Written by Laila Woozeer
Queer non-binary writer, musician and author of Not Quite White Laila Woozeer explores how 90s pop culture proliferated the fetishisation of mixed-race people, and left a problematic legacy that is once again coming back into fashion.
Growing up mixed race in the 90s, it was difficult to see yourself. The representation of mixed people was poor at best – I so rarely saw anyone I could identify as “like me” that I became accustomed to scanning TV shows and films for anyone “different to the norm” – ie, not white – and projecting onto them instead. Though I could see they were not mixed as I was, characters like Phoebe in Hey Arnold!, Susie in Rugrats and Tia and Tamera on Sister, Sister became stand-ins for a community I longed for but didn’t know existed.
The only actual mixed person I knew of was Mel B, aka Scary Spice. She had a huge impact on me when I heard her describe herself as having a “brown dad and white mum” on TV – wow, so just like me! But beyond the definition of what it meant to be mixed, I wasn’t aware of what we shared.
As I grew older, I had dozens of unanswered questions: were there other mixed people, or just me and Mel B? Because I couldn’t find any representation of myself, I didn’t know where I belonged, or what I was supposed to look like – and as I couldn’t tell what community I may or may not be able to join, I didn’t know who to ask.
I internalised a lot of anxieties that were difficult to articulate. By the early 00s, fashion trends had become the low-rise, tiny bag and diamanté denim that we see having a resurgence now. But they were always accompanied by straight blonde hair and orange fake tan skin that I, as a thick, dark-haired and naturally brown person, couldn’t assimilate to. I tried to fit in but it was incredibly difficult, and the inability to catch up with my peers only seemed to further underline that I wasn’t supposed to be there.
“As I grew older, I had dozens of unanswered questions: were there other mixed people, or just me and Mel B?”
Looking back, it’s strange I felt this way because there were dozens of mixed people in the media during the 90s. Naomi Campbell, Keanu Reeves, Tiger Woods, Halle Berry, Mariah Carey and even the aforementioned Tia and Tamera, to name just a few, were all huge parts of the cultural landscape in the 90s, spanning TV, film, music, as well as people with mixed racial ancestry. As a child, I wasn’t aware of them as mixed, or how it might connect to me. Media in general did not recognise being “mixed” as a topic that might warrant discussion (beyond disclosing that you were), and I can only assume it was either not encouraged to talk about for whatever reason (for example, Tia and Tamera playing characters with two Black parents), or more likely,discussing their mixed heritage during this time may have been seen as a random topic given there was no wider conversation of mixedness to speak about. Even though many of the people above have openly talked about their mixed experiences, this didn’t ever feel like a movement or idea that could reach.
By the mid-00s, Miquita Oliver, Mutya Buena and Myleene Klass were prominent mixed faces in the media but again – I didn’t understand this explicitly. As “mixed” so often meant “white and Black”, it was only a very specific type of light-skinned Black person that was pigeonholed as being “mixed” and held up as an example of mixedness at that time. It was much later in my life that I became aware of mixedness having been defined as some other specific thing – and unfortunately, not in a positive way.
By the mid-2010s, “mixed” had become a regularly used word to describe the “in” look. Despite there being no one set way mixed people can appear, the accepted “mixed look” became a vague ethnically ambiguous style consisting of heavy face and body make-up in brown tones, strongly defined facial features (often including lip fillers and other cosmetic surgeries), thick dark hair with wigs and hair extensions. This look became so popular and fetishised that whether or not you were actually mixed in any way didn’t matter – you could look “mixed” but be completely devoid of any actual mixed heritage. Many proponents of the so-called “mixed look” were using blatant blackfishing and racefishing.
For me, an actually brown-skinned, thick-dark-haired person, it was a slap in the face to have been so ostracised in terms of available representation in my youth, only for my appearance to have become a fashion trend in adulthood. Seeing white women adopting this appearance so widely celebrated (such as Kylie Jenner) was incredibly frustrating. How could something that had made me feel so alone now be co-opted in such an empty, surface way?
By 2022, 10% of the world’s population is mixed, and there is an open and ongoing dialogue on what it means to be mixed. People are more aware of how many different nuances of “mixed” exist – partly thanks to changing attitudes in the media and partly with the rise of social media and sharing their own voices. However, we still see a lot of mixed fetishisation (and general racefishing), such as the “are they white or South Asian?” TikTokers and the “guess the ethnicity” quizzes online using racially ambiguous celebrities. The resurgence of Y2K fashion and style has furthered the fake tan/two shades darker foundation obsession that began two decades ago, and 2021 saw mainstream controversy over Jesy Nelson appropriating Black culture and appearing to look “mixed” during promotion of her single Boyz.
It seems that despite the increased representation, some degree of mixed fetishisation remains: whether it is the idea that mixed people represent an “end” to racism, or the apps that allow you to combine pictures of an interracial couple and predict what colour a hypothetical baby will be. For me, I have gone on a long journey to see myself: forming my own sense of style that pays tribute to my ancestors on both sides of my family, and making efforts to produce work that represents me and people like me (such as in my music, theatre shows and book). I’m hopeful that we can reach a point where we form connections that go beyond what we look like and instead centre our shared experiences.
Not Quite White by Laila Woozeer (£16.99, Simon & Schuster), is out now
Images: Sian Shoots Photography; Simon & Schuster; courtesy of Laila Woozeer
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