A few years ago, I attended a cultural gathering with a dear friend. We were in the Atlanta-area home of a Nigerian Yoruba elder statesman celebrating his milestone birthday. It was a relaxed Sunday gathering with a fairly diverse group of folks chatting in small clusters.
The statesman shared this home with his wife, a white American, and their Mixed son, who was about 7 years old. They divide their time between Nigeria and the States.
I sat near three of the statesman’s grown offspring—the fully Black Nigerian son and two daughters of his other wives (who weren’t at this gathering).
Picture me just chilling and vibing on the riffs of various convos floating around me, people watching and grooving on the high vibrations. The Mixed son of the statesman sat about a foot away from me, playing on a device. He looked a lot like a little Barack Obama.
“I don’t get how this whole ‘Biracial’ Black – white identity thing works in the U.S. Like what’s the deal?”
This is back when I was writing my Mixed memoir, SWIRL GIRL: Coming of Race in the USA, which thrust me into thinking and communicating about Mixedness pretty much full time. But on that day, it was the furthest thing from my mind.
The statesman’s grown Nigerian son and daughters hadn’t said much. Suddenly, the son spoke up rather loudly. “I don’t get how this whole ‘Biracial’ Black – white identity thing works,” he said, sounding perplexed and a bit miffed. “Especially in the U.S. Like what’s the deal?”
The second he said ‘Biracial,’ I turned to look at him, thinking he was talking to me. But he wasn’t addressing anyone in particular—just kind of staring upward.
Startled into high alert, I surveyed the room—nobody else seemed to notice what he’d said. I downshifted, deciding to ignore him because I wasn’t trying to be “on duty” in that space, and couldn’t discern the context for his puzzling outburst.
#NotMyBizness
Then his Biracial half-brother made a movement that caught my attention. And I heard / felt that Ancestral nudge. “You must speak to what was said. For the sake of this young boy.”
Duh!
I watched the child, wondering what his life must be like as the child of the Nigerian statesman’s only white wife, living in two vastly different countries. And I was reminded of my life purpose.
Shifting into teacher mode, I stood and turned to the adult son. “I heard your question. I’m Mixed, and a know a lot about that topic. In fact, I’m writing a book about it right now.”
He looked me up and down skeptically.
“Is it okay if I speak to what you said?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said, his voice wary.
“You know,” I thought to the Ancestors, “I’m really not feelin’ this. Maybe I’ll just sit back down and—”
Their response was swift. “Girl if you don’t stop playing and complete the assignment.”
The young man and now his two sisters—all Millennials—regarded me quizzically. I introduced myself and my Mix, then shared a very abbreviated capsule overview of some of this country’s Black-white Biracial identity dynamics.
Throughout my mini workshop, the trio stared at me with unreadable expressions. They didn’t even make a sound.
Tough crowd.
When I finished, I asked, “Does that help you understand how some of this complicated stuff works?”
“Yeah, I guess,” the son said. The daughters nodded disinterestedly.
I mentally asked my Ancestors and Angels if I’d completed this unexpected and very unwelcome assignment. They responded in the affirmative. What I knew (and they reminded me) is that neither the grown son’s words nor my response had been meant for anyone other than that young Biracial boy sitting nearby. I knew just how intensely he was clocking every word, and hoped he realized that he was the only audience I cared about reaching in that moment.
“If you didn’t know my mix, what do I look like to you?”
Content that my official work was done, I decided to take advantage of the situation and entertain myself. While I am rarely interested in what people think I am, I’d never had the opportunity to ask Nigerian people how they read my racial identity. I thought it might come in handy if I visited that part of the Motherland.
“Excuse me,” I said to the Millennial trio. “If you didn’t know my mix, what do I look like to you?”
Their answers were swift and decisive:
“Puerto Rican.”
“Cuban.”
“Mexican.”
Their faces and voices conveyed that they thought I was lying about being Mixed, and that their guesses represented my REAL identity.
“Okay, thanks,” I laughed.
I looked at the Biracial seven-year-old. He met my gaze with a soft smile. “Is it okay if I ask you the same thing?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“If you didn’t know that I’m Mixed kind of like you, what would you think I am?”
“American,” he answered immediately, with even more confidence than his siblings had shown.
I sat down with a chuckle, mentally high fiving my Ancestors and Angels for confirming that when folks are trying to determine each other’s origins, context and frame of reference are everything. Sometimes they’re the only thing.
While the Nigerian young adults all clocked me as some type of Latine, their very young Mixed Nigerian American bi-continental sibling simply categorized me in the way that made the most sense to him—as an otherwise uninteresting adult through the lens of nationality rather than skin color, features, or hair.
I may never know what, if any, impact my words about Biracial identity dynamics in the USA had on that young boy who might not be around Mixed folks like himself in either environment or country.
But I was reminded how our Ancestors and Angels constantly conspire to make sure we not only understand the assignment—but live on purpose, even when we think we should be chillin’ instead.
Ase!
It is understandable that you would not want to be on the soap box. Frankly it is exhausting and exasperating at the same time. But how else will we educate in the name of the ancestors if we don't. I loved how succinctly you broke it down. Picturing the space and the blank expressions AND the lack of feedback, i.e. engagement, sadly only the little boy got it. That's sad.