r/biracials

I have a white passing friend who is mixed 75% white and 25% black. She is coming to me often for validation for her blackness and normally lumps me into conversation regarding her adjacency to her blackness bc she wasnt raised in a black household. She is completely white passing, think halsey, besides her 2b hair texture. She often gives herself waves and claims she faces racism often. She also told me she wants to be betty boop for halloween. I dont ever say anything in regards to her blackness bc i feel its a to each their own thing. But my mono-racial black friends have made it abundantly clear that all of this is problematic and i need to say something. What do you guys think? I’m mixed race myself but I didnt realize there was levels to ts and want to be educated (im 50:50 mix so i have no issue with my blackness or my perception).

The rising hate on interracial relationships is absolutely disgusting. As a black woman with a white boyfriend seeing members of my own community hating and trying to regress what our ancestors fought and died over??

It’s sickening seeing people online literally harass couples and saying “you’re diluting your race” MEMBERS OF my own community. Seeing a group of men who were surrounded by cops get in a young mom’s face and call her toddler a “mudshark” it’s so absolutely scary.

It’s genuinely concerning and concerning for our future children they wont be excepted in a world where they’re “too black or too white” or “too light or too dark” it’s so ridiculous and disheartening.

The ridiculous talking point that “you can’t be pro black and date outside of your race” or calling random white people “oppressors” like when does it end???

Why isn’t it you can’t be pro black and be homophobia or transphobic or colorist?? Why do we constantly look at white people and say they’re the oppressors? Does being pro black mean you can’t love who you love?? It’s ridiculous how people will try to police and judge anything.

People going online and saying oh these couples always look so guilty and ashamed maybe it’s because you’re staring at them THAT HARD to notice.

I’m not chronically online and I do take frequent long breaks but why has it become so cool to under appreciate the sacrifices made by older generations? Why aren’t we all just humans but social constructs of everything? Why do others have to feel so morally inferior and constantly fight over the moral high ground?

It’s bothering me and the safety of my own relationship seeing people literally harass couples or people based off of who they’re with or their color.

Why can’t love just BE love? Why do others constantly think they have to OKAY your existence or others? It’s really heartbreaking.

I am writing this from the cracks.

If you look at a map of the world, you will see borders drawn in bold, black ink. You will see nations defined by rivers, by mountains, and by treaties signed by men who are long dead. You will see Denmark, a peninsula of ice and order. You will see Zimbabwe, a teapot of granite and grief.

But if you look for me, you will find nothing.

I am a man of no land.

To the bureaucrats in Copenhagen, I am a nuisance. I stood before their glass partitions, holding the tattered documents of my grandfather, Jon Petersen a man who left their frozen fields to dig in the African heat. I showed them the name. I showed them the blood that pumps through my heart, a rhythm that was composed in Jutland.

They looked at my skin, scorched by the African sun. They looked at my passport, stamped with the hyperinflation of a failed state. And they shook their heads. To them, history is not blood; it is paperwork. I am too diluted for their mercy. The Vikings do not want their lost children back.

To the revolutionaries in Harare, I am a relic. A "Coloured." A "Totem-less" mistake. Despite the fact that my great-grandmother on my mother’s side was Shinawako Chiganane of the Wazezuru, a woman who hid in the caves of Zvimba while Robert Mugabe’s ancestors were still learning to herd cattle, I am not "Black enough." To the new regime, I am a reminder of the master’s sin. I am the fence they want to tear down.

I am too White to be a Son of the Soil, and too Black to be a Son of the North.

I grew up in the shadow of a Danish mechanic who could hack a truck to run on wood, and a Shona spirit medium who could hack the rain to fall on maize. I am the alloy of the hammer and the earth.

But alloys are not welcome in a world that demands purity.

So, I became a hacker. Not just of computers though I learned to make machines sing the songs of my sorrow but a hacker of life. I learned to survive in the blank spaces where the government forgot to look. I learned that if you cannot belong to a country, you must build your own country in your mind. You must build it out of mathematics, out of memory, out of the sheer, stubborn refusal to disappear.

This book is not just a story. It is a visa application to the only country that will take me: The Truth.

It is a record of the hunger in Sunningdale, where I calculated algebra in the dark because we had no electricity. It is a record of the cold dormitory of the Children’s Home, where I was stored like a broken tool. It is a record of a father who chased gold and found dust, and a mother who chased peace and found war.

I am sending this signal out into the static.

In a sea of voices, I hope you hear me. Not because I am special. Not because I am a hero. But simply because, against all the odds of biology, politics, and geography...

I exist.