Performing in an Afrobeats dance at school, as I moved my body to the music, I couldn’t help but wonder: ‘Why am I in this?’
There was no doubt I was enjoying myself, I just couldn’t understand why I’d been chosen for this particular number.
Afterwards, I asked my teacher what the casting process had been. ‘We wanted to feature all the Black dancers in the yeargroup,’ they replied, off-handedly.
Their response had rolled off the tongue without a second thought – but I was completely stunned.
This was the first time in my life anyone had ever referred to me as Black; and, in that moment, I realised that all the suspicions I’d had about my heritage had just been proven correct.
I was 16 years old – and my world had suddenly changed forever.
I was born in South Africa and adopted as a newborn in 1997. My birth mother had had another child about 18 months before having me, and had gone to the adoption agency two or three weeks before I was due because she didn’t feel able to cope.
According to my adoption paperwork, my father was the same person who had fathered my mother’s previous child – which meant, on paper, both my parents were white Afrikaans.
It later turned out, this was not the case.
I grew up in the Kent countryside, which, at the time, had a very white population. When I was little, I always accepted that I was white. I just didn’t know any different; and I didn’t face any racial tensions in my childhood. When I saw Black people on TV or in the media, I didn’t really liken myself to them – even though, in hindsight, it was glaringly obvious.
But my parents and I always used to battle with my hair. I had a horrible relationship with hair-brushing, hair-washing, hairdressers; all of it. Once, when I was about 12, my hair was so matted that I cut a chunk right out with scissors. My uncle, a hairdresser, later remarked on my bald patch.
I struggled with make-up, too, although I didn’t fully realise why at the time. When I look back at photos of myself aged 13 and 14, I can see how horribly the foundation I was experimenting with matched my skin.
When I was about 15, I found myself getting increasingly curious. I started to think, ‘Hang on – my hair is very coily and curly; I look different to the people I’m at school with.’
The more I looked in the mirror, the more I realised I looked nothing like my white counterparts. I started to feel very ‘other’; and I started to really dislike my curls, because I could never do the same hairstyles as my friends.
I was always very happy, but it was a frustrating time. I was desperate for answers to the increasing number of questions swirling around in my mind; so I started asking my mum and dad what they knew about my heritage and birth parents.
My dad had managed to find my birth mum on Facebook years previously, having been curious about what she was up to – and when I started asking questions, he showed me a photo of her. She’s white, and blonde.
We found the man listed on my adoption paperwork as my birth father, too – and, as we stared at pictures of him, with his fair skin and mousey brown hair, we knew there was no way he could be my dad. His son, on the other hand, stood next to him in some photos, and they were like twins.
For a while, my mum remained confident that this man must be my father – she couldn’t believe that the adoption agency could have lied or made a mistake – but eventually, the more we looked at photos of him, the more the three of us agreed that this couldn’t be the case.
By the time I was going to dance class, aged 16, I was more or less sure I was Black. And when the dance school teacher referred to me as it so casually, I was convinced I was right.
I felt so vindicated; but I still didn’t know how or why the mistake on my adoption papers had been made, or even what the mistake was.
With the weight of this new knowledge, I didn’t know what to do or where to turn “Quote”
It was my then-boyfriend who convinced me to take a DNA test. We were sitting in a cafe when he passed me the Ancestry DNA kit. ‘Just do it,’ he urged me. ‘So you can have your answers.’
I did the test right there and then, in the cafe; it was just a tiny mouth swab, but my hands shook with adrenaline and excitement.
Three or four weeks later, I got the results: My father is Black, of Bantu Peoples heritage.
‘You’re not insane,’ I thought to myself, flooded with relief. ‘You had it right.’
My parents both accepted the DNA results. While my mum had never questioned what was on my paperwork, I think, on some level, my dad always knew – but he hadn’t wanted to bring it up because he didn’t want to cause any upset. He didn’t want to make my mum feel as though she’d been lied to. While he knew she didn’t care what race their baby was, he worried she might feel a sense of betrayal from my birth mum and from the adoption agency.
I felt immense satisfaction at finally having absolute confirmation of what I’d long suspected, but I simultaneously realised I’d lived through nearly two decades without connecting with Black culture. I didn’t feel any anger towards my adoptive parents, but I did feel a surge of frustration about having to ‘start over’ with who I am.
Memories washed over me, now full of hindsight. Once, I’d gone to church with one of my friends, who was Black, and everyone there took a real liking to me. At the time, I assumed they were just being welcoming – now, I realised they’d probably assumed I, too, was part of the Gospel church; that I had Black parents.
With the weight of this new knowledge, I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. ‘What am I missing?’, I wondered. ‘What do I need to be aware of? Do I just go and join a Gospel church? Do I go and get braids?’.
My parents were very supportive, helping me learn about hair management and giving me books about Black culture, and I tried to gravitate more towards the Black girls in my yeargroup. I remember treading a fine line of trying to make conversation, while also trying to learn about the Black community.
Ultimately, I started educating myself on who I am – which was tricky, as a teenager.
Now, though, I’m a lot more confident. I’m 29; I’ve known who I am now for over a decade, and I also have a three-year-old daughter, who is Black herself and who has a Black father. I’m now helping her with her hair, and it feels so rewarding to know that she doesn’t have to have the traumatic hair experiences and identity crises I went through. We have a shared connection, and that has been incredibly healing for me.
I still don’t know why my birth father was incorrectly identified on my adoption papers; whether it was a genuine mistake, or whether it was deliberate.
I go back and forth on whether I should reach out to my birth mother to ask her. On one hand, I would love to get the final answers about what happened and why. On the other hand, I don’t feel any emotional connection with this woman – I think of my adoptive mum as being my real mum in every sense – so I wonder if it would be selfish to to approach my birth mother 29 years later with the sole purpose of getting my questions answered.
It’s one I’d love to know the answer to before I die – but I don’t feel a burning need to meet my birth father. I know who I am now, and I have all the family I could ever need; and for that, I feel immensely grateful.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing izzie.price@metro.co.uk.
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