I recently wrote to Dawg (for some reason) that “I’m a former Catholic with redneck-moonshine-running Southern roots, so I can’t say much about crazy, can I? I’m pretty sure my family wrote the book on crazy.” Add to that rather colorful mix, that I grew up In. Da. Hood. Oh, I don’t mean “on the other side of the tracks.” I mean, “tracks? What tracks? Who’s fucking shootin’ up?”

Yeah, it was like that.

It was a racially semi-diverse neighborhood but the majority of the residents were black. I am not. I am biracial but my birth father is Native American. My mom and adopted dad are just about as white as you can get.

Still, despite my nonblending appearance, I didn’t really stand out. It wasn’t that I tried to blend or whatever. I just *did*. These were my friends and all that, you know? I didn’t know anything different. The music of my youth wasn’t The Mamas & the Papas and the typical 70s groovy music or acid music, but Grandmaster Flash, Kurtis Blow, the Sugar Hill Gang, the Commodores and like that.

Then, when I was 15, we moved to Cedar (mother fucking) Springs, MI. Farm community. Where I did not blend despite being more visually similar.

Here’s an example of my not blending:

On my first day at the new school, I decided I should be more conservative looking, you know? I was pretty sure these kids didn’t dress like I did. So, I wore a black skirt (not too short, not leather), a white button down loose outside the skirt but belted w/ a wide belt that was slung around my hips, black hose (but not fishnet or anything) and black boots (knee high, about 2.5” heel, so not too high).

I almost forgot to tell you about my hair. Yes, the hair. Because that’s where I really attracted attention. I have no pictures of this hairstyle because my mother hated it and she said that if I wanted to look that ridiculous, then she did not have to record it for posterity.

What was the Mom-hated-hairstyle? Cornrow braids. But not Bo-Derek-in-10 cornrow braids. Nope, sugarplums, I had ghetto fabulous nearly-waist-length-with-beads cornrow braids.

People looked at me a lot. And, probably? Not in a good way. I ended up getting my hair cut shortly thereafter. I admit it. I succumbed to peer pressure. Or at least peer weird looks.

After that, I went to a private Catholic college. I learned to be a white chick at my high school but even more so at college. I mean, I’m not so malleable as to completely change my personality but I did need to be able to get along, you know?

But guess what? Every now and again my roots show. One of my friends pointed out to me that I, the Grammarian, frequently end a sentence in a preposition. I say all the goddamned time “Where you at?” Apparently, that is because of the ethnicity of my peer group when I was at my formative years. (Or so the friend in question – who was herself of that ethnicity – told me.)

Recently, I had a Twitter exchange that cracked me up for so many reasons.

Here’s how it went:

Me: and I have totally jacked your *blink blink*
Friend: You have jacked it? Translation?
Me: Oh, right. You don’t speak hoodrat. ‘Jacked’ means “I totally stole it.”

I catch myself saying things like “Well, I can be down with the simple life sometimes but I’m a fan of the Four Seasons” (hello? down with and the Four Seasons in the same sentence?) or “I jacked your *blink blink*” Sigh.

I expertly meld my White Girl with my Hoodrat and, every now and again, throw in some Indian for good measure. (Cause really? I can make frybread that will make you moan in gastronomic delight.)

You know that expression “You can’t go home again”? Sometimes, you can’t leave it either.

So all that is to say: whatever your roots, try to accept them. Bring them into your current life rather than trying to hide them. Because really? They’re gonna sneak up on you if you don’t.