Born Wrong Racism in America for Mixed Race People
“I looked at my biracial child for a long time. He was perfect in every way. His skin was almost white. I rubbed his head and felt the silkiness of his hair. He was so tiny and helpless lying with his mother. I took out my knife and was about to cut the cord and for some reason my little biracial child stopped crying and strained to open his little eyes.
It was as if he wanted to see the person who had touched him; the person who would save him. He turned his tiny head in my direction and squirmed as he slowly opened his eyes for the first time. ”
“That’s when I saw them, my baby’s eyes. They were blue. It was like reliving the curse of my mother. I picked him up and held him close to my heart for a long time knowing that he would have to live with the racism in America. He stopped crying. I could feel his tiny heart beating next to mine.
I longed to kiss him, to comfort him, to tell him how much I loved him and how beautiful he was. I wanted to tell him how much I wanted him. Then, my life flashed before me. Would he have to suffer as I did? Living as a mixed race child and endure the racism in America.
Would he hate me as I hated my “father”? I wondered what life would be like for him in this world living as a mixed race child.
Then I realized, he didn’t need to know.”
“I looked at my biracial child for a long time. He was perfect in every way. His skin was almost white. I rubbed his head and felt the silkiness of his hair. He was so tiny and helpless lying with his mother. I took out my knife and was about to cut the cord and for some reason my little biracial child stopped crying and strained to open his little eyes.
It was as if he wanted to see the person who had touched him; the person who would save him. He turned his tiny head in my direction and squirmed as he slowly opened his eyes for the first time. ”
“That’s when I saw them, my baby’s eyes. They were blue. It was like reliving the curse of my mother. I picked him up and held him close to my heart for a long time knowing that he would have to live with the racism in America. He stopped crying. I could feel his tiny heart beating next to mine.
I longed to kiss him, to comfort him, to tell him how much I loved him and how beautiful he was. I wanted to tell him how much I wanted him. Then, my life flashed before me. Would he have to suffer as I did? Living as a mixed race child and endure the racism in America.
Would he hate me as I hated my “father”? I wondered what life would be like for him in this world living as a mixed race child.
Then I realized, he didn’t need to know.”
