I doubt there’s a mixed person alive that has escaped the “what are you?” question. I used to answer this flatly with — I’m Jamaican and I’m mixed. If I had to elaborate, I’d say I was born there, my parents and grandparents were born there too. People would still look at me puzzled, like their brains couldn’t compute a light-skinned Jamaican person. Where they though Sean Paul is from, only God knows. But I digress, the question of what my mix is has always been complicated.
I love a mango, not only is it one of my absolute favorite fruits, some of my favorite childhood memories are of me climbing and hanging from mango trees in my grandparents backyard. I remember my first trip home to Jamaica after moving to Canada, it happened to be mango season and my grandmother let me gorge myself on them. She had even given me an East Indian mango (my favorite) to take with me on my flight. Unable to contain my excitement, I bit straight into it on the plane, hearing the delightful pop of the skin, as my teeth sunk into the soft and sweet flesh.