When asked the infamous “what are you?” question, I define myself on my terms. Sure, its easy for someone to understand that my mom is white and my dad is black, but “white” or “black” is not the house I grew up in. I grew up in a house full of descendants of deep south mountain folk. The color of my parents skin didn’t put cornbread on the table or glue jingle taps to mom’s clogging shoes, the mountains did. If people want to know who I am they get a story, not a color chart. And no, you can’t touch my hair.
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