{"product_id":"mixed-isbn-9780345481146","title":"Mixed","description":"\u003cb\u003e“Tell anyone who asks that you’re half-black and half-white, just like David Hasselhoff  from Knight Rider.”–Angela’s mother\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Love has no color,” insist Angela Nissel’ s parents, but does it have a clue? In this candid, funny, and poignant memoir, Angela  recounts growing up biracial in Philadelphia–moving back and forth between black  inner-city schools and white prep schools–where her racial ambiguity and doomed attempts  to blend in dog her teen years. Once in college, Angela experiments with black activism  (hoping to find clarity in extremism), capitalizes on her “exotic” look at a strip  club, and ends up with a major case of the blues (aka, a racial identity problem).  Yet Angela is never down for the count. After moving to Los Angeles, she discovers  that being multiracial is anything but simple, especially in terms of dating and  romance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By turns a comedy of errors and a moving coming-of-age chronicle, Mixed  traces one woman’s unforgettable journey to self-acceptance and belonging.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise  for \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eMixed\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mixed is a hilarious must-read for anyone searching for the enchanting path to self-discovery. Angela Nissel's precise account of living the mixed race experience not only hit home with me, but the journey is deliciously enlightening and heart-rending at the same time. It's a journey well worth taking.\"­\u003cb\u003e—Halle Berry\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I love Angela Nissel's writing. Reading \u003ci\u003eMixed\u003c\/i\u003e was like getting a letter  from a best friend I forgot I had. How ironic that a book written by someone who  felt like no one \"got\" her will surely be one of those rare books everyone gets-  black, white, both, neither. Hilarious, sweet, and honest, \u003ci\u003eMixed\u003c\/i\u003e is the perfect read  if you've ever felt like the one standing on the outside­—and let's face it, who  hasn't?\"­\u003cb\u003e—Jill Soloway, author of \u003ci\u003eTiny Ladies in Shiny Pants\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If David Sedaris was a straight biracial female, this is the book he'd write. This book is so funny I've already started telling people I helped Angela write it.\"­\u003cb\u003e—Bill Lawrence, creator of \u003ci\u003eScrubs\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nissel is humorous,  poignant, and proud yet also empathetic and generous as she recounts her constant  struggle to answer the perennial question persons of mixed race seem required to  ask of themselves in our society–where do I fit in?.... All readers stand to learn  from her account.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Colorful anecdotes, marvelous dialogue and a thoughtful  narrative make this memoir a delight.”­\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\"Growing up black and white, I always felt I had the best of both worlds. I feel the same way about \u003ci\u003eMixed\u003c\/i\u003e. It's the perfect blend of hilarious comedy and sometimes tragic reality.\"­\u003cb\u003e—Yvette Lee Bowser, creator of \u003ci\u003eLiving Single \u003c\/i\u003eand executive producer of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eHalf and Half\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I love Angela Nissel's writing. Reading \u003ci\u003eMixed\u003c\/i\u003e was like getting  a letter from a best friend I forgot I had. How ironic that a book written by someone  who felt like no one \"got\" her will surely be one of those rare books everyone gets-  black, white, both, neither. Hilarious, sweet, and honest, \u003ci\u003eMixed\u003c\/i\u003e is the perfect read  if you've ever felt like the one standing on the outside-- and let's face it, who  hasn't?\"\u003cb\u003e—Jill Soloway, author of \u003ci\u003eTiny Ladies in Shiny Pants\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Nissel is humorous,  poignant, and proud yet also empathetic and generous as she recounts her constant  struggle to answer the perennial question persons of mixed race seem required to  ask of themselves in our society–where do I fit in?.... All readers stand to learn  from her account.”­\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Colorful anecdotes, marvelous dialogue and a thoughtful  narrative make this memoir a delight.”­\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If David  Sedaris was a straight biracial female, this is the book he'd write.  This book is  so funny I've already started telling people I helped Angela write it.\"­\u003cb\u003e—Bill Lawrence,  creator of \u003ci\u003eScrubs\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Praise for\u003ci\u003e The Broke Diaries\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Unsentimental prose and [a] wicked  sense of humor.”­\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Searing, laugh-out-loud commentary.”­\u003cb\u003e—Honey\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAngela Nissel\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of the bestselling comedic memoir \u003ci\u003eThe Broke Diaries,\u003c\/i\u003e about her financial struggles in college, and the critically acclaimed \u003ci\u003eMixed,\u003c\/i\u003e which chronicles growing up in a mixed-race household in the 70s and 80s. She also has an extensive career as a television writer and producer, with credits including \u003ci\u003eScrubs,\u003c\/i\u003e Tyler, the Creator’s \u003ci\u003eThe Jellies, ’Til Death, The Boondocks,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Last OG\u003c\/i\u003e. She is currently part of the creative team behind ABC’s groundbreaking \u003ci\u003eMixed-ish,\u003c\/i\u003e the first network comedy to explore issues of mixed-race households.\u003cb\u003eWhite Thug, Black Panther\u003cbr\u003e“Mom, how did you and Dad meet?” I asked my mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eover the phone. It was close to her bedtime. I was praying she was\u003cbr\u003edrowsy so I could catch her off guard.\u003cbr\u003e“Reverend Rob says hi,” my mother replied, in a tone that\u003cbr\u003emeant \u003ci\u003emy man is sitting next to me, so I’m not going to talk about your father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eIt always happens. I bring up my father, and suddenly my\u003cbr\u003emother’s favorite Lifetime movie is on or her fiancé is there and\u003cbr\u003eshe just has to catch me up on how his mortuary classes are coming\u003cbr\u003ealong.\u003cbr\u003e“Guess what he told me? The more fat you have, the more\u003cbr\u003eslowly you decompose,” she continued.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not that I don’t love hearing about Reverend Rob’s adventures\u003cbr\u003ein the death-care industry, and I’m certainly glad my mother\u003cbr\u003ehas found love after thirty years of being single. She and Reverend\u003cbr\u003eRob make an adorable couple. He’s five foot four; my mother is\u003cbr\u003efive foot zero. I’m taller than both of them, and looking down at\u003cbr\u003ethe sight of them in tiny love is so cute, sometimes I have to restrain\u003cbr\u003emyself from patting them on their heads. It’s like you could\u003cbr\u003ejust stick them on top of their own wedding cake and serve it.\u003cbr\u003eI know my mother doesn’t enjoy talking about my father, especially\u003cbr\u003ein front of her fiancé. It took months before she even felt\u003cbr\u003ecomfortable telling him that her ex-husband was a white man.\u003cbr\u003e“I’m a little worried what he’s going to think,” she said to me,\u003cbr\u003eabout a week before she confessed her vanilla sin. Reverend Rob\u003cbr\u003ewasn’t shocked; he just laughed and pointed to a picture of my\u003cbr\u003emother, my brother, and me. “Come on, now,” he said. “Unless you\u003cbr\u003eadopted your kids, that’s pretty obvious.”\u003cbr\u003eMy husband and I are the same race (African American and\u003cbr\u003eeverything else except Asian), the same religion, and lived less\u003cbr\u003ethan two miles from each other, yet it took us one-year subscriptions\u003cbr\u003eto Match.com and six months of e-mails and chatting before\u003cbr\u003ewe met. If it took all that for us to find each other, how in the world\u003cbr\u003edid my mother, a Black Panther from West Philly, meet and marry\u003cbr\u003ea white guy from a small town in upstate Pennsylvania? I don’t\u003cbr\u003eeven think my father had black people in his hometown; I remember\u003cbr\u003ebeing six years old and taking long rides to visit his relatives.\u003cbr\u003e“Where are the sidewalks?” I asked my mother from the backseat\u003cbr\u003eof our Ford Granada.\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know,” she said. “They seem to just disappear once you\u003cbr\u003eget out of the city, don’t they?”\u003cbr\u003e“Where are the black people?” I asked, later on in the trip. She\u003cbr\u003egave me the same answer she had for the sidewalks.\u003cbr\u003eI gave up on probing into my mother and father’s dating life that\u003cbr\u003eevening and called a few weeks later. After listening to details of\u003cbr\u003eReverend Rob’s latest mortuary lesson (bargain coffins may not be\u003cbr\u003esuch a bargain), I tried a slight variation on my original question\u003cbr\u003eabout my mother and father’s romance.\u003cbr\u003e“Mom, what did you think of Dad when you first met him?”\u003cbr\u003e“I thought he was black,” she replied.\u003cbr\u003eOh. My. God. Who approved my mother’s Black Panther application?\u003cbr\u003eIf she couldn’t tell the difference between a black man and\u003cbr\u003ea white man, how effective could she have been at fighting \u003ci\u003ethe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eMan? How could she ever think my green-eyed, freckle-faced,\u003cbr\u003esandy-haired father was black? He’s so pale that my mother’s postdivorce\u003cbr\u003ecode name for him was Master Alabaster, as in “Girl, I have\u003cbr\u003eto go to court again. Master Alabaster hasn’t paid child support for\u003cbr\u003esix months, but I saw him driving a brand-new car.”\u003cbr\u003eThere was silence on my mother’s end of the line. I started\u003cbr\u003elaughing so hard I coughed and had to throw down the phone for\u003cbr\u003ea moment to compose myself.\u003cbr\u003e“You okay? Get some water! Get some water!” my mother, always\u003cbr\u003ethe nurse, yelled through the receiver.\u003cbr\u003e“How could you think he was black?” I choked out between\u003cbr\u003elaughs.\u003cbr\u003e“What do you mean, How could I think he was black? He lived\u003cbr\u003eon \u003ci\u003emy \u003c\/i\u003eblock!” my mother said, and started laughing herself. “There\u003cbr\u003ewere no white people except his mother for miles around! He had\u003cbr\u003ea black stepdad, and all his friends were black. I just thought he\u003cbr\u003ewas mixed and came out really light.” Her voice lowered. “I was\u003cbr\u003enaïve, I guess. I was naïve about a lot of things.\u003cbr\u003e“To be sure about his race, I asked him about it on our first\u003cbr\u003edate. He had taken me to an oldies night, and we were dancing. In\u003cbr\u003ethe middle of one of our dance moves, I just came out and asked\u003cbr\u003ehim, ‘Are you white?’ He said, ‘Yep.’ He told me he was born in an\u003cbr\u003eall-white town in Pennsylvania and moved to West Philly when his\u003cbr\u003emother got remarried to a black man.\u003cbr\u003e“I thought, Oh, Lord, what have I gotten myself into? We kept\u003cbr\u003eon dating, though. People looked at us like we were crazy. I had a\u003cbr\u003every big Afro and a very white man on my arm.\u003cbr\u003e“You have to understand, I worked for the Black Panthers in\u003cbr\u003etheir free clinic as a nurse \u003ci\u003eand \u003c\/i\u003eI worked for the Medical Committee\u003cbr\u003efor Human Rights. I probably have an FBI file; I was \u003ci\u003edeep \u003c\/i\u003einto\u003cbr\u003ePower to the People. Some folks didn’t understand how I could be\u003cbr\u003ewith your dad. People had a misconception that Black Panthers\u003cbr\u003ehated all white people. They didn’t understand that I could fall in\u003cbr\u003elove with a white man and still work for social justice.\u003cbr\u003e“The people who were the most vocal about us dating were the\u003cbr\u003eblack men. Black men would shout right at me, ‘You trying to look\u003cbr\u003eblack with your big Afro, but you’re not black!’ ”\u003cbr\u003eMy mother stopped talking. Maybe she was thinking of the\u003cbr\u003eguys who judged her for being with a white guy; perhaps she was\u003cbr\u003efiguring out that their disapproving reactions were why it took her\u003cbr\u003eso long to tell Reverend Rob that her ex-husband is white. Or\u003cbr\u003emaybe she was wondering why she didn’t run off and be with a\u003cbr\u003eblack man when she had the chance. Once, when my mother\u003cbr\u003efound out my father was cheating on her, I heard her on the phone\u003cbr\u003ecrying to her best friend, “I knew I should have married that\u003cbr\u003eAfrican prince in college! He was good to me, and he was rich! He\u003cbr\u003etook me to Macy’s and told me to pick out anything I wanted!”\u003cbr\u003eLater that day, I informed her that if she had married the\u003cbr\u003eprince, she wouldn’t have been blessed with me (conceited at eight\u003cbr\u003eyears old!). My mother’s face dropped with the realization that I\u003cbr\u003ehad overheard her conversation. She put her hands on my shoulders\u003cbr\u003eand said she wouldn’t give me up for anything in the world,\u003cbr\u003enot even to be an African princess with a high-limit Macy’s account.\u003cbr\u003eFaced by my mother’s silence, I had to think of a question that\u003cbr\u003ewould lead her to tell a story. My mother will spill her guts about\u003cbr\u003eanything as long as she gets to tell a long, animated story while\u003cbr\u003edoing it. She sometimes preaches the children’s sermon at her\u003cbr\u003echurch, and all week leading up to Sunday, she practices her storytelling\u003cbr\u003echoreography in front of a mirror. Her arms flail at her sides\u003cbr\u003eas she pretends she’s outrunning and ducking imaginary sins. She\u003cbr\u003esometimes recites her own poems to the children, the subject matter\u003cbr\u003eof which is often black pride. I remember a pastor coming up\u003cbr\u003eto her after a particularly Afrocentric sermon. “\u003ci\u003eYou \u003c\/i\u003eused to be\u003cbr\u003emarried to a white man?” he asked. “I just don’t believe it.”\u003cbr\u003e“Mom, what did Dad do when black guys would step to you\u003cbr\u003eabout being with him?”\u003cbr\u003eMy mother laughed again. I heard her rise from her sofa to\u003cbr\u003estart the story. “Your father was crazy. He’d be all up in their faces,\u003cbr\u003etrying to fight them. More than one date ended with me saying,\u003cbr\u003e‘Jack, please. Let’s just go.’\u003cbr\u003e“Of course, no one could believe I actually married the white\u003cbr\u003eman, but the biggest shocker was when I had you. I was head nurse\u003cbr\u003eat the city hospital back then, so I knew nurses all over town. I\u003cbr\u003eknew some in Pennsylvania Hospital, where you were born. Some\u003cbr\u003eof the nurses there hadn’t seen me in years and only knew me as\u003cbr\u003ethis militant Black Panther.\u003cbr\u003e“When I was in the hospital recuperating from having you, this\u003cbr\u003enurse who knew me from college saw how white you were and\u003cbr\u003echecked the wristband three times before she gave you to me. I had\u003cbr\u003eto say ‘Yes, this is my baby’ many times during the days after you\u003cbr\u003ewere born.”\u003cbr\u003eMy mother started laughing again, then yawned. I told her to\u003cbr\u003ego to sleep, but she ignored me. No story goes unfinished with her,\u003cbr\u003eespecially if she’s not paying the long distance charges.\u003cbr\u003e“I had to share a room with a white lady, and she was not too\u003cbr\u003ehappy about my chocolate butt being in the room with her. She\u003cbr\u003ewouldn’t even speak to me. Soon after they brought her in, her\u003cbr\u003eelectric hospital bed started folding up, with her and her baby in it.\u003cbr\u003eShe had just had a C-section and couldn’t move too well, so I\u003cbr\u003egrabbed her baby and snatched the plug out of the wall to make\u003cbr\u003ethe bed stop folding up on her. Then she had the nerve to start\u003cbr\u003escreaming like I was trying to steal her baby and didn’t even thank\u003cbr\u003eme for getting her baby out of the bed.\u003cbr\u003e“As if on cue, your dad walks in to see how I’m doing. The\u003cbr\u003ewhite lady still hadn’t recovered from the shock of being eaten by\u003cbr\u003eher own hospital bed, and then in comes a white man to kiss me\u003cbr\u003eon the lips! That lady looked like she wished the bed would eat her\u003cbr\u003eback up again.\u003cbr\u003e“When your dad left, she was steaming. Then one of the big\u003cbr\u003edoctors at the hospital comes in to see me. We had both volunteered\u003cbr\u003eat the Human Rights Committee together. He nods to her,\u003cbr\u003eand goes by her bed, walks right up to me, and says, ‘Hey, Gwen,\u003cbr\u003eyou still head nurse at City?’ Her eyes got so big. Her whole world\u003cbr\u003echanged that day.\u003cbr\u003e“The next day, I said good morning to the woman and she\u003cbr\u003ewouldn’t say anything back. So later, a nurse came in while I was\u003cbr\u003eholding you and asked your name. I said, ‘Angela’; then, loudly, I\u003cbr\u003eadded, ‘After Angela Davis!’ just to make her think she was sharing\u003cbr\u003ethe room with a radical.\u003cbr\u003e“But that wasn’t right. I didn’t name you after Angela Davis. I\u003cbr\u003enamed you after I saw your face. You looked just like an angel, and\u003cbr\u003eI knew there was no other name I could give you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDamn, I kinda wanted to be named after Angela Davis. Oh, well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eI heard my mother’s microwave go off. The beep seemed to jolt\u003cbr\u003eher out of reminiscing. Her voice lowered. “I have to go,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e“Okay,” I said, a little saddened at the abrupt ending. Hearing\u003cbr\u003ethe disappointment in my voice, she perked up.\u003cbr\u003e“Did I tell you I’m on Weight Watchers again? I get weighed in\u003cbr\u003etomorrow. I’ll call and let you know how much I’ve lost! If I could\u003cbr\u003eget back down to the size I was when I had you, I’d be a foxy\u003cbr\u003emama!”\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, good night, foxy mama,” I replied, hanging up the\u003cbr\u003ephone and reminding myself to update my mother’s slang on my\u003cbr\u003enext visit home.\u003cbr\u003eAfter I hung up, I wondered if there was a Black Panther alumni\u003cbr\u003enewsletter and if my mother had recently sent in an update.\u003cbr\u003eGwen Nissel ’74 writes to say that she regularly chats\u003cbr\u003eabout Weight Watchers points with her half-white daughter.\u003cbr\u003eThough she no longer actively participates in the revolution,\u003cbr\u003eshe is happy to announce that the divorce from the white\u003cbr\u003eman finally went through and she is now engaged to a black\u003cbr\u003eBaptist preacher.Author of The Broke Diaries; [quote]--Halle Berry","brand":"Villard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301766451429,"sku":"NP9780345481146","price":23.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345481146_04e49d74-952e-4cb3-b174-6648968f74f0.jpg?v=1767732835","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/mixed-isbn-9780345481146","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}