Let's start with the basics. What does biracial mean? "Bi" means "two" and "racial" means relating to or characteristics of races or a race of people. Together these word parts mean relating to or characteristics of two races. That's me. My mom is white and my dad is black. It doesn't seem like a big deal right? Well, maybe it's not, but no one has ever asked what it's like to be part of two worlds. What people ask is: Am I more black or white?

Even as a baby I didn't fit in. I didn't look like my parents, and most people thought I was adopted. "The thing I most remember is feeling like I had to keep your birth certificate on me," my mother says, "I had this gnawing fear someone would challenge my relationship to you. Like someone would try and take you away."


When I asked my dad how he felt about my ethnicity, he said, "All I am ever worried about is you having to go through the same trials and tribulations as I did being black. Even though you're half white, people will still see you as black." According to my parents, living in Staunton, Va., wasn't the best place for a "mixed" child, to grow up. It wasn't the most "diverse" town and so after two years my mother moved our family to Berkeley.

I have written about how my ethnicity affected my parents. Now it's my turn. I'm tall like my dad but not dark enough to really resemble him. I have my mother's hazel eyes, but the similarities end there. My hair is probably my most striking feature. It is big and curly. Pencil curls, that tend to frizz up and block the view of anyone behind me. My hair isn't anything like my mom's or dad's. It's all mine, totally different from both of them. Appearing so different from my parents sometimes creates situations that make me angry. How many times have I stood in line with my mother and the cashier says, "Oh, your orders are together?" "Yes, that's my dad." "No I'm not adopted." Or having to explain to total strangers what ethnicity I am.

Being biracial seems to confuse society. I am constantly being asked if I feel more black or white, even after 59 years of desegregation. Do I have to choose? I shouldn't. I fit into my own category, not black or white, but me. My skin color doesn't define who I am. I am a regular teenage girl, who goes to school, hangs at the mall with her friends, and listens to loud music my father doesn't quite understand. I'm biracial. That's a part of me, but it doesn't make up all of me.

By Avery Johnson/ Opinion writing: Grand Prize
The author is a eighth-grader at Holy Spirit School