“Why is everyone looking at me?” Usually, kids at age 4 are thinking about coloring and toys, but I so often contemplated why the eyes of others were planted on my head. To this day, this question still comes up on a clock, from the time of my glorious childhood, to now a 14-year-old, living in a culturally diverse world.

My mother is a middle eastern (white) woman, and my father is a Hispanic (black) man. Lacking resemblance to either of my parents, I get the “are you adopted?” question often. More so, apparently there’s a game called “guess that persons' race!”, where the prize is an awkward silence and a dramatic sigh of exasperation. Sure, it’s tough to determine where I’m from by looking at me, but it's difficult to correctly guess with everyone… right?
I’m a dancer, and dancing for more than 10 years has its benefits – awesome flexibility, amazing balance and coordination, and the ability to impress. Although, everything wasn’t super peachy at my studio. Located in a very Jewish community, the studio fell short of some major ethnic diversity. All I knew included potentially become a world-class ballerina and tapping my way to the big leagues.

At 5 years-old, I found myself at the studio waiting for class to start. One girl, who had a look of intense fascination stapled to her face, came up to me and went straight for the hair. No “your hair is so nice!” or “can I touch your hair?”, but like a bullet, she flew towards me and embedded her hands around my locks. She looked like everyone else in the class – straight, strawberry blonde hair, blue shimmering eyes, and subtle freckles resting upon her cheeks. Admiring my curls, wrapping them around her skinny fingers, she picked at my head as if she pretended I was a horse in a petting zoo. Inviting her friends over, they ooh’d and aah’d to their heart's' content, treating me like a wild animal. The teacher, probably not paying attention, ignored what was going on and began warmups. Ultimately, I barely understood what happened but I understood enough to know I wasn’t being treated fairly like the rest.

Fast forward about a year, at my sister’s Disney princess-themed birthday party, my hair in its natural, curly state, and wearing a white dress I was banned from messing up. I remember this one girl, not sure of her name, but what she said to me was like yesterday;

“Why do you have black hair… if you’re white?” (She meant, why do you have the hair type of most black people if your skin color is white?) The concept of “black and white” stereotypes didn’t pass through to me yet. Dumbfounded, I said this –

“My hair isn’t black! It’s brown!” My mom still laughs when I bring up this story.

In the later years, the definition of a stereotype-filled the back of my mind accordingly, making me able to fully understand why people did what they did to me. That didn’t make it any less awkward. Seldomly, I’d straighten my hair to relieve a toll of stress on myself and also, to hide where I’m from. Since I did this, I could blend in better with the “default” culture, but that took a toll on my identity, and I’d feel culturally dejected since my face didn’t give away any hints of my true ethnic background.

The end of 8th grade was a huge deal to me; I had decided to cut my hair. A full 17 inches that had been with me for years - gone. I didn’t want to cut it, but I decided that someone else could benefit from it more than I could.
“Tu quiere’ cortarlo? Nina, tu ‘ta loca?” said my aunt. (You want to cut it? Girl, are you crazy?) The length, the natural highlights, the silky feeling, all of that she admired. But, her disappointment made me feel worse about myself than my parents did. Similar to Indian culture, long hair is seen attractive on women in most Hispanic cultures. I would be an outcast from my relatives if I cut it, but that didn’t matter to me. To avoid the dread of watching something I've had for so long leave me, I closed my eyes, sat in the chair, and covered my ears. The snipping of my thick hair was too loud to not be heard. I soon saw a cherished part of me, my beautiful locks, packed away in a zip-lock bag, about to be shipped across the nation.

Do I still get the comments? Of course, I do. I guess what I’ve learned from this experience, is that people are going to judge you on anything they can point out. You just have to learn how to push through, laugh it off, and enjoy your life. It’s hard, but it feels good in the end. Don’t stand there waiting for someone to laugh at you, then get offended that they are. Laugh with them, and appreciate your differences. It’ll show some good.