Adopted and Mixed Race: Navigating Identity and Belonging

I have always known I was adopted, and for as long as I can remember, I knew I was mixed race. My adoptive parents were very conscious – especially given this was in the 70s – that adopting a black child might be too much of a struggle in our predominantly white area. They thought it would be easier to adopt a mixed-race baby. They had suffered several miscarriages and wanted to give their love to a baby who had less chance of being chosen. 

I remember from about age three having two books side by side: “How Babies Are Made” and “I Am Adopted.” After reading these, we read a letter from the hospital where I was born, which included information about my birth parents. It said my mother was 15 when she became pregnant, half Italian and half Sudanese, and living in the Ivory Coast. My father, also from the Ivory Coast, was half Chadian and half French (which I later learned was actually Congolese and Belgian). 

So, I always knew I was adopted, always knew I was mixed race – half African, half European – and as I grew up, I looked different to everyone in my family, so it was also hard to hide!

My family made sure my difference was not seen as a problem - it’s funny, though, how when your difference is constantly pointed out, you never quite feel as if you fit in.