One afternoon in fifth grade we were having a discussion about African Americans and slavery in America. Most of my classmates confessed to not knowing or having ever socialized with any persons of color. None of this really resonated with me, I had black relatives. However, I was operating within some sort of racial ambiguity, so much of what they said didn’t seem to permeate my little space, until… One of my classmates blurted out “You know Sheelagh and she’s black!” Most of my classmates looked surprised, and so was I.

I didn’t feel embarrassed or hurt, just confused by what I was so rudely forced to deal with. Our teacher sensed my discomfort and quickly redirected the discussion. By the next afternoon, it was a moot point and my friends and I continued the way we always had. However, I continued to think about it for several days. It then occurred to me that It was time to have that talk with mom and dad. One morning before school and over breakfast I asked my mom “Am I black?” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the horror on my father’s face. He’s never been happy about discussing race. Even now it makes him uncomfortable.

My mom followed my question with a question, “Did something happen in school?” I gave her the abridged version and then patiently waited while she gathered herself. I was not the kind of child to be dismissed or shooed away, so they were cornered. The discussion could no longer be deferred until another more convenient time. I wanted to look at my dad, but I knew he wasn’t having any parts of it. My mother feigned a smile and began telling me that I was the product of a richly diverse family and that it was up to me, which parts I choosed to own.

To explain further… My dad is caucasian (Irish American) and my Mother is the product of a African American mother and a Black and caucasian (Italian) father. Most times when I talk about myself, I don’t generally bring up my grandfathers ethnicity, because it is a long and unhappy story for him, so I’ve not always owned it. However, it is very relevant to who I am. I took a DNA Ancestry test last year. It came back that I was over 70% European. It wasn’t really much of a surprised, given the fact that I already knew family’s history. However, it was a surreal moment. It’s one thing to know and a whole other thing to see it in black and white. Somehow, that makes it real and strange.

My mom went on to say that for me there is no right answer, and that despite my diversity, people will always choose to put me in whatever category they see fit for and is comfortable with. When they can’t, she said that I should be a prepared to talk about it endsly. That didn’t really clear things up, but it put it in perspective. I have the best of many worlds, and while race in itself is a social construct, it consist of many flavors, and I’m a product of several flavors, most of us are, in varying degrees.

It’s like Kool-Aid. It’s all made from the same stuff, with color and flavoring to make it appear different. Strip it down to it’s base…and It’s all the same. We are all humans. The difference between me and anyone else…I know which flavors my Kool-Aid is made of. And for the sake of this discussion…I generally identify as a mixed race woman. Saying that I’m a simply a black woman dismisses my father’s contribution to my existence, and I refuse to do that. As simple as the idea of race is, it is also very complex.