Confessions of a Mixed (Up) Kid

Yes, yes, we all know the narrative
What’s wrong bro? Ferguson’s scaring ya?
Then the world reacts — all too embarrassing?
Eyes all around, you can feel them staring in?
Well that’s what I’m on right now
Just watch me walk around in my small town
Pretty, but pretty white
It’s silly, I still fright
That they’ll only see me as black when I mostly feel white
I’m a mixed-up kid
In a self-assigned, much maligned suburban bid
But focus on aesthetics will only leave me indebted
More like in chains on a slavery refrain
Do I fit in because I’m paper bag vetted?
Do you like me because your black appetite is whetted through Much Music and
MTV?
Full of your expectations? I am empty, see?
My cultural shorthand is too innate to express
The attempt only puts my mind in duress
Yes, this messed up psychology bothers me and possibly hinders my movements on
every shopping spree
I remember when I first heard Lawrence Hill
Connect me with young brothers up in Forest Hill
I didn’t start from the bottom but I knew I had a problem
My rolling stone papa treated me as forgotten
My high school years down in Lorne Park
Intelligent kid, I am going far
But the black side of town was the foreign part
And you know I was judged well before the start
But never mind the black folks
I just love the black jokes!
Especially playing stereotypes
Ham it up for my friends, it’s embarrassing right?
Until I got stopped one embarrassing night
5−0, drive slow wasn’t steering me right
Already backing down not preparing to fight
I knew it wasn’t racial but the scariest sight was
Even though I was wrong I could swear I was right!
Maybe there isn’t a question here
Maybe you just need to give an invitation to speak
And trust me, if it’s an invitation I trust I will bust
Because of too many years of The Question
You know the question: «Jon, Where Are You From?»
But you never accept ‘Canada' as the answer
It’s not a micro-aggression for me
Because it tears open this box of memories
Blowing up my past sending shrapnel into my present reality
Your answer to this question is, «My dad is from Guyana»
My answer is much more complex
It’s the generations of Swiss & German settlements
Years of farming, keeping the peace & serving The Lord
My mom is not merely white, just as my dad is not merely black
And oh the doors you open when you fish for my non-Canadian heritage
You just remind me of the broken father who didn’t how to love
Who passed down no cultural inheritance
Giving me nothing but a chest tightening fear every time I have to interact
with a black person
See I’m a mixed up kid
A mixed up kid with a white family who accepts me
Who give me a secure sense of self when I’m with them
So it’s okay if you see black
Just keep the whole picture intact
And if you don’t see black or you lack tact?
Well, we’ve got much more to discuss than that
It’s still a fight
I’m still wrestling wrong and right
Lord, can you help me be me?
And even when it’s not okay, all I know is I can’t run away
Lord I’ma try and be me