I look at the race question on the form and realize, once again, there isn’t a box for me. Deep down, I know there isn’t just a single answer, but on paper I’m confined to one label. As time runs low, I feel compelled to check off the answer “black.” I wonder if that’s really the only thing I am.
Throughout my entire life, I’ve dealt with the stares of others as I walk past, and they wonder what I am. Part of me wants to think that I’m enough for both. In my heart, I know I’ll never be “black enough” or “asian enough.”
Their whispers all around me fill my entire world. No matter where I go, someone decides to label me before we even speak. Their stares turn into words, and those words turn into knives that make me question who I really am.
My mother always looked so different from me, Japanese with fair skin and silky smooth hair. As I walk through the crowded malls of Japan, my eyes avert from the passersby as thoughts fill my head of what they might think of me. Will they stare at us and wonder why I’m there?
My skin is too dark to match theirs, and my hair lacks the silky straight they all carry, and I will never come close to looking as Asian as they would wish me to be.
It is no different than in America, where I grew up and live. This place does not feel like home; nothing about it brings me comfort as a home should. My dreams get crushed as people laugh at my aspirations.
My father, a Jamaican man who takes pride in his identity and someone I’ve always looked up to, inspires me to express myself. However, I don’t think he will ever understand my brain, which is composed of so many different cultures and experiences.
Memories that will always haunt me stay in my brain like an injury that is never fully healed. I once dreamed of attending an HBCU to express myself and find where I truly belong. That dream was short-lived as those around me started laughing, reminding me that, to other people, I will never be black enough.
Both my mother and father, who come from two completely different cultures, taught me that they don’t differentiate with confining labels. Both my Japanese and Jamaican cultures build both who I am and how those around me will view me.
While my insecurities do have a way of holding me back, it also makes me realize how unique I am, Rarely meeting anyone whose identity is the same as mine. The beauty of my cultures is something I will never be ashamed of.
Their laughter and stares were never enough to bring me down. Instead, they slowly taught me that I don’t have to fit into one box to be whole. I am the full story of both sides of my culture, and that truth is what no one can hide from me.
