Losing a parent is profoundly destabilising. It takes the world as you knew it – the certainties, the constants, the safety nets – and whips it out from under you. In addition, as I have discovered over the past two years, there is an extra layer of complexity that comes with being mixed-race and losing the person who connects you to half your heritage.
My dad, Tony, was Black. He was a quite well-known figure here from his work as a journalist with ITV and the BBC, particularly in northern England. And in the months after he died one sunny day in August 2020, I began to question everything about myself.
Like many people who lose a father at a relatively young age, I’ve asked myself, who am I without him? Am I living the life I should be? Would my decisions make him proud? But beyond that, my dad was for me the one person who could reaffirm my sense of self, who could tell me who I was with little more than a look. And he was no longer here.
When I walked down the street with my father, I never felt as if I had to explain my existence: there were no questioning looks, as my sister and I still sometimes get when we’re with our white mum. Dad was our tangible, physical answer to the question, “What are you?” In those early, broken months without him, I felt I was no longer able to answer that question.
My dad’s parents were Jamaican, and all three of them died within a year of each other. His father went first. I watched my dad’s stoic face as the coffin was carried to the front of the church, not knowing that in just a few months my sister and I would have to watch the same thing. Six months after dad died, his mum passed away in Jamaica. Two generations gone, just like that, and with them so many unanswered questions.
Dad was estranged from most of his relatives for most of his life, after being brought up in the care system. He has an older sister who grew up in Jamaica, and a younger half-sister whom he was close with, but the family was fractured. As a result, my sister and I never travelled to Jamaica with him, or had those natural connections with that side of our family.
Losing this one firm link to my Jamaican heritage was forcing me to question my racial identity. My place in the world, even the authenticity of my Blackness, suddenly felt up for debate. Why hadn’t I pushed harder to forge those family connections for myself, to ask the questions about where we come from? The guilt that comes hand-in-hand with grief took on a different dynamic through this lens of mixed parentage.
There is a secret shame that comes with having little to no knowledge of one side of your heritage. It leaves you feeling as if you’re playing catch-up, trying to fit all the pieces together retrospectively so you’re not clueless when people ask you where you’re really from – so you can cook the recipes people expect you to be able to make, so you can claim that part of yourself with a greater authority. I thought there would be more time to play catch-up, to sit down with my dad and ask him these questions, to travel to Jamaica together.
During the many interviews I conducted for my book Mixed/Other, with people from all different kinds of mixed backgrounds, this sense of feeling a need to prove your heritage, or the fear of being perceived as “inauthentic” and “not enough”, was a recurring theme. So then it should be no surprise that the world-crushing pain of grief can bring these deep insecurities back to the surface.
Being mixed-race can be a blessing – having two distinct family histories gives you an insight into an extra part of the world, and a wider perspective on many aspects of life. Given my experience, I’d advise those of dual heritage to make the most of this – to create strong connections with both sides of your family. Building your knowledge this way can be incredibly empowering.
Clearly, this isn’t always within our control, and it isn’t a personal failing if some are unable to uncover part of their heritage. But I’d urge people not to stop trying. One young man I spoke to, of Pakistani and British heritage, told how he was learning Punjabi in his 30s so he could joke with his cousins. Another spent months travelling solo to find his grandparents’ birthplace. For others, those steps were as small as expanding their reading or messaging an auntie on Facebook. No matter whether you face a lack of connection due to geography, politics or bereavement, there are always ways to restart that conversation, to pick out your own path back to yourself.
Earlier this year, my sister and I went to Jamaica for the first time. We did it like other British tourists, staying in a beach-front hotel in Montego Bay; and yet there was something about being there, walking on that soil, breathing the warm air, that felt calming and recognisable to both of us. It hurt to be there without Dad, but at the same time we were proud of ourselves for taking that step on our own. It’s now up to us to build the bridges we want to build, to form our own connections to our heritage and what it means to us.
Natalie Morris is a journalist and author. The paperback version of her book, Mixed/Other, is published this week
