Digital Project #1

MUTT:

Mixed Unconnected and Terribly Tethered

When people stare at me and ask the age-old question of “what I am” I never really know how to respond, I know I’m a bit of this and a bit of that – but I’m oblivious when it comes to any of the nuances. There are so many things that run through my head. No, I don’t know where my family came from. I don’t know the traditions that were essential to my ancestors. Sure I know my dad’s dad is black. I know that my mom’s dad is Irish. I know that both of my grandmothers had some Native American in their blood. And I know that there’s a ton of other things thrown in there. But I don’t know what it means to be black, or Irish, or native American, or anything. I don’t understand the deep cultural connections that I’ve always been told about. I don’t understand the traditions or the feeling of connection to my native homeland. Because when you’re a mutt what is your homeland? Do you even really have one? When people ask me what I am I’ll stutter and tell them “oh well a bit of this and a bit of that, I identify as black mostly… but I’m mixed. A mutt I guess?”

Growing up in a rural town in northern Illinois I always felt like an outsider.  Poplar Grove has always been a majority white town, it was almost unheard of to see black people. When we first moved in we were the only mixed family in the area. When we would go out in public we would be greeted by dirty looks and whispers. When I was a kid after people saw my mom and me, they would come up to me and ask what it was like to be adopted and where I came from originally. Even with my own family, I felt like an imposter, misplaced like a duck among chickens. 

As a kid I could tell I was different than my peers, I could tell that something made me less than them. I saw how mothers turned their kids in the other direction when they saw me, how they would grip their purses and tell them “we don’t play with their type.” I saw the signs, the flags, and the way they dared me to step out of line. I listened to my parents’ fears and I lived them. At first, I didn’t even really think about it because Poplar Grove was supposed to be safe. It was home and whatever made me feel otherwise had to be all in my head. Sure I’ve always seen the racism in Poplar Grove, I’ve always seen the effects my skin color had on how people would interact. I’ve heard stories about white students gathering together to go beat some black kid to death. I heard the slurs whisper as I passed. I’ve heard about the substitute who gave the black students Mcdonald’s applications telling them it’s where we would all end up. It never really clicked how ashamed of being black I became. 

When I got to Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy it was such a shift from what I was used to, it was finally okay to be black… but not in the way I was. There was such a push to be in touch with your ethnic roots. Every year there were multiple cultural shows meant to connect students and introduce them to different perspectives. It was so surreal. During culture shows you could see so many students who felt so sure of themselves. They knew they belonged in those shows, in those cultures. They had cultural traditions that had been so deeply ingrained into their everyday lives that they could show them to one another. But I never felt that I did. I didn’t know where we originated from. I didn’t know what to identify with, or where to place myself. I felt like an imposter performing in my first set of box braids. I felt like a fool without roots or culture. 

But I did have culture. It wasn’t something that was widely celebrated, or that could be taught in a textbook. It was the way I lived, the memories I held. It is everything that I’ve always held so close but taken for granted. My culture is listening to Phish or The Grateful Dead every time it comes to family housework. It’s watching Sherlock Holmes with my grandpa. It’s Clearwater, the loud music, the flooding, the people, my family, and the hole it left. It’s running through my grandparents’ yard. It’s riding my bike through Carpentersville.  It’s picking raspberries with my aunt. It’s sitting out on the dock begging the bluegill to bite.  It’s playing in the rain as it rushed down the street. It’s going to Phish every year. It’s floating down the river at Sugar River Shakedown. It’s the babysitter after school. It’s the campground I spent so many late nights at. It was learning to count with my grandma and the long rides to her chemo. It’s pretending to fall asleep so I could watch forensic files. It’s watching Popeye on the couch with a fresh bag of salami and my dad. It’s watching the Dr Who Christmas special. My culture is everything that runs through my veins, it’s everything I’ve experienced, everything I’ve witnessed. My culture is so vast and complex that I couldn’t even try to explain it, let alone understand it myself. My culture is so much more than me and my worries about fitting in. It’s what raised me, what nurtured me, what made me think, what made me learn. My culture can’t be taught in a school or a church. It’s unique to my family, our experiences, and our traditions. It is what makes us us. 

It took a long time for me to become comfortable with the idea of being me. It has taken a long time for me to become comfortable with looking at myself in the mirror, to love my curls and tan skin, but that’s okay. I might not know where my family came from, I may not know my ancestors or their traditions, but I know who I am and where I came from. I’m okay with knowing the stories of my life instead of those who came before me. I’m okay with being me.  I’m proud to be mixed. I’m proud to be a MUTT.