I am mixed. This means, because I have a drop of black blood in my body, that I will never be fully white. I will never be fully hispanic. Because I have white blood in my body, I will never be fully hispanic or black. I am a mutt. My ancestors enslaved my other ancestors, shedding blood on land that was never theirs. But my native ancestors were also killed, leaving the world with a little less magic and love.

I recognize my privilege. My lighter skin gifts me more opportunities than darker girls and my curls are recognized as beautiful and elegant where other black women’s natural hair is deemed dirty or unprofessional. I am well-spoken in English, and although it seems the language barrier between my spanish-speaking Mexican grandmother and I will never disappear, we understand each other. I am thoroughly whitewashed; thrown into the washer to hot water with plenty of bleach. And yet, I will never be able to experience the true extent of privilege and virtually world-wide acceptance that my white mother has had all her life.

Despite my inability to fit into any facet of my racial identities, I revel in being mixed. I grew up to be accepting of all, to not see color, to accept all and treat all with respect and love. I proudly bubble in my ethnicities when I take standardized tests and enjoy having new friends play a guessing game of what race I most closely resemble. I am miscellaneous and I am proud. My curls are such a central part of me, my tangible signature that bounces when I strut down the halls of my school, that the overwhelming hatred that I used to feel for them almost surprises me. My mexican spanish-speaking fiery grandmother who I love so dearly often tells me my curls look dirty or unbrushed, insisting that I straighten it with a curling iron or takes me to have my hair straightened to a crisp for my birthday. How strange that, for an occasion that is meant to celebrate me and all my uniqueness, I hide such an integral part of myself. My white grandparents, who I am sure mean well, do not like my voluminous locks, and the summer before middle school, took me to their barber to cut them off in an attempt to make my hair “not as big or as unruly or unkempt looking”, as my Nonna put it. The white girls in my Catholic K-8 school had such long beautifully straight hair flaunted their long locks while I had to wait for my curly hair to grow out, with every inch growing out curling up around my head in a triangle-shaped disaster, while having to deal with the cursedly often question of “are you a boy or a girl?”.

Now, in high school, away from the Catholic white-girl binary that still haunts me, I am proud of who I am. I love my hair and my family - even though the occasional comments do sometimes halt my perpetual smile - and I would crack a joke if someone did somehow confuse me with a boy, even though my hair is now shoulder length and my body type has evolved from its carrot-like shape. Now, I am proud to be Caiya, the mysterious (and modest) beauty who sashays down the hall with the confidence of a world-renown supermodel. The mixed girl with the curly hair.