One out of 294

Morgan Foster

Grade 12, Greenwich Central School District

I am different– exactly one out of 294. Although my chocolatey skin is different from that of classmates’, somehow my voluminous curls always attracted attention and, most notably, questions. People felt entitled to poke and prod at my hair without even asking. They didn’t understand the morning battles my mother waged, armed with a hard-bristled brush and spray bottle, to yank my hair into those perfect poofs. For a while, I despised those curls. But I am different–different from my friends, family, and even my mother. As a little girl, I always felt as if I didn't belong because my brown skin and curly hair were singular in comparison to the masses of fair-skinned, flowy-haired kids. In the quaint upstate New York town I call home, I am the only African American female in my high school of 294 students.

Being biracial, I check both boxes: black and white, even though I never felt black enough or white enough to belong in either. I was too black for the white community I was raised in and too white for the black community my features resemble. Numerous attempts to identify with one circle or the other only left me feeling like more of an outsider. One day in seventh grade all of my friends were in the cafeteria discussing their dates for the homecoming dance. The night before the dance, I found myself dateless, feeling alienated and alone. My best friend responded with a mixture of feigned confusion and genuine concern to the obvious elephant in the room. I went alone, but with perfectly straightened hair, which I had never worn. I received overwhelming attention and compliments from everyone–friends, boys, adults–everyone. No one had ever complimented my curly hair. I experienced an epiphany in which the superficiality of trying to change myself for others became crystal clear: my hair is my hair, my skin is my skin. That kinky hair and rich chocolatey skin is a part of who I am. I am different, I am unique, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I began high school, my brother entered the connecting junior high, and my confidence was tested. My brother was experiencing racially motivated bullying. As my mom explained the slurs and incidents he endured, intense waves of sisterly heartbreak and anger shook my core. I always tried my hardest to shelter him from these realities. And while I had come to feel empowered by my blackness, my little brother was being punished for it. A meeting with the principal was scheduled. I realized the opportunity I had and chose the path less taken: I insisted on attending as an advocate. Ordinarily I hated talking about being biracial to people in my community, because I knew my experiences weren’t understood. I sat down with the principal, vice principal, and my parents. Legs shaking, heart racing, I locked eyes with my brother. In that moment I knew the cause for which I was fighting was bigger than myself, maybe even the both of us.

Following that initial meeting, I attended five private, productive meetings with the principal. This incident illuminated the issue, and since then the administration has addressed the student body regarding the school’s zero tolerance policy for racially charged language and comments. I am proud of my advocacy, not just for my brother, but for all students of color. In truth, it wasn’t about the bully, but rather the inherent, subtle system failure that perpetuated this incident.

Growing up biracial in a predominantly white community forced me to forge my self-identity sooner than most. That sense of self will guide me throughout life, wherever I go. The way I wear my rich biracial hair is ever changing because I am certain that does not define me, but what will always stay true, is who I am. I am biracial. I am an advocate. I am different.