Q is for Cuban: My 3 Year Old’s Biracial Identity

My motherhood has matured a lot in three years. I am strong enough to now say that I was really afraid to have mixed kids, to raise a biracial identity, and for reasons, you might be shocked to learn. When you are in an interracial marriage, people think you somehow become an advocate for equality or civil rights – that your marriage symbolizes a quest for “one love”. Or something like that.

Actually, I married the guy that treated me better (way better) than any other guy I dated. I married him for probably the same reasons you married your guy. I fell in love and wanted to have his babies.

Raising Cuban and Black Babies

Did you know today marks the 50th anniversary of the march on Washington and MLK’s famous “I have a dream” speech? Before having biracial babies, I might not have either. But when you become a mother, the plights of your kids become your own. You have to take your blinders off. Listening to the “concerns” over what my kids would look like made it a difficult beginning for me. And yes, I was afraid society would see just black in my kids. That the part of them that’s me, the Cuban in them would be lost in the eyes of everyone else in this beautiful country of ours.

From the media we consumed to the toys I purchased and even the people we kept in our lives, from the moment I became pregnant, I was obsessed with raising awareness of raising multiracial children. If it didn’t support multiculturalism, it wasn’t welcomed in our home. Ultimately, I started this blog to create a lasting legacy of my Latino, mixed race family.

Related: What to Expect When Expecting Mixed Babies

I’m happy to have gone through the personal growth that I did as a bi-cultural Latina, growing up in beach town USA, though when my daughter was born, I lacked the confidence to raise a resilient biracial identity. Starting this blog and the Personal Identity Project over two years ago helped heal the parts of me that were broken. It also helped me connect with other Latina moms, magnify my stories of Latino multiculturalism as an American woman and to grow up enough to become the mom my baby needs.

I used to, and still do, get comments from family and friends who say that I make race and culture too big of a deal in our parenting. They love us, and have well intentions, but let me tell you this – they are all white or fair-skinned. Never has a black or brown person advised me to hide our differences away for the sake of acclimation. Never. When I wrote Why I Wouldn’t Dare Raise My Kids To Be Color Blind, I meant it. In our little world, there is no hiding our differences anyway. We are very brown and black, significantly darker than our friends. And while I don’t shun my child’s questions over skin color, I also want her to feel at home in our community and within our friendships, regardless of skin color. Truly, we are so very much the same.

Cultural and racial identity is just starting to form at the tender age of three years old. My closest African American girlfriends and one of my sisters-in-law is privy to some of her earliest comments regarding dark skin. Because at some point my daughter will read this and will undoubtedly be a young woman of high morals, all I will say is that her comments were very less than nice.

For many months, my girl only wanted to be Cuban like me. In fact, “Q” was her favorite letter. You know, because Cuban starts with “Q”.

I was devastated to hear self-hate spew from her beautiful lips. Should I have been surprised, though? Growing up in an environment that is predominantly white, guided by a mom who pushed bilingualism and Latino heritage constantly, this was surely a parenting lesson for me.

This is the problem with pursing color blindness, with mainstream being void of culture and color and diversity: children are NOT blind unless they are actually blind. My husband is black and, not only did my child need to hear me acknowledge that, she needs me to celebrate him. Cherish her black family and the legacy we all share with them. And she needed me to call her black, too. She is black and brown. African American and Cuban. She is biracial and beautiful. And she is mine.

This past week at preschool, Alina and her classmates painted pictures of their faces. Three years ago, I feared situations like this – would she be forced to use a certain color? Would she insist on using the same color as everyone else? Would using a different color make her painfully different?

As she came skipping into the house after our drive home, Alina proclaimed, “Mama, I painted my face with orange today. But Joey [name changed] painted his face with pink.”

And with that, she proceeded to ask for her favorite sandwich. With raspberries on the side.

Mi Queridad Alina,

I just want you to know that you can ALWAYS talk to me about color. While we’ll hold off on the orange-colored skin tones, I am very pleased  that you chose it. I’m proud of the confident way in which you proclaimed your choice and I’m honored that you shared with me that it was different from the other kids’ choices. The world is a beautiful and kind place if you allow it to be. You will have so many friends in life. Some will look like you, many won’t, but they will all love you because of the values you carry in your heart. Loyalty, kindness, compassion matter so much more than skin color – but don’t let anyone tell you that you should be ashamed or blind to the beauty that is your outside. “Q” might not technically be for Cuban, but it might as well be for you.

Un día te voy a decir más, pero para hoy, I’ll just say that our quest in biracial identity continues…

Te quiero, mi hija,

Su Mama