Beige. White. Yellow. Brown. Skin tones are the characteristics that consume our society. Race triggers a multitude of assumptions, though by social standards this concept is supposedly irrelevant. It is painful to me every time I hear the question “what are you?” or, from a young age “no, you can’t be black.” It never seems to help when I add that my dad is from Dominica, an island in the Caribbean, because then I am obviously confused and “Hispanic.” Why would I possibly know where my family originated? As a five year old I was rejected from the hand-clapping games, “you’re not black and this is a black girls’ game,” even though I knew every rhyme and clap without hesitation. Or when I was eight and I could not be in the Princess Club with the white girls at my new school because “you don’t really look like the rest of us.” At the age of seventeen, I still remember these as the days I realized that identity means everything and the way others identify you holds significant weight.

My mom is a full-figured, cinnamon colored, dread lock wearing woman. When she brings me to my concerts and people see us embrace my heritage seems reasonable, for a while at least. Then after my show when I finally see my tall, manila folder colored, father drowned in freckles with his salt and pepper hair and he congratulates me on a job well done, my identity becomes questionable again.

People question us, my brothers included, when we enter parties. As we feel the rhythm and slowly begin to move bystanders wonder if we are a blended family. I move my hips left then right to the sound of Soca blaring in broken English through the speakers. I lean back and forth allowing Jay-Z to reintroduce himself: the switching of movements so natural that I could not possibly restrain myself.

Both of these cultures feel so naturally blended within me that I can never understand why they are so ambiguous to others. When collard greens are put on the same plate as baccala it feels right, like home. When I smell salt fish mixed with green peppers, tomato, garlic and onions I can picture the trees and rivers of Dominica. Collard greens transport me back to the South as I envision my ancestors bonding and singing. My mouth waters at the thought of the seasonings and spices mixing together. My heart races with the flavors blending ever so gently on the tip of my tongue and I cannot help but to always want my food together.

I am mixed, a fusion of actress and socialite, with a dash of nerd, Black, Caribbean and soul. I am a cocktail of the people with whom I surround myself. I am a hybrid of the struggles that Toi Derricotte and James McBride endure in their own families; feeling lost at times, constantly being compelled to identify themselves to others. I am a blending of the music that I listen to and the food I eat. It finally occurred to me that I cannot check off or be put into a box, identified by one or two words. This world consists of individuals: each being part of the recipe essential to the stew. We are all mixtures of everything around us; my ingredients just emit from my body and sit on top of my skin for everyone to see.