Navigating Identity: The Complexities of Passing, Code-Switching, and Belonging

Words by Alexandria Mitchell-Pressman

Embarrassment felt a lot like overexposure. Like one of those dreams where you realize midway through your presentation you aren’t wearing pants and everyone is laughing at you. Only I wasn’t dreaming and thankfully I had my pants on. I was in the Publix parking lot and my dad’s hand was stretched out to me. He wanted me to hold it. I wanted to disappear. I hated the stares we would get by holding hands. My small black hand in his large white one. 

At five years old I was adopted into the Kelly family. I was their only child. A princess if you were to ever meet one. We lived in the suburbs, went from one after-school activity to another, and ate family dinners together every night. The Kellys taught me to read, write, sit up straight, to use manners when talking to an adult and to be seen, not heard. My adopted father was from England and was delighted anytime someone would compliment me on how “well-behaved” I was for my age. He was a stickler for rules. Especially his. 

My adopted mother was a beautiful woman and very intelligent. I remember looking up at her and feeling as if something was so wrong with me. I would compare our features in the mirror. Her long brown hair, and smooth pale skin to my untamed curly hair that would soon be permed for “manageability,” and my skin that was 2 shades darker from the summer sun. If my adopted mother was my standard of beauty (as most mothers are to their young daughters) what did that make me? Who was so unlike her in every way, from physical features to temperament. 

I know it must have hurt, my pulling away as a child when we were out in public. But I knew our family was different. I knew that people stared and whispered to each other as we walked by. I knew I wasn’t like other children who looked like me at school. Having to defend my Blackness to other Black children became something I would deal with all my life. And so at a young age, I wanted to distance myself from what made me “other”. 

I have not easily fit into spaces that were designed for me. Identity for me is such a hard concept to grasp. It dances in my peripherals yet every time I turn to look, it is already gone. Identity is elusive and shadowy. A mistress of the night, if you will. Always a step ahead of me. What does one say about identity when they don’t fit into a neat category? 

On applications and government forms, I put African-American. That is my race. I’m unmistakable in my Blackness. I’m proud of that. I love my race, my people and all that we have achieved. All that we have survived. Our creativity is unmatched. Duplicated but never the original. 

But I can say that culturally I have not always fit into Black spaces. Or what people believe are stereotypical Black spaces. I’ve never known a backyard barbeque, the prayer of a Black grandmother, or the influence of rap and R&B on the way home from school. I’ve never sat on the floor between the thighs of my mother and had my scalp greased. Never tasted collard greens straight from the pot. 

I grew up in a culture that wasn’t my own. Growing up I heard that I spoke/acted white just as many times as I had to clarify that ‘yes, those are my parents’ in the carpool line. 

Understanding my identity as a child was confusing. I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be mad at the people who raised me or join the culture that teased me growing up. Was there a place for me to fit in?

For most of my life, I’ve lived in a state of identity confusion. Throughout my childhood I’ve been subjected to subtle inferences that distorted my concept of self. A sigh, facial expression, passive-aggressive comment, emotional distance; that let me know I was not like them. Neither white nor Black. 

Many of us don’t recognize or accept our strengths and the wholeness already within. We don’t acknowledge that we are not the sum of our outward identity. We believe it’s impossible to fail and still be loved and accepted simply for who we are. So, sadly, our lives become all about performance.

A performance to fit in. To be seen a certain way even when deep down it doesn’t ring true. Authenticity is replaced by a masked production. Who was I around and what did I need to do to be accepted? Talk a certain way, tone down my personality, or hell, have no personality at all. After a while, I learned to do it so well that when it was all said and done in the quiet of my room I didn’t know who I was. What was it that I was supposed to like? What do I do when there is no crowd to entertain? 

Developmental scientist and sports psychologist Dr. Benjamin Houltberg calls this phenomenon “performance-based identity,” which is defined by contingent self-worth, high perfectionism, and irrational fear of failure.

I can confidently say that we all crave love, attention, affirmation, worthiness, and respect but believe the only way these needs can be met is when we perform beyond expectation. I got used to singing for my supper to be accepted by each of the communities that held value to me. I got so used to internalizing what I thought people expected from me– from my parents, peers, even waitresses at diners– that the voice I internalized wasn’t theirs anymore. It was mine. I no longer needed them to torture me, I could do it on my own. 

As I got older I learned that there was another term for this kind of behavioral adjustment referred to as “code-switching.  Harvard Business Review says, “Broadly, code-switching involves adjusting one’s style of speech, appearance, behavior, and expression in ways that will optimize the comfort of others in exchange for fair treatment, quality service, and employment opportunities. Research suggests that code-switching often occurs in spaces where negative stereotypes of Black people run counter to what are considered ‘appropriate’ behaviors and norms for a specific environment.”

I find it ironic that code-switching has long been a strategy for Black people to successfully navigate interracial interactions to help them survive, for their well-being and advancement in life. And as a Black woman, I know that I myself have faced racial discrimination not just within my own community but in white communities; especially in the workplace. I too have adjusted myself to fit in with my peers to work extra hard at not being seen as an “angry Black woman” (by the way, I hate this term with all my heart). 

However, for my life, code-switching is almost the complete opposite of what we consider “the norm.” Because I grew up in a white family and was surrounded by more white culture than Black culture, I felt that I had to code-switch to fit in with my Black peers.

I can remember times when I would hang out with Black peers and almost be seen as a circus show because of how evident my “whiteness” was. I would be the butt of jokes, Or be asked to perform and show my “Black knowledge” to gain access to certain communities. Now that I’m older it’s easier to find friends of all kinds of races. Friends that care more about the content of my heart and character, everything else be damned. 

As I’ve gotten older and social media has become more accessible I find it comforting hearing stories that ring similar to mine.  I see it a lot with Black women in the gaming and cosplay communities who have spoken out about feeling excluded from both mainstream geek spaces and Black cultural spaces. As well as Black women who were shy and introverted growing up feeling as if there was something wrong with them. 

There has also been a critique of the lack of representation in both disability activism and Black cultural movements. Many feel excluded from mainstream Black empowerment narratives, which often focus on able-bodied people. While #BlackGirlMagic was created to celebrate Black women’s achievements and beauty, some Black women, particularly those with darker skin and 4C hair, have spoken about feeling excluded from mainstream representations of the movement.

I’m not alone in my feelings of identity and belonging. I have a deep love and appreciation for Black culture and want nothing more than to see us thrive, succeed, and take up space. We are magic– brilliant, talented, and endlessly versatile– I just wish we embraced the full spectrum of Blackness in all its forms. Whether you’re a nerd, a country line dancer, or someone who’s a little awkward and unsure, there should always be room for you.

I’m thankful that we have more representation in the media of Black women and men. Shows like Insecure and Abbott Elementary remind us that cultural identity isn’t monolithic but vast, layered, and deserving of celebration. Every facet of who we are deserves to shine just as bright as what’s traditionally accepted.

So, this is a letter to the women who have ever felt like there wasn’t space for them. I have plenty of seats at my table. You are welcome. You are seen. You are loved. 

 Happy Black History Month! May we continue to rise, excel and be magical.