Definitions

I remember it clearly. I was sitting on my mom’s bed staring intently at my forearm. My skin is the color of coffee mixed with cream. “Mom, look at how pretty my skin is,” I said, shoving my arm in her face. She glanced up and replied, “Yes, it is.” I looked at her for a moment and said bluntly, “You are no color at all.” This was a simple observation made by six-year-old me, and I was only then beginning to understand how people were defined by differences in their appearance.

Growing up around predominately white people, my friends would caress my head with fascination. They would comment on my hair’s cottonball-like texture and its tendency to stick straight up like a Chia Pet. My hair has always been a distinguishing characteristic, one that always made me stand out in a crowd. But this difference in my appearance never bothered me. It was normal, just something I had grown up with. I never thought of myself as different, or out of place. After all, it was only hair.

Then, something happened in middle school that brought me to racial consciousness. A group of my friends and I were sitting around the table at lunchtime, enthralled by a joke that a boy was telling. The punch line was a racist comment against African-American people. Naturally, I was offended. The boy who told the joke saw the expression on my face and stumbled over his words in trying to offer an apology. And then, trying to make me feel better, he said “It’s okay, Sofie, because you’re not really black!” ‘Not really black?’ What did that mean?

That is when I learned that society had an image, an expectation, of who I was supposed to be. Apparently, I don’t “talk black” or “act black” enough to fit some people’s expectations. There is a mold that I am supposed to fit into, one where I talk a certain way, dress a certain way, and live a certain way. And since I do not fit this mold, I therefore should not be associated with half of my identity. I don’t think that boy realized that his apology was more offensive than the joke.

Although I am still young, I have evolved in my views of my identity and how I respond to other people’s ignorance about it. When people comment on my race, I attempt to respectfully explain to them how offensive and short-sighted their views are to me. It is true I have a mixed background—my mother is a white American and my dad is a black African. I embrace my heritage, but I will not allow myself to be put in a box of society’s expectations for me. I believe in creating my own expectations for myself and will never let my race alone define me.

Sofie Tapia grew up in Lexington, Kentucky, and is currently a sophomore at George Mason University. She is majoring in communications with a minor in global affairs.