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Mixed Madness

Mixed Madness

It is currently raining in Los Angeles. That means two wonderful things for me; people are off the road because they are deathly afraid of the water coming from the sky, and because of that the inside of Target is a ghost town. 

After cleaning my room with the windows open to catch the smell of a rainy day I got in my car, turned on Jagged Edge, and cruised to the nearest Target. 

“He can’t love you, like I love you……”

The Target was peacefully quiet, and recently stocked with goodies. 

So I did what any woman would do. I got a dry buggy (west coast people call them shopping carts) and I went up and down every single isle. EVRY. SINGLE. ISLE.

Who am I kidding? I do that every time I go to a Target. 

While I was hoarding up on Oreo’s, discounted sandals, candles, and Febreze I noticed a black woman was following me. 

Before I begin my tirade I should introduce the main character of this story; my hair.

Because of the rain I had let my hair down to catch the droplets from God.

By the time I got into Target my hair was a beautiful mess of coils and curls.

If you hadn’t gotten the point of my blog title. That and my abundance of hips and ass. 

I would just like to say that this is not the first time a woman has stared at me, followed me, questioned me, interrogated me, or pleaded with me for information about my hair. 

And while at first it made me uncomfortable I have grown to appreciate the fanfare my hair receives. 

As a little girl there was nobody who looked like me. In school it was either Black or White. On television it was either Black or White. Brown or Blonde.   

In high school I permed the mess out of my hair trying to fit in. My white mama didn’t question me, quickly learned how to minster the harsh chemicals, and kept me pressed and slayed for the God’s.

She also knows how to do quick weaves, cornrows, bantu knots, finger curls, finger waves, etc.....

I had to have it straight for the white girls to understand me, and I couldn't wear it natural because black girls wouldn't like me.  

I quickly became mad that I had to do any of it for people to accept me.

I said fuck it (which I do a lot), and became the curly queen that I wanted to be.  

So when people admire my hair I take it in as a compliment.

But by no means do I need people to compliment me for me to love me. 

Back to my story.

I get to the beauty section. Which is not really good for my wallet.

And the lady finally gets the nerve to approach me.

I was expecting the usual questions.

What do you put in your hair for it to curl? Water. 

How long have you been natural? Years

How long does it take to straighten it? Hours. 

But it was none of the above.

She complimented my hair and asked me what I was mixed with.

I absolutely hate that question. 

Nonetheless I told her my DNA ancestry. 

I thought that would be it. 

She then asked if I wanted to be featured on her “mixed people” Instagram page. 

I played dumb like I hadn’t seen the pages dedicated to multiracial children, men, and women that labeled what they were exactly “mixed” with. 

I thought about it, but then she continued.....

She explained that she wasn’t mixed-race or had mixed-race children but she believed mixed people were the most beautiful people in the world.

I walked away with a dramatic eye roll.

When she opened her mouth and sprouted that bullshit I had already grouped her with the ignorant people who like to sexualize my background. 

The guy I once dated who told me he wanted have babies with me so that his children could have good hair.

The old roommate I had who told me she only wanted to have mixed babies because they would get a lot of attention. She eventually did. 

The grown woman who told me she wouldn’t have a hard time finding a man because she was mixed and light skinned. 

You want to know why I am so beautiful? 

Because my Daddy is handsome. Lord, don't let him find out I said that. 

And my mama is gorgeous. I also inherited her hips. 

Their sexy asses got in the bed (I'm not quite sure it was a bed) and made my fine ass. 

I am not beautiful because my mother is white, and my father is black. 

I am not beautiful because I am multiracial. 

I am amazed that in 2016 people, most importantly black people are still defining beauty by the the tone of your skin, or the texture of your hair. 

There is this sick sexualization of mixed children, especially little girls. 

We have all seen the Facebook/Instagram pages or posts dedicated to the objectification of mixed girls .

People post inappropriate pictures of little girls with captions that express their beauty and their parents racial background. 

It is utterly disgusting.

Do you want to know why it bothers me?

As a girl I was bullied by girls, specifically black girls in school who hated me because I was mixed. 

They pulled my hair because they said I thought I was better because I had “good” hair.

They pinched me to see if my lighter skin would bruise like the white people. 

They hated me. Hell, I hated them too then. 

But I did not understand them then.

I understand them better as a grown woman, because I know society told them at a young age that they were not beautiful because of their darker skin. 

Society told them I was beautiful because I had a lighter skin tone, and longer hair. 

Society told them I was better than them.

Society told them they were not good enough. 

Even though I fought back, I wish I could go back and tell them that they were beautiful too. 

That they were good enough. 

Little girls are the good in the world. 

Do you see how fucked up it is that we as a society manifest hate by telling them that they are not good enough? That there is someone out there who is better? 

Understand I am not denouncing the mixed race. 

Explaining my heritage could take all day, but I am proud of all that I am made up of.

But it does not make me better than anyone. 

One day while standing in line at Target, go figure, a little mixed girl with unruly hair looked at me and exclaimed to her mother, “She looks like me!” 

Her mother looked horrified, but I assured her it was perfectly okay.

Because that was once me. 

As a mixed girl from the south there aren’t too many of us. 

As a little mixed girl I wanted to fit in. I wanted to belong somewhere.

I became infatuated with Scary Spice because she looked like me. I am now a grown woman who can not evolve from the animal print phase. 

The pages that are dedicated to mixed children should have the purpose of allowing children or adults the opportunity to be in touch with other people who look like them. They should not be a platform to put children on a high pedestal and allow their counterparts to feel inadequate, 

I have a goddaughter who brings joy to this world. She is spunky, smart as a whip, an amazing dancer, and takes better selfies than me. 

I want her to grow up in a world that won’t bring her down. I do not want her to be told that she is not beautiful.

Or that the white girl, or mixed girl in her class is better than her. 

 Image via Marcie Williams. 

Image via Marcie Williams. 

To the little girls who look like me: you are beautiful, and you belong in this world.

To little dark-skinned girls: you are beautiful and you belong in this world. 

To little white girls: you are beautiful and you belong in this world.

To ALL the women in the world who were told that they were not beautiful and that they did not belong in this world:

You are beautiful and you are loved.



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