I'm a Mongrel

MONGREL [muhng-gruhl]:

any cross between different things, especially if inharmonious or indiscriminate.

There are a few other definitions of the word, but quite frankly, I don't want to degrade myself quite that much. But, in any case, I don't know what I am. I don't know what I'm made of. Not physically. Genetically.

I've always been a bit jealous of people who knew where their ancestors came from. A lot of people I know are like: "Irish Pride! German Pride! Viva Italia! Black Power!"

Yay, unidentified mixed-race origins!

I have, on the one hand, the quandary of being Black in America. Some of my ancestors were inexplicably ripped from their happy lives in indisclosed African villages to live a life of servitude, until they died.

That's my mom's side.

My father's side is much more of a mystery. Those who know me know (or at the very least deserve to know) that my father was a little bastard that left my mom after I was born. This may or may not have blessed me with the severe abandonment problems I have to this day, who knows! But, you know, good riddance to bad rubbish; we got along fine without him. The only real problem that left is: what was he?

When I look at myself in the mirror (in particularly in the winter, when I haven't had much sun) I see a girl who is much too pale to be purely African-American far down the line. I see brown eyes, too light for the only ethnicity I've only known to identify myself as, but too dark to be most of the variations of White I know offhand. So, I'm a bit lost. I don't know what I am. Not entirely.

But I want to.

I've, in fact, wanted to know what I was since the moment I noticed I was different from the other kids I grew up with. Now that I'm an adult, maybe I can finally find out.

I don't know why I'm putting this up on the internet or anything. But, who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and someone will happen across this who will know something that can help me.