A person’s race is more than just checking a box

Being biracial is simple, right? You’re half your mom’s race and half your dad’s. But as I have uncovered, the reality is anything but simple.

My mother, Black with brown hair and brown eyes and my father, white with blond hair and blue eyes, birthed me, a hazel-eyed, caramel-complexion girl who never knew where she fit in.

I moved to Modesto from the Bay Area when I was 7. I attended El Vista Elementary, La Loma Junior High and Thomas Downey High School. I lived in a couple different areas in Modesto; once in an integrated neighborhood and another time in an all-minority neighborhood. Wherever I lived, a common question to me was, “What even are you?”

One of my earliest memories was at El Vista Elementary being asked to check a box about my race. “Am I Black? Am I white? But, I’m both,” I would always think to myself. “Why do I have to choose?” I remember being so conflicted on what to check that I raised my hand to ask the teacher. Each teacher gave me a different answer.

But, my confusion didn’t end with how the outside world saw me. Things were blurry at home, too. I would ask my dad what I was and he would tell me white. I would ask my mom’s side of the family and they would tell me, “Always remember, you’re Black and you’re proud.”

I live in a world where Black somehow means loud, ghetto and poor, and white means proper, rich and smart. Why do we subject our children and ourselves to these artificial narratives?

Why can’t I just be Fallon Ferris? A happy young girl who is proud of all of her roots and interested to learn more about each of them.

In my senior yearbook I remember an article written about me stating “Fallon, the girl you can’t fit into any category.” And no, that wasn’t because I was the oddball and didn’t fit in anywhere. It was because I fit in everywhere.

I was cool with the jocks, nerds, cool kids, mathletes, drama kids, Christians, and the “you name it” kids. I wanted to get to know each and every one of them. Skin tone, facial structure, religion or intelligence — none of that mattered. All I cared about was just how cool it was that everyone was so different.

I still feel that way, and being able to slip into many different groups, I’ve learned how alike we are and how our differences make such incredible contributions to our community, county, and our country. That is actually one of the main reasons I have relocated back in Modesto; I want to help make Stanislaus County a nurturing place for all of its residents. This is also the reason for my involvement with the Youth Empowerment Project — I want to help our county achieve equity at all levels and ensure the success of our youth.

For those reading my story, I want to challenge you with a task to celebrate Black History Month. My challenge: Be youthful again. Step back and have the optics of a child, when we were open-minded, prejudice-free and open to loving others. Remember when almost anyone was seen as a possible new friend? Please take some time and look at someone, putting aside your implicit bias to set a stereotype on them, and get to know them.

I promise you’ll be delighted at what gems of people we have in Stanislaus County, all from different backgrounds, sizes, shapes, styles and yes, colors. You can start with me, a mixed-raced, hazel-eyed, caramel-complexioned, curious girl who fits nowhere, but belongs right here.

So now, when people ask “What even are you?” I just tell them, “Fallon Ferris, that’s who.”