By Brianna Marie Johnson

I didn’t know that I was black until the fourth grade.

My mother is latina; my dad is white and black. These were simply shades in my adolescent understanding. My grandfather is my only family member with dark skin, but I did not understand what that meant in relation to my own skin tone. In the summer, I’d get incredibly tan, and my dad would call me a berry. I found it so endearing. ‘I love fruit!’ my squishy brain would chuckle. Being darker or lighter was just what I was. Nothing more.

From five years old until my sophomore year, I lived with my mom. She was, and still is, an educator. Since I can remember, she was teaching or… actually, that’s it. Just teaching. Since she is a minority, she had to polish her speech and presence to advance in her career, in which she is very successful. In the house, only ‘proper’ language and attitudes were appropriate. No ‘y’all’ or leaving the house looking ‘unkempt’ (in reference to the mane that surrounded my little head), and manners always. Legs crossed, no talking back, no audible burping or any ghastly releases. Going out in sweatpants was very frowned upon.

It felt like I was being put into some box that was triple-taped shut. I hated these expectations put upon me at such a young age. So, what did all of this teach me about my blackness? Absolutely nothing. Above anything, I was taught to be a woman: one presentable and respectable enough to gain the approval of everyone who crossed my path.

I learned that I was black during recess. Kids told me that ‘I was the whitest black person they’d ever met’ and that ‘I talked so white’. This was extremely confusing at first. Where I grew up was the hub of any and every race that you could think of, and everybody was friends. So, when I became labelled as a white-black person, it didn’t make sense to me.

Only after those comments were made did I put the pieces together. When we learned about Dr Martin Luther King Jr, I was one of the kids that heads turned to when the teacher said, ‘some of you wouldn’t be sitting here today if it wasn’t for him.’

At home, nothing was ever said to me about the colour of my skin. My mom falls under the category of white-passing, so she never had the experience of being treated a certain way because of her shade. Since this experience was her own, I think she assumed or hoped that mine would be similar.

The black female role models in my personal life were slim to none for many years, so I looked towards those who blasted from my princess radio every day – Beyoncé and Rihanna. Eventually, my mom became close friends with black women. When I went into their homes, I was astonished by paintings of afros and hearts in the same frame. Tribal wear was displayed and celebrated. Black statues sat prettily on bookshelves. Their all-black families included a mom and a dad and kids and ‘y’all’ and laughter and mistakes. The culture shock made my heart beat double-time. I thought, ‘Is this what it means to be black? Wow, I’ve been missing out.’

As I aged, I was able to grasp the concept of race and the constructional history attached to the 0.5 millimetres thick skin that wraps the human body. No one really treated me like I was black to my face because, in society’s narrow lens, my personality didn’t match that label. Instead, it was racially ambiguous, which still felt wrong. This was especially present as I began to pursue my passion for performing. I was told that I could play any part since I could pass as any ethnicity that included melanin. This never really felt right in my soul, but as always, I smiled and nodded as I was taught. Be ladylike.

Once I got to college, my perspective shifted. Suddenly, I experienced racism! I was shocked and appalled that someone could make me feel so small by saying nothing at all. After some reflection, I became empowered enough to speak up for myself and call them out. I mustered the courage to confront the problem. White guilt poured from faceless mouths. The lack of understanding on their end made sense to me in theory because of my knowledge of how deep-rooted racism is in everyone, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I started to point fingers at myself and tried to convince my brain that I was overreacting. The hardest part was that there were no active actions of racism; it was something I felt internally. When I’d be neglected from conversations or someone wouldn’t look me in the eye, I couldn’t ignore how horrible it made me feel. I was able to give myself grace because of the support of friends who reassured me to trust my feelings, but that was so much easier said than done.

Looking back, my understanding that race is a construct makes perfect sense to me because for so long I never felt black enough. Having black friends and asking my black family members about blackness has helped me to truly understand the nuance of blackness and that everyone’s experience is their own.

My dad always referred to himself and other black people as ‘brown’ because he’s a logical man; every black person is a visual shade of brown. Recently, I told him about my situation, and he told me stories of his own while he was in the army. Many soldiers that he met said that it was strange being around so many people of colour because they had never seen any in person. Wow.

It was really hard having a blurred sense of racial identity for so long because I felt pressure to align my behaviour and my racial identity with society’s outdated stereotypes. My family never speaking explicitly about race absolutely did not help. To this day, I’m not exactly sure why they never did. Existing in this body is hard for more reasons than one but acknowledging that I am black – and proud to be – helps me understand the world and myself a little better every day.