Well, this is it – my last post for “Being Biracial Awareness Month”. Wow, did it go fast! I almost feel a sense of sadness if that makes any sense at all. Writing can truly be a profoundly personal experience and this month’s blog posts most definitely have a home in my heart. I hope you’ve found the journey to be enjoyable, insightful, and engaging.
I don’t think that it’s news that generally, when it comes to racial discrimination in America, you’re more likely to know “where you stand” from a southern vantage point than from a northern one. The racial compass is clearer and more easily read in the South. In other words, racism has always been more overt in the South and covert in the North. The advisement to keep one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer sometimes requires a bit more digging to do so in order to uncover the depth of racist dirt dug from northern soil as compared to southern soil.
Despite the pervasiveness of racism across the nation, acknowledged or unrecognized, hidden or otherwise, it must not be overlooked or understated that there are millions of good-hearted, non-racist people across America and around the globe.
Take Me Out of the Ball Game
Most of my childhood was spent growing up in a mid-Atlantic, east coast state during the 1970’s. Naturally, given my appearance, the times, and the nature of the place, I was destined to be targeted. And targeted I was. But still, despite how many times I was chosen to be picked on or discriminated against, there were also times that I recall people going out of their way to have my back, bravely distinguishing themselves from the masses. People like these you tend not to forget…ever!
I remember a girl from my childhood who lived around the corner from me. The two of us played together on an intramural summer softball team. She had always seemed nice to me as had the majority of my teammates. Being the only person of color from the only family of color in the community was something, by that time, I had come to experience as par for the course. The problem was that no matter where I went, I always ran the risk of someone feeling compelled to communicate their racist perspective to me, at me, and those who were with me. And so it was inevitable that I would encounter such an experience on the ball field.
I was about 12 years old and the softball team that we were scheduled to play was an away game with a team in an even more rural community than what I lived in. When we arrived, a fair amount of spectators were in the stands as we took our positions on the field. I was playing outfield when the incident occurred and I will never forget it. Silence can be a killer in a number of ways. Long story short, a male in the stands began yelling the “N” word. Of course, everyone looked at me knowing I was the only one he could be referring to. The male carried on with his racial slurs until finally, and thankfully, we were all back in the dug-out gearing up for our turn at bat. By that time, I had lost focus in playing the game and felt humiliated. But just when you think you can’t feel any worse, something or someone comes along and restores your faith in humanity. She said for me not to worry or feel bad about the person in the stands as they were just stupid. That was it. Pretty simple, huh? At a time when I felt helpless to defend myself, my neighbor and teammate was the one person willing to acknowledge that anything out of the ordinary was occurring. I don’t fault any others for not feeling compelled to support or defend me, but I will never forget the one person who found it unacceptable not to.
Crossing the Mason-Dixon Line
As an interracial family, the idea of crossing the Mason-Dixon Line during the 1970’s warranted a bit more consideration and concern than the mainstream minority had crossing that border. At that time, a number of southern states considered interracial marriage to be illegal. That coupled with the expense of traveling limited us. As a result, it was a trip that we rarely made despite having family living in the South.
A couple of times a special occasion came up that resulted in a trip south. During these rare times, the issue of whether my white mother could accompany us would rear its ugly head. As a teenager, I felt passionate and adamant about my mother being able to join us, especially for a family affair. My father, being older and much wiser, considered the risk we would be taking by having my mother travelling through the south with us. Still, in my mind, it was unacceptable to go and leave my mother at home and I was prepared to die in order to be. So, of the two occasions that had us travelling down south, I got my way for one. I would return home a wiser child.
You know how you can completely forget about something until someone else brings it up and jogs your memory? You could go through your entire life not recalling the event as a distinct memory but when it comes back, you can’t believe you didn’t remember it in the first place! That’s how it was for the one trip south that my mother joined us for. I asked my siblings about their recall of that trip and each of us remembered something different and distinct about our adventure. All of us recall an element and sense of danger as the common denominator. My recollection involved getting lost somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line, just as my father feared. It was my father, mother, grandmother, me and two siblings. I recall a sense of extreme tension in the car and my grandmother’s worried expression spoke volumes as my father tried to find our way out of the woods we had traveled deep into. It wasn’t like we could call our family from a cell phone and getting out of the car to use a pay phone, if you could find one, required considering whether or not you wanted to potentially risk your life and the welfare of your family. My sister recalls stopping at a rest stop and parking between two MACK trucks in order to keep our car and its occupants out of sight and my brother remembers traffic being diverted due to the activities of a Klan rally (gulp). We would journey one more time to that particular southern state, but without my mother in tow. I have not returned since.
Meet My Other Half 
I was 21 years old when I first met the British side of my family. I had always known about them, who they were by name, seen pictures and remember the rare exciting telephone call not necessarily knowing which relative was on the phone but knowing it had to be a relative from across the pond based on their accent. I love a British accent! The rush was then on to get my mother to the phone because of the rarity of the calls from her “home” due to the expense attached at the time to make an international telephone call. Technological advancements have since made cost a far less concern then when I was younger while also expanding our horizons through the creation of a variety of means for increased communication and contact around the world.
My mother always says that when she goes back “home”, she feels more like a person and not the British woman who was married to the black man, which was how she was known when she came to America. I’ve always known what she meant but I never experienced it except for the rare family reunion on my father’s side of the family. Having now met my “other half” a number of times, I totally get what she’s saying. What I know of England is what my family has shown me and what they have shown me could not make me any prouder to be half British and all family!
See You Next Wednesday! 
OXOXOXO
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