Why I'm No Longer Uncomfortable About Being Mixed Race

So, here's a thing. Because it’s Christmas.? And at Christmas you tell the truth. ? I’m mixed race.? I look milky white.? But I’m not.? And it's taken me 42 years to be comfortable saying it.??

As a kid you just want your family to be the same as everyone else’s, right? Looking around me that meant – white, two parents together, middle class, middle aged. Problems right there.? Problem 1 my parents.? There weren’t two of them for long, they split up when I was 6 or 7.? Problem 2 middle class? No.? We didn’t own our own house or have a car.? Problem 3 middle aged - no again, my parents were horror in their twenties! (And good-looking too - a fact that irritated me EVEN more. Why did they have to draw more attention to themselves?)? And lastly, problem 5, the big one, my mum was white and my dad was black. Having a black dad was a big deal back in the 80s.? And even more strange was.. Problem 6 - that made me technically mixed race - but I just looked white. Mixed race wasn’t a term in the 80s.? So people just looked at me.? Or so I felt.

Some kids used to ask: "Did you know your dad is black?" Like perhaps I hadn't noticed he was a bit... brown. With a look on their face like: And what are you going to do about it?? And I was like….ummmmmm. Help!

Perhaps the grown ups in the family had the answers? Maybe not.? My dad’s father was a man of few words, lots of hair ruffling and would find the occasional pound in his wife Rita's purse for you. Rita was smiley and made rock cakes. They had seven children so I was never short of aunt and uncle playmates. Their mum was white but they were all a beautiful colour brown and the girls had dramatic beauty spots and dark hair. When I was with them, I wished I was more like them.? There was an ease about who they were, a comfort in their own skin.? Grandad had pictures of an exotic looking island and exotic looking people on his walls.? Occasionally they would talk of them:? That’s Aunty So and So.? That’s Uncle So and So. That's St Helena. “Back home,” Grandad would say.? But no more information than that.? My other Nanny talked non-stop about family gossip… but somehow the big stuff never got asked.

My mum’s family were middle class, white and just a little bit posh. They had a cleaner. They had a conservatory and a garage and the Daily Mail delivered every morning. Their house was unique; it wasn’t the same as every other house on the street like the houses on our estate. They had two loos. They drank tea from china cups, not smoked glass mugs. They were into the arts. My great grandmother would often break into song and my gran painted. ? I was a shy bookworm but could never find my voice among them.? I longed to be more like my mum and Gran – pretty, gregarious – but it just wasn’t me.?

So, two, different, loving setups but I didn’t feel like I quite fitted into either. I worried.? Why didn’t I fit in?? My blackness or mixed race was something to keep quiet, to hide. I knew that because there was the odd black kid at school and as I grew older I'd hear racist comments. The worst stays with me even now. "Piss off back to Wogland." I remember there was an awkward split second pause as everyone looked at me like oh no your dad is black, but we didn't mean you and I looked at them like I know. But as I watched the little black boy run off grinning awkwardly (I got the feeling he had heard it all before) my blood ran cold.? Part of me was running with him. I felt hurt and insulted for him, and I wanted to run away and tell him I was sorry.? But I couldn’t and I didn’t. So I just stayed with the racists. And anglicised my dad's name to Alan in future.?

My dad wasn't around to contradict me. For a long period, from when I was aged 16 years old to 40, I didn't see my dad or his family. I wasn't conscious of the loss at the time. I'd packed it away to deal with later and I fully intended to, when the time was right. But I had other things to negotiate- puberty, Uni, boys.? Becoming me. Having fun. My answer machine message "I'm out. Try Route 66," said it all.? But I was always wrestling something in my mind.? There was part of me I hadn’t explored yet. ? I thought I was missing my dad. But it was more than that, I was missing my heritage. I didn’t know who I was yet.

I remember filling in forms for first bank accounts and first rented houses and trying out not automatically ticking the box for White British.? For a long time I had done that but it felt deceitful and disrespectful.? Other just about covered it.? Yet I didn't want to ‘blackfish’ or try and appropriate something that didn’t feel like mine.? Was it mine because I hadn’t claimed or explored it yet? ? I felt uncertain.

Out of the blue I received an invitation to my Grandad’s 80th. Older, more confident, less busy - a mother myself now - I thought yes, I’d love a chance to reconnect. But I was nervous. I was literally walking into a party with a bunch of strangers. Would I be the white kid in the room again who didn’t quite fit in with anyone?? Did it matter?

There's a Welsh word for missing a home you've only loosely known but feel intense nostalgia for hiraeth. From the second I walked in and heard Michael Jackson and saw my aunts grooving on the dance floor and went to join them, I was home. Oh there you are! I've been looking for you. You were here. All the time. As they embraced me, the years melted away and a big part of me that had been missing and confused returned. They wouldn’t have cared if I had two heads let alone was a bit paler than them.? They just saw family. Let's dance.

So after 20 plus years of being on pause there's lots of happy exploring to do. Finally discovering about the tiny British owned, deep South Atlantic Ocean island of St Helena. Learning more about all the generations of men and women who helped me become me.? The global St Helena family.? It's been magical. There's still a lot of hanging around grown ups' houses. But I’m one of the oldies now.? Now Grandad ruffles my daughters’ hair and finds a pound for them in Rita’s purse – just like he did me.? And Rita’s cakes and biscuits are for them - not me.

I still don't know where I stand on being mixed race. Maybe there isn't anywhere to stand. Maybe I'm just... me. But getting to know the cousins and aunts and uncles and joining the laughter and conversation, I don’t feel so self-conscious anymore.? I'm embracing it.

?An edited version of this article originally appeared in The Pool in 2018