The Difference Between Being White-Passing and White

A few months ago, a Black female TikToker with 163,300 followers posted a video criticizing the singer Halsey for wanting people to “consider her a Black woman” when she is only a quarter black. When a commenter pointed out that had Halsey been born during slavery, she still would have been enslaved (and that, in fact, Sally Hemings, the woman with whom Thomas Jefferson had an infamous relationship, was a quarter Black), the creator replied by claiming Halsey is still white because a lot of white-passing Black people say they’re white to be treated better.

The hashtag #whitepassing currently has 16.2 million views on TikTok. While many of these videos are made by white-passing creators claiming a place in communities of color, a seemingly growing number of videos center on the idea that white-passing people are essentially white.

As a biracial, white-passing woman, I never felt personally offended by the propagation of the idea that “white-passing equals white” on social media. This changed, however, when I saw a recent post on @bipoc_cu_thoughts, a student-run Instagram page through which Columbia University undergraduate students of color can submit their thoughts and confessions, which are often about, but not limited to, race. The post also essentially elaborated on the idea that white-passing people should be considered white.

Upon seeing this post, my finger went straight to the comment button. While I knew that because the poster was anonymous I would likely never know who they are, I wanted to see who had liked their post. I also felt the need to set the record straight and defend myself to the students with whom I had been interacting on the page for months. I typed out a comment about how although the Black community doesn’t always see us, and we do not share in their personal experiences of oppression, white-passing Black people mourn alongside them in meaningful ways. I explained that while white-passing Black people have interactions with the white world that are different from those of other people of color, this is not the only thing that categorizes the experience of being a person of color.

What I didn’t say in the comment: I know I am Black because I feel it in my core. Because I process the world in the mind of a person of color, because a room full of white people feels lonely.

But even though I push back on some people in the Black community’s claim I am not Black solely because of my light complexion and straight hair, I also refuse to be angry with this ideology because I know it stems from a place of hurt and oppression. I know better than to speak on the experience of Black people who don’t pass as white like I do. It is my privilege as well as my responsibility to learn about the struggles of looking Black because I will never experience it myself.

This summer, I was sitting under a tree in Marcus Garvey Park with activist Cherish Patton, who founded The Descendants, which is a youth-led group fighting for our right to be Black in America. We are both 18, both mixed-race with Black moms, though I pass as white and she does not. “We are the descendants of the enslaved you could not break and the Africans you could not kill,” Cherish told me.

White-passing or not, I only exist because my ancestors endured the unimaginable. I have been gifted life by Africans who carried on. A certain kind of beauty comes from finding exquisite joy in an identity that can be so painful to bear at times. But when the pain feels heavier than the joy, we help each other bear it. While some Black people may not see me as part of their race, they are all a part of my joy and my inspiration and they are there beside me through my suffering. This is why I am inextricably entwined with the rest of the Black community, this is how I know I am Black.