The Lowell - Two backgrounds, one family (9/04)

Two backgrounds, one family (9/04)

Written by Erica Edwards

“It is the best of both worlds; you learn tolerance towards those different from you,” said my father as he discussed the benefits of coming from a biracial family. “Plus you can dance well; I gave you rhythm, if you don’t mind my stereotyping.”

I laughed as he said this, and thought about all the times I have had to explain my ethnicity to my peers. For me, coming from a mixed-race family is normal, yet wonderfully unique. I am happy that even though racism set boundaries for my father when he was my age, he and my mother grew to welcome diversity. According to my father, in the late ’50s and throughout the ’60s, his hometown, Baltimore, Maryland, overflowed with prejudice and segregation. “I couldn’t go to certain movies, amusement parks or beaches,” he said. “Not that these places were against the law, but I just felt uncomfortable.”

COURTESY OF ERICA EDWARDS
Mixed Expressions. Junior Erica Edwards poses with father, Tony Edwards, who along with his wife has taught Erica to have tolerance and compassion for everyone.

I sometimes wonder how things were when my dad was a teenager — the restrictions and the comments — but I realize that all these experiences contributed to the way my father acts, speaks and feels now about race and diversity. He always has a new story to tell about his black neighborhood during his childhood, and he talks about San Francisco as if it were a safe haven where he was able to find friends of every color.

When my father carried me as a child, as he walked down the street, people frequently directed their stares at the African American man with what looked like a Caucasian baby. “I would get funny looks when I held you as a baby, really curious looks,” my dad explained. “You were blonde and blue-eyed, and it looked like I wasn’t supposed to be your father … like I stole you.”

When my mother visited my father in Baltimore, she experienced overwhelming prejudice, as well. “On my trip in the late ’70s, I really felt the full effects of segregation,” my mother said. “It seemed everyone stayed within their own color, and I remember feeling totally out of place, although I was comfortable with myself and how I mingled with everyone.” However, she was concerned with how the blacks viewed her when she stood with my father.

I remember in elementary school, I would receive stares from curious peers when my father picked me up. “Why don’t you look like your dad?” they would ask. After my explanation, they would think of witty jokes about my ethnicity. Instead of becoming annoyed with their ignorance and ridiculous humor, I grew to accept the jokes as a part of me. I grew to love the nicknames that came with my race, such as “brown sugar” or “white chocolate.”

These names are as big a part of me as some of my physical traits. I realize that this is who I am, and I couldn’t be more proud to be proof of my parent’s loving relationship. I feel that in some way I stand for a promising future, one that does not separate the races, but rather embraces every individual for his or her own personal differences and traits.

My mother was often worried and troubled by her relationship with my father. “I never wanted him to feel different due to the color of his skin, although many times, he did,” my mother said. “When I was pregnant with you, it was other people that wondered what color you would be, I just wanted you to be comfortable with yourself…however you turned out.”

I sometimes wonder whether my life experiences would be different if my skin were a bit darker or if my physical features were similar to those of my father. Would I be a different person if my skin were dark? Possibly. Although I do not know the answer to that question, I know I would still have the immense love for both sides of families that I have today.

I love to visit relatives from both sides of the family; I get “soul food” on Thanksgiving and my grandmother’s traditional Jewish blintzs on other holidays. We pray before meals at my father’s relatives’ home; we don’t at my mother’s relatives’ houses. I’ve learned to accept each part of my heritage, and I feel honored to be a part of a family that teaches me new elements of life and culture.

As I listen to my parents’ stories and the reasons that they are still together after 30 years, I realize that ethnicity never affected their views of each other. I watch them look at one another even now, and I see something in their eyes that tells me that they accept everything about the other — the flaws, differences and talents. The way my mother looks at my father gives me hope that tolerance and an open-minded lifestyle can bring true love and a life full of amazing stories to tell.

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