not mistakes. We are meant to be here. Regardless of who it’s from, I will fight against any mindset that claims otherwise.

I don’t believe the post is encouraging self hate or supposed to mean that multiracial individuals should feel they don’t belong here. I reblogged it because as a multiethnic individual who is mixed up all over the place and whose parents and grandparents and ancestors didn’t always choose to be multiethnic and has family history that wasn’t always recorded or is hard to trace, it doesn’t feel like there’s any place I can belong to, or “go back to”. Sorry if that post rubbed you the wrong way or you can’t identify. You are lucky to be able to trace and embrace all of your heritage but unfortunately that’s not everyone’s reality.

butchrobot:

what i have the most difficulty with being mixed is the way that this relates to decolonization. 

I have no homelands to return to. There is no region of the world that I could go back to, because my existence is the product of a long line of colonialism and white supremacy.

I’m not white but no matter where I go and what I do I will never have a place where I am not an intruder who was never supposed to exist in the first place. 

(via weareallmixedup)

azealiadoesntcare asked: Okay, this a question to anyone who can answer, so if a follower of this blog can answer, please do! My little sister is half black and my mother nor my father (her biological father) know how to do her hair. I want to learn how to take care of her hair, especially how to braid it and style it. Pretty sure my mother doesn't plan on learning how to do her hair, so I have to.

Umm the internet. YouTube, haircare blogs.

Type in “kids natural hair” on YouTube or “biracial haircare”

Check out chocolatehairvanillacare they teach folks how to do braids,twist, detangling, what products to use etc.

Also: carolsdaughter, mixedchicks, naturallycurly.com and curlmart you can order every natural/curly hair product and they ship to wherever you live

You should let the child’s parent know that choosing to ignore the fact the her child’s hair is different from white hair, could possibly cause emotional damage later on with her disliking her hair, or not thinking it’s good enough because it’s not straight. And it’s just healthy to take care of her hair because otherwise It will get matted and tangled or dried out and then it will actually be difficult to deal with. I’m sure it’s really easy to learn. I learned how to braid at like age 8 or 9 and I learned how to take care of my own multi textured hair pretty young too. Y’all just need to research and let the child know you actually care about her hair and not pretend that you can do nothing because curly hair does not need to be neglected and it’s unfair just because the child’s mom doesn’t care to learn. Good for you for stepping up -jas

Anonymous asked: If Obama identity himself as white(which could be because he is half white) would he be seen as an white president? Or would people immediatley bring his black part above and say it cant.. That would be a little hypocritical right?

I don’t know?? Can it just be enough that he doesn’t identify as white without us speculating about what would happen if he did??