Personal Essay
By Faith Welch
2026 Anne MacKay Scholarship winner Faith Welch of Greenport High School.
My life is like a pecan raisin scone. It all started with the foundation. The basics. The simple things. Just like a scone begins with flour, butter, sugar, and eggs; I began with the dual identity I inherited from my parents. However, life doesn’t stop at the flour and the butter. Once the ingredients are mixed, it’s messy, and no matter how perfectly I measured all of the ingredients, it still spilt over.
Growing up as a biracial girl in a community with a Black population consisting of less than 4% was incredibly isolating. I found myself continuously navigating the complexities of my identity and longing for a sense of belonging. My curiosity felt overwhelming, as if my head could explode with unanswered questions—yet there was no one around who could help me make sense of who I was, or who I was supposed to be. As I grew older, I began to experience the uglier side of my dual identity, the part I’d see in movies; the parts that I never expected to happen to me, the parts that I still live with to this day.
Throughout my life, racism has always piqued my interest. Why does it exist? Why do only some people experience it? Do I have to experience it? Eventually, the answers to those questions came to me through my lived experiences; the pecans and raisins in my life.
For me it started in school with peers who no longer understood me, people I previously confided in, suddenly casting the notion that existing unapologetically in my skin was some kind of performance. That idea — that simply existing in my skin was a performance, followed me everywhere, even into classrooms and programs where I expected support. My NJROTC instructor, for example, would greet me with comments like “Geez! Look at that hair. Do you have to wear it like that?” as if my natural texture is a distraction, or a problem to be solved. Experiences where kids would take my desire to indulge in my culture, and my research about my history as a threat, constantly being pushed out and down at school, because of my “pitty interest.” Moments like that hurt, they were humiliating; Those are the moments when your face gets all hot, your eyes get glassy, and the lump in your throat from holding back tears begins to ache.
But no one prepares you for what it feels like when you come to the realization that your identity is a target, and that no matter how hard you try, your control over how people perceive you is close to none. That memory is etched in my mind; being stopped by police while simply waiting for an Uber with another black kid, treated as suspicious for nothing more than standing outside of a grocery store, just as the caller was. I remember gripping my phone tightly, holding back the anger rising in me. My chest tightened; my face grew hot, and I wanted to scream that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But instead, I remained frozen, knowing that anger could be seen as a threat. I held it together until I was alone, when the weight of it all finally brought me to tears. That anger stayed with me long after the incident, not just as frustration, but as a constant reminder of how little control I had over how others perceived me and treated me.
Just like a scone needs heat to rise, I realized that these hurtful experiences could either flatten me, or shape me. So I used them as fuel. I began to formulate spaces in my school and community to fill the gaps and holes in the foundation I was given. I established racial healing communities and safe spaces where voices that would usually be pushed into the margins were front and center. These are the spaces I wish existed when I needed them most. Now, I build them for others.
When making a scone with delightfully intruding elements like pecans and raisins, you have to get through the uncomfortable parts of mixing and kneading through dough, and just like that, the pecans and raisins in my life, the parts of me and my experience that once made me feel uneven or out of place — are now what make me whole.
Although my life is not as delicious as a scone, the same way that a scone showcases its rough edges proudly, I’ve learned to embrace my dual identity proudly; and in doing so, I’ve learned that my differences aren’t something to hide; they’re the most powerful ingredients I have.