caucafrican

My mother is black and my father is white. Contrary to logic, I came out a weird yellowish-brown color instead of steel gray. On top of that little letdown, being biracial has made it difficult to fit into society’s classification systems. Many black people are embarrassed by my relative inability to breakdance and my stalwart use of proper American grammar/a belt for my pants. Many white people are afraid of me because my penis is extremely muscular and my hair is more akin to a Brillo® pad than... well, hair. The whole situation is very stressful. I ride a shaky fence that most people don’t even notice - a fence where you’re two things, but most people see you as nothing - a fence topped with barbwire and straddled by angry wolverines with paws that feature retractable power drills. The only solace I find is in accepting myself as neither black nor white - and yet simultaneously both. It sounds complicated but, really, it isn’t. It’s much easier than juggling a codeine addiction and a job as an eighth grade counselor. I simply call myself a “Caucafrican” - a beautiful marriage of the words “Caucasian” and “African”, if I may say so - when my race comes into question. Most people are so confused that they just nod slowly and inch away backwards. And in the case that I get bothered further? Bam! I deliver a punch square to the baby-makers! Take that Michael Richards!