Being Biracial-Personal Narrative Essay

“But… what ARE you?” It was a question I encountered with discomfiting regularity. As a biracial child growing up in a working-class southern community, I was often the only non-white student in my classes. In this homogeneous town, my otherness stuck out like a sore thumb, and I learned from a young age that people can be unkind when they feel threatened by bucked conventions. Though I inhabited two cultures, I didn’t fit neatly in either. These experiences taught me the importance of inclusivity, and I developed a sensitivity for people deemed outsiders because of their differences. In college, these feelings became more acute when I learned that minority and multiracial patients often face specific medical challenges, and need culturally

For this reason, I feel you shouldn’t have to say, “I’m Black” or “I’m White”. It makes mixed people feel like they are not accepted or fit in anywhere, yet you forget that’s how you’ve been treated like that for many years. You never let us be mixed or biracial, making us feel that we can’t be different.Today, in society, they say different is good; but then turn around and talk about it like it’s weird. This why I feel you shouldn’t have to live by your

During the time I was born, in the 90’s, stereotypes were taught to children through school, family members, and media. “A stereotype is a mental category based on exaggerated and inaccurate generalizations used to describe all members of a group” (Bennett 91). As a child, I obviously did not realize I was being taught these cruel definitions based to categorize people into which racial group they should belong to. To put it another way, Bennett states, “As psychologists have pointed out, stereotyping is a natural phenomenon in that all humans develop mental categories to help make sense of their environments” (91). Provided that, I stereotyped my interviewee the same exact way numerous people stereotype me. For this reason, to better understand both the interviewee and myself racial identity, I consequently analyzed how we each portrait the world we live in.

Growing up as an african american male it was hard to identify my character throughout my educational career. At a very young age my dad alway wanted me to succeed in life, but in the back of my mind I always thought “ Am I really cut out to becoming successful”. I grew up in a culturally diverse suburban area. Growing up in the suburban area I made unbreakable bonds that will forever exist.

To start off, both of my parents are white Americans. My father’s great grandparents came to america from czechoslovakia in the late 1800’s and same for my mothers German great grandparents. Born and raised in primarily white small towns, my parents are your stereotypical middle class white americans. About 10 years into their relationship when my mom first got pregnant with my oldest brother Dalton (23), they bought a 3 story house that was right outside of a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of Anoka, Mn. The nearest gas station was about a 8 minute drive, and the nearest restaurant was 10. They had 3 boys together, and took in my oldest cousin Chey when she was 10 because my aunt had passed.

When addressing self-identification, some multiracial or biracial individuals do identify as being two or more races. Some identity as just one, or that they feel closer to a certain racial group. About 69% of Multiracial adults with a black background considered themselves as black/African American (experiences, social interactions that align them within the black community). While Multiracial Asian adults, with a white and Asian background, feel more connected to the white community than to the Asian community. Another group of multiracial individuals, are those that are white and native American, and around 22% say they have a lot in common with the in the US that is native America. And 61% say they have a lot more in common with the whites.

I was going to write this essay about growing up biracial. I had it all planned out. I was going to start by telling you how, for as long as I can remember, meeting new people always seemed to require explaining just what exactly I am. I had drafted a detailed mental blueprint of where my essay would lead; I would talk about being restricted to one checkbox on standardized tests (and the accompanying inner turmoil about which race is “more” me), about being told to wear a Filipino outfit in my [second grade show about the American melting-pot] instead of the German dress my grandmother bought me. I was going to impress you with my multicultural background. You would have learned all about my struggle to reconcile the two very distinct sides

One day I decided to go and hang out with my friends, so I decided to walk over to one of their houses and my friends mom open the door and told me that I can’t play with her daughter anymore because “I’m black.” I was only twelve years old hearing this. I was not sure what she was talking about because, as a little girl was thinking that she was one of my good friends and that the color of my skin doesn’t matter for our friendship. I was pretty upset about what happen, so I decided to talk to my parents about it and get some advice about the whole ordeal. They told that the world has changed since they were growing up and even now it is different, then they started explaining how some people view others different from themselves. Racism still exists in the U.S. today, there’s so much that we can talk about over how it pervasive all over the word. Discrimination has been going for a long time now and still is continuing this day. There all different types of discrimination such as age, disability, genetic orientation, race/color, religion, sex and sexual harassment. I believe I will define who I

It all began in the year 1955. This was the year that so many great things shook the foundation of America that will never be forgotten for years and years to come. My name is Joyce Norman I was a military brat that was born and raised in the small town of Fayetteville, North Carolina along with one brother and four sisters. To show a little humor, this is another place like Texas that has bipolar weather from sunny skies with a hint of rain to a giant blizzard that’ll give you a death of pneumonia. Throughout, the years of my life as an African American we heard songs of change, we were insured and inspired in church that change would come some way or another either in the community or in our nation. As the world continued to change I

I identify myself as a seventeen year old African American female. I was raised in Washington D.C. in a 5 family member household. I went to an elementary school with Latino and African American students. My mother is from Sierra Leone in West Africa and my father is from Washington D.C. Growing up i was taught to be proud of my heritage and my dark skin tone. My parents taught me that black is beautiful .Contrary in television ads and TV shows they only portray caucasian females as beautiful and smart and African American females as lower class , unintelligent and urban ghetto. While growing up I’ve learned that black features like having a big nose or big lips were seen as unappealing and badlooking but recently there have been trends

Walking the halls at school was an overall awkward situation as I attended a predominantly white private school. It was not uncommon for my peers to make jests and snide comments about the oddity of our relationship. I vividly remember the stunned expressions on the faces of my parents and siblings as I explained that my new boyfriend was not white. While my family was accepting of the news, I was warned to not mention my new relationship to my grandfather who would not be quite as understanding as he would only be blinded by his outdated and old fashioned state of mind. Meeting my boyfriend's parents for the first time was unnerving to say the least. I felt like an exhibit at a museum, being observed and analyzed by a group of people who no doubt had already made their own assumptions of my character. I could see from the skeptical look in their eyes that I was nothing more than a vapid and privileged white girl to them. All of these outward opposing forces undoubtedly created friction within the relationship. I found myself questioning if our racial differences were forcing a wedge between our families and friends or if the relationship was worth the criticism we faced. A few short months later, we called it quits, although not entirely due to the racial

I woke up thinking this is the day, the day that I would have to try my best. On October 21, 2017 in Rapid City, South Dakota the day of my biggest cross-country race had come. It was state. I felt very thrilled and nervous that the day had come.

traveling to have never seen a group of white women before. This discussion concerned me a bit, just as every time you travel abroad does, but I remember reflecting on the conversation after the fact. I made the realization that I had never been the racial minority ever in my life. Yet I still would not be a minority to the same degree as people of color are in our country. I, being a white female, still held privilege, the privilege of being white. This astonished me, I felt guilty for reasons unknown to me, and I felt that I had done something wrong. As I most likely had, by carrying out the micro-aggressions that we are taught at such a young age. I had not asked to be white, it was just genetics. But by being white, I held the privilege

Life for me hasn’t been the easiest. I am a black woman who has to support her kid. No one ever treats me fairly. My job can barely put food on the table for my handsome 4 year old son who’s name is Grayson. My house is torn up and beat down. My floor is bare with no carpet, my room plain with no bed. My son’s life is half broken by having a white father and a black mother. My deceased husband died trying to save me two months ago when two rich white men came to my house and tried to kill us. I can’t say his name anymore. Saying his name is a just a constant reminder that life for a colored woman is not as clear or perfect as a crystal staircase.

I do not particularly like when people use this phrase so lightly and to refer to something that is presumably in style. I have not used it myself, even when growing up when it used to be “acceptable”. I personally have a cousin that it’s a few years older than me and due to the era and country we grew up, the resources, for the children and the parents as well, were not available. Her disability was extremely severe strike and my aunt had to put her in an institution, even when she didn’t want to. I did hear other people using the term and it did stroke a chord every time someone would say it – even to this day.