Story.

Will I own mine?

Will you own yours?

I am mixed. I am bi-racial, hoppa-- half.

My mom is a Filipina from Hawaii. My father, Norwegian and raised in Seattle. Every school I went to-- every church we were a part of-- there were very few, if any, who were like us-- mixed.

Christmas was always the hardest time of the year for me. During this part of the year it was hard for me not to feel just how 'other' I was. Yet, I would somehow, as a child, have a hopeful thrill in my heart at the thought of being with family. This thrill was not something of naivety but of childlike faith which kept something in me able to hope for deep connections.

I grew up in Washington so most of my family ties were of my father's side of the family. Coming together at Christmas with all my blond haired, blue eyed cousins reminded me all too often how different I was. Initially, I wouldn't feel that, (still coming off of an adrenaline high from all the anticipation and excitement) but not too far in would I start to feel loneliness that the difference would bring. I would leave confused, disappointed and disillusioned.

I internalized these messages of difference. Some of these messages were overt like the time my best girlfriend told me that she was better than me because she was white and I was brown or the countless times I was told by friends and family members that potatoes were the staples of choice and nutritionally better for you than rice. While others were covert and intangible like the subtle ways my white family would speak about the differences of my mom perpetuating the reality of 'outsider'.

I spent a great deal of time internalizing every message. I found myself frenetically seeking to find a place that would fully accept me and understand me. I found myself hating who I was and where I came from.

It has taken a great deal of work, introspection, vulnerability and risk to begin to own my story. It has come by way of good friends and husband who have weathered my confused questions and painful stories for me to see something redemptive in all of it. You see, the harder I tried to strip myself of me-- of my story-- the more I became invisible to myself.

And albeit painful, I have come to love who I am. My story is one of hope.

I cannot and will not try to put on another person's story or identity. I will not question my place in time or history. I will not try to make a part of me less visible. I will not speak like you or act like you. I will not hide. I will not like only what you like. I will not always agree with you. I will be tender. I will let my gifts of intuitiveness and sensitivity lead. I will listen. I will allow my story to help me to hear others' stories. I will not be empowered by what you say I can do. I will lean on the God given gifts and insights that have been extended to me. I will speak from conviction. I will speak from my truth, my history, the legacy handed to me-- my story. I will not be ashamed of who I am or the ambiguity of what being mixed brings. I will own my past, carry my present and peer with childlike wonder into my future. I will not wait for your cue to tell me when to speak, act or be. I will have peace. My identity will not be affirmed by how you see me. I will acknowledge that I am created just as God desired me to be. I will speak invitationally. I will move. I will be honest. I will hope.