{"id":62,"date":"2022-09-21T19:26:12","date_gmt":"2022-09-21T19:26:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/eportfolio.siue.edu\/kaz-isibue\/?page_id=62"},"modified":"2022-10-04T21:54:04","modified_gmt":"2022-10-04T21:54:04","slug":"digital-project-1","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/eportfolio.siue.edu\/kaz-isibue\/digital-project-1\/","title":{"rendered":"Digital Project #1"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

MUTT: <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mixed Unconnected and Terribly Tethered<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n

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When people stare at me and ask the age-old question of \u201cwhat I am\u201d I never really know how to respond, I know I\u2019m a bit of this and a bit of that – but I\u2019m oblivious when it comes to any of the nuances. There are so many things that run through my head. No, I don\u2019t know where my family came from. I don\u2019t know the traditions that were essential to my ancestors. Sure I know my dad\u2019s dad is black. I know that my mom\u2019s 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\u2019t know what it means to be black, or Irish, or native American, or anything. I don\u2019t understand the deep cultural connections that I\u2019ve always been told about. I don\u2019t understand the traditions or the feeling of connection to my native homeland. Because when you\u2019re a mutt what is your homeland? Do you even really have one? When people ask me what I am I\u2019ll stutter and tell them \u201coh well a bit of this and a bit of that, I identify as black mostly\u2026 but I\u2019m mixed. A mutt I guess?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Growing up in a rural town in northern Illinois I always felt like an outsider.\u00a0 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<\/mdspan>.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n

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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 \u201cwe don\u2019t play with their type.\u201d I saw the signs, the flags, and the way they dared me to step out of line. I listened to my parents\u2019 fears<\/mdspan> and I lived them. At first, I didn\u2019t 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\u2019ve always seen the racism in Poplar Grove, I\u2019ve always seen the effects my skin color had on how people would interact. I\u2019ve heard stories about white students gathering together to go beat some black kid to death. I heard the slurs whisper as I passed. I\u2019ve heard about the substitute who gave the black students Mcdonald’s applications telling them it\u2019s where we would all end up. It never really clicked how ashamed of being black I became<\/mdspan>.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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When I got to Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy<\/mdspan> it was such a shift from what I was used to, it was finally okay to be black\u2026 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<\/mdspan> I did. I didn\u2019t know where we originated from. I didn\u2019t 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.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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But I did have culture. It wasn\u2019t 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\u2019ve 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\u2019s watching Sherlock Holmes with my grandpa. It\u2019s Clearwater, the loud music, the flooding, the people, my family, and the hole it left. It\u2019s running through my grandparents’ yard. It’s riding my bike through Carpentersville.\u00a0 It\u2019s picking raspberries with my aunt. It\u2019s sitting out on the dock begging the bluegill to bite.\u00a0 It\u2019s playing in the rain as it rushed down the street. It\u2019s going to Phish every year. It\u2019s floating down the river at Sugar River Shakedown. It\u2019s the babysitter after school. It\u2019s the campground I spent so many late nights at. <\/mdspan>It was learning to count with my grandma and the long rides to her chemo. It\u2019s pretending to fall asleep so I could watch forensic files. It\u2019s watching Popeye on the couch with a fresh bag of salami and my dad. It\u2019s watching the Dr<\/mdspan> Who Christmas special. My culture is everything that runs through my veins, it\u2019s everything I\u2019ve experienced, everything I\u2019ve witnessed. My culture is so vast and complex that I couldn\u2019t 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\u2019t be taught in a school or a church. It\u2019s unique to my family, our experiences, and our traditions. It is what makes us us.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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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\u2019m okay with knowing the stories of my life instead of those who came before me. I\u2019m okay with being me.\u00a0 I\u2019m proud to be mixed. I’m proud to be a MUTT<\/mdspan>.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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MUTT: Mixed Unconnected and Terribly Tethered When people stare at me and ask the age-old question of \u201cwhat I am\u201d I never really know how to respond, I know I\u2019m a bit of this and a bit of that – but I\u2019m oblivious when it comes to any of the nuances. There are so many…<\/p>\n

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