Coming Out as Biracial — Human Parts
A few months ago, I not-so-subtly asserted myself as biracial while having dinner with a new coworker. “I’m a Capricorn,” she’d said. “Yeah…my mom’s black,” I responded (not verbatim, but the exchange was similar). The answer, if you’re wondering, is yes. Here it is: My mother is black. I grew up in a culturally diverse environment, which meant I missed the memo that it’s “not normal” to be mixed. So I didn’t discover my otherness through being teased by peers or by having after-school-special chats with my parents. Because my exploration of race was largely internal, I spent much of my adolescence identifying as … well, whatever I wanted. Even with this solution in place, a certain fear lived in me. At thirteen, I moved and got a chance to reevaluate my identity. Gradually, I learned how to parse my race, make sense of it on a personal level. That’s not to say I understand the black experience. And the biracial experience? And it’s coming out. So I come out.