My Biracial Identity

The American Dream is often sought of as the ultimate accomplishment. Millions of immigrants travel to the United States every year to chase after the American dream not only for themselves, but for their families too. No matter your social status, upbringing, ethnicity or gender, through hard work you can become anything, and my parents chased after that for me.

Being biracial can give an individual a unique perspective on race. Some biracial individuals view race as a sort of an illusion or costume. Claudine O’Hearn voices this idea in her introduction to her work, Half + Half: Writers on Growing up Biracial + Bicultural, when she states that, “because most people didn’t know where to place [her], [she] made up stories about [herself]. […] It amazed [her] what [she] could get away with. Being mixed inspired and gave [her] license to test new characters” (O’Hearn ix). It is astounding how simply the author was able to slip between races and that other people were convinced by her façades. Her ability to do this shows how “[s]kin color and place of birth aren’t accurate signifiers of identity” (O’Hearn xiv) and that racial identity is largely based on personal and social beliefs.

My parents, brothers, sister , including my extended family belong to the same race and ethnic group.

“You talk so white, I would’ve never guessed you were actually black!” said everyone at my high school. “Is that your dad or just your mom’s boyfriend?” asked numerous of my classmates. Or my personal favorite: “what are you?” To answer this overly common and inherently rude question, I’m a first-generation biracial, meaning that I am a product of a direct interracial relationship. Yes, my dad is black - Haitian to be exact - and yes, he is my actual dad. Coming up in a predominately black neighborhood while simultaneously being raised mostly by my white mother makes for an enthralling experience. My racial ambiguity has brought me both joy and sorrow, which have come together to make me the unique individual I am today.

Our ancestors and the generations that came before us have left behind their cultural values and traditions that are being passed on to their future generations. Many people tightly hold onto their cultural identities and values, by using them as a guide to get through life, while some do not. However, the cultural identity is something that one can not get rid of, even if he/she wants to. It is what connects us to our homelands and to our ancestors, and their cultural beliefs and values, that have been passed on to their generations, who have either held on to them or let them go. It is very important that we know who these people were, because they contribute a lot to who we are today, and our cultural identities. These people worked very hard day and night to be recognized by their future generations, and had always hoped to have a bright future.

“If these things are true, this is not such a free country; one’s life is not what one makes it; many doors open for certain people through no virtues of their own” (McIntosh, 15).

My racial identity has affected my academic development in a lot of ways. It has been the foundation on which I have built myself

Since my freshmen year in college I have been aware of my personal racial identity, but every year I become more aware and confident of my true racial identity. One of the first things that I learned while exploring my racial identity was the inequality of job opportunities between white people and people of color. During my high school years but especially my freshman year I learned that people like me do not receive equal job opportunities. Therefore, it is interesting to hear Moule state that “personal-identity formation, results from the integration of personal experiences each individual has as an African American or Native American or European American as well as the messages that have been communicated and internalized about ethnicity by family members, significant others, and the community” (p. 150). This is interesting because as a child, I learned that my parents struggle a lot to find a job and when they did they were exploited. Later I learned that this is part of what creates my racial identity because people can identify me as a person of color that will not succeed in life or I can identify myself in same way in the sense that I will go on the same route as my parents.

Most students go to a school in which hundreds are enrolled in just one grade, that isn’t the case with me. There are just over a couple hundred students in my entire school, nearly all of them of South Asian descent. My brother and I are an exception. We are the only students of Mexican / Arab origin. I was joked about for years on end, even from my closest friends. In 8th grade, I was one of eleven students and the overall lack of diversity at my school made it easy for me to be picked on, I ended up as the punchline to many jokes. I was a prime target for many racial slurs and stereotypes, especially those about terrorism and border hopping. On the outside, I went along with the jokes, but on the inside, I was torn between trying to fit

When I was younger, I always used to wonder why I did not look like my mother. I had pale skin, blonde hair and blue eyes in contrast to her tanned skin, dark hair and dark eyes. Growing up, I realized it was because of all the ethnicities I have in my background.

This distinction of identity crisis is impacted by multiracial or multiethnic counterpoints in society. Multiracial people internalize the variety of messages alluding to their identity from parents, family, friends, media, society and other outside influences. Basing their identities primary on those reflections and perceptions of others and society, believing their perception of themselves should match the perception of others.

When colonizers from England settled in Jamestown in 1607, they acted violently despite Native-Americans’ hospitality. Many refused to acknowledge the validity of existing cultures and languages, and forcefully instilled a common language amongst the inhabitants. This pattern of erasure has continued for centuries: although there is no legislation specifying a national language, people in the United States have pushed others to linguistically assimilate using cultural and societal pressures. This discrediting of linguistic integrity contradicts ideas about increased cultural diversity resulting from immigration. President John F. Kennedy, in his book A Nation of Immigrants, emphasizes that “each new wave…made its distinctive contribution to the American Character” (17). Yet, as Gloria Anzaldúa describes in “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” “ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity” (81). The “linguistic terrorism” (80) she experiences when institutions attempt to remove her Spanish dialects decreases her feelings of cultural and individual “legitimacy” (81). In many cases, this also leads to diminishing connections with culture. Some, like Anzaldúa, view this effect as forceful and a form of cultural terrorism.

Here recent, I got asked, “What is your cultural identity?” To be honest with you, I was stumped for a while; finally, things got a little clearer. Your cultural identity is who you are and who you have become. I don’t know about you but I am a strange child, always have been, and forever will be strange. Two things about my cultural identity is one, how I love to go to school, learn something, and be educational, and two, is being artistic, something I fancy the most about myself.

¨Let's find some beautiful place to get lost¨, My names is Allimarie, i'm a seventh grader at riverglen junior high, I live in Boise Idaho, I have moved a lot in my life and i'm 12. I think that adventures, family and age affects my identity.

“Is she really your mother?” asked the surprised, middle-aged woman who stood right aside me. My mother, making her way through the crowded church, was approaching me as she wanted to take pictures with my family and I at my nine-year-old sister’s first communion. The woman seemed shocked as she stared at my light skin and slightly wavy hair in contrast to my mother who had tanned skin and hair full of gorgeous, dark curls. At a young age, I did not understand how much of a big deal it was that I did not look anything like my mother. I knew the fact that I was not completely Mexican but, I was not completely white either. Growing up as a mixed child, many people would often point out the differences in my appearance between my mother and I. Many of the Hispanic people I knew would always tell me I was too white to