The worst thing a woman can lose isn’t her keys, her phone or her wallet — it’s herself. It happened to me when I was 19 years old.
For years, I had struggled with my identity — racially, socially and culturally — but it wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that these internal conflicts became exacerbated.
My mom got pregnant with me when she was 19, as a college freshman. I (not so fondly) call my biological father my sperm donor because he never was anything more and never in the picture. After she told him she was pregnant, their relationship eventually flat lined into nothingness.
My mom moved back home to mend her broken heart under the watchful eyes of disappointed parents, her belly growing each day — a constant reminder of the man who had left her to raise his child all alone in the world.
Call it a miracle, fate, God, what have you — but a little over two months after giving birth to me, she met my sensational father. By the time I was 9 months old, my mom and my dad were married.
When my sister was born a year and half later with a head full of straight, black hair, I didn’t understand why she, my mom and my dad all had straight locks and I had a head full of curls. My mother explained to my inquisitive 3-year-old self that a different man had “helped make me in her tummy” and that he had curly hair too. My mom told me that her simple explanation sent visible relief through my toddler brain. As I grew older, that relief would rearrange itself into resentment.
As a teenager, I seized any chance I could to flatiron every curly cue that framed my face as I bitterly looked back at my reflection. My hair was a superficial reminder of who I came from. My hair was unwanted residue given to me by my African-American biological father. My hate for my hair was a projection of the hate I felt toward him.
I remember in elementary school I would get offended if anyone asked me if I was “mixed.” The first time I was asked that question, I didn’t even know what “mixed” meant. A little girl told me, “You know… your dad is black and your mom is white.”
Being black wasn’t a bad thing, but me being black — that was a bad thing. In my mind, accepting my “blackness” would be a rejection of the non-black father who had raised me as his own.
In middle school, another confusing blow hit me when I learned that my biological father had committed suicide.
One evening, my parents brought me into their bedroom and told me the news of his death. Instead of feeling somber, I felt angry. I felt angry with him for taking away the only thing he had ever (inadvertently and unintentionally) given me — the opportunity to meet him if I chose to. I had no desire to facilitate contact, but I was furious that he had taken away my option by taking away his own life. His suicide was proof that he didn’t want to know anything about me.
I was left to reconcile the loss of someone who had made it possible for me to be brought into this world, but who also happened to be a stranger and the root of so many of my internal conflicts.
Growing up in an upper middle class suburb, which was racially uniform for the most part, I floated between social cliques, never feeling particularly at home in any specific one. High school, to me, was my ticket to college. I felt like all of my romantic, social and professional dreams would come true in college.
College was a fresh start — a place of new beginnings. I felt like I could be a better version of myself, and it was exhilarating to be away from the homogeneous suburb I’d grown up in for so long. Yet the fated, dreaded question still came up.
“… So Latisha, what are you?”
At times I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs… “A HUMAN BEING.” But I’d dutifully respond with, “My dad is Thai and Indian, and my mother is Iroquois and white.” But in the back of my mind I’d whisper, “but I’m half black too.”
My sophomore year, I started seeing someone who, ironically, was black. All of a sudden, I was overwhelmed by a constant reminder of my hidden identity, embodied in a person who shared some of the same rich, cultural history that I was determined to keep locked away.
He was smart and charismatic but also emotionally manipulative and tactically controlling. Our relationship was truly unhealthy, and when I ended things, it was painful.
Now you might say this relationship was a classic case of “daddy issues.” A confused and lonely girl seeks fulfillment from a man to fill the “void” created by another bad man. But the thing is, I have a great dad. One who calls me weekly and tells me how much he loves me.
The real issues lied within myself.
Being with him made me feel part of who I was ethnically and culturally without having to reveal that part of myself as an individual. My relationship with him gave me a morsel of the self-proclaimed forbidden fruit that was my “blackness.” It’s shameful for me to admit, and goes to show how insecure I truly was.
So there I was. 19. Heartbroken. Lost. Much like my own mother 20 years prior. And it got me to thinking — I need to find myself. I need to learn who I really am, feel things I’ve repressed and move on. I needed to know where I came from.
Until this point, I had no idea what my biological father even looked like. I had never wanted to stare into the eyes of the two-dimensional face that left my pregnant mother all alone, but I felt that it would be something brave I could do to overcome the fear of my origin.
In a shocking phone conversation my mother had with my biological grandfather, it was revealed that my sperm donor had fathered another child less than two years after my mom got pregnant. My biological grandfather told my mom that they had contact with my half-brother and checked in on him regularly. My brother, like me, had been loved and raised by another man and grown up with siblings of his own.
In a search to provide myself with closure, I suddenly found myself on the threshold of a wide-open door of new baggage, but in a crazy turn of events, I was on a plane to go meet my brother and his mom less than three months later. It was important for me to follow through on my journey of self-acceptance.
Discovering there was another human being who had experienced the same abandonment as me, by the same person, made me feel less alone. I don’t even know if my brother comprehends the impenetrable link we have because of it. This link has made me feel more complete.
I’m blessed because I did grow up with a father, one who has given me the world instead of my DNA.
I understand now that me being “lost” had little to do with me not knowing which racial bubble to fill in on a standardized testing sheet and a whole lot more to do with filling a hole in my heart that was left by someone who should’ve been one of my biggest supporters in life.
The Hole That Once Was is constantly being filled with love and laughter of the family that always was my family — no matter the bloodline.
I’m 27 now.
I still get lost sometimes, but in a good book or a hot glazed Krispy Kreme donut.
And what I’ve found is a whole lot of joy.
Latisha is currently working on her first novel, an anthology of short stories and essays. She thinks that snail mail is underrated and does her best to keep it alive. You can view more of her personal and professional work at latishacatch.com.