Biraciality

The first question is “What are you”?
Well, I’m not a vampire in Twilight or a fairy in True Blood
So when I tell you that I’m biracial, why do you act so surprised?
I know you thought I was Hispanic or Filipino or Samoan, but I’m none of those things.
Too black to eat mayo, too white to say the n word.
Stuck between two extremes in your confused eyes.

Is it so hard to believe in 2018 America that the races may mix?
That a Nubian queen could be swept off her feet by a nerdy white guy from Brooklyn?
Maybe for you, but I am an abomination of love.
I can only exist as I am at this point in America’s history.

I may listen to the Beach Boys, but I bang with Kung Fu Kenny.
I am sorry that when you see me, I can’t fit into the boxes that you have used to build a cardboard fort around your expectations.
I read that humans will always stereotype because our brains have an inherent need to compartmentalize and categorize.
Stereotyping is hardwired into our neurons, welded to our amygdala with the unbreakable bond of biology.

So when you see me, actually try to see me.
Don’t see my skin color and try to figure out where I fit in in your worldview.
Notice the way I look down at the sidewalk with the intensity of a child looking at their mother’s face for the first time.
Notice how my hands move as they trace the paths of the music racing through my earbuds.
Notice that even though I won’t look at you until you speak to me, I register your presence with apprehension and a small flare of hope.

Maybe this time, I won’t be a file folder put into the drawer titled “to be determined at a later date”.
Maybe that drawer won’t shut and that handle won’t get dusty.
Maybe this time, we can relate on a level more than surface and a level less than love.
But I doubt it.