- Morocco is in Africa, where almost everyone is some shade of brown. When asked, "What's your background?" answering, "My dad is Black," is meaningless. They could easily respond, "So is mine, so...?"
- Many people in far away countries have a specific idea of what American looks like. My light brown skin, freckles, big brown eyes and dark brown hair do not meet the definition of American. I further confuse by not wearing running shoes and shorts (yep; American women are pretty much the only ones in the world who combine these two items, making it easy to tell they're American).
- In the US, we divide and commune based on things like race, gender, sexual preference or socioeconomics. Abroad, they connect or separate based on where they are from. So, when trying to connect with me, the Moroccans wanted to know from where my family originates. My mom's family is from England. Ok, good, they get that. And my dad is Black. See bullet 1 and you can see how this conversation started to sound like Abbott and Costello.
Where in Africa is your dad from?
One of the great things about international travel is the opportunity to experience new perspectives. For example, in Morocco, being a biracial American was hard to explain. Consider:
Daughter of the American Revolution & Slave
If you followed the two sides of my family tree up, up, up to about 160 years ago, here's what you'd find:
On one side, the women were Daughters of the American Revolution. My mother's family - the Coxes - can trace itself back all the way to Bishop Richard Cox of Ely Cathedral in England in the 1500s. After a stop in Ireland in the 1600s, ye olde ancestors finally made it to Virginia in the 1700s. My mother's dad, Granpa Charlie as we knew him, was a Son of the American Revolution. I guess it's not surprising that he temporarily cut my mom off when she married a Black guy. What would the Bishop say?!
On the other side, we've got Billy, the slave. Billy escaped. I don't say he ran away because that sounds cowardly and condemn-able. He escaped, which seems like the smart thing to do when conditions are a lifetime of "12 Years a Slave." Anyway, Billy made his way to Canada, married a nice French-Canadian girl and started a family line where twins and freckles pop up every other generation. Blame Canada.
Many, many generations later, the Bishop and Billy met, in the form of my parents, Sarah and Spencer.
So what do you get when you combine a could-be Daughter of the American Revolution and a coulda-been-a slave?
On one side, the women were Daughters of the American Revolution. My mother's family - the Coxes - can trace itself back all the way to Bishop Richard Cox of Ely Cathedral in England in the 1500s. After a stop in Ireland in the 1600s, ye olde ancestors finally made it to Virginia in the 1700s. My mother's dad, Granpa Charlie as we knew him, was a Son of the American Revolution. I guess it's not surprising that he temporarily cut my mom off when she married a Black guy. What would the Bishop say?!
On the other side, we've got Billy, the slave. Billy escaped. I don't say he ran away because that sounds cowardly and condemn-able. He escaped, which seems like the smart thing to do when conditions are a lifetime of "12 Years a Slave." Anyway, Billy made his way to Canada, married a nice French-Canadian girl and started a family line where twins and freckles pop up every other generation. Blame Canada.
Many, many generations later, the Bishop and Billy met, in the form of my parents, Sarah and Spencer.
 |
| Bishop Cox rocks 16th-century shoulder pads |
 |
| My great-grandfather, grandfather and dad (the baby) on the family farm |
So what do you get when you combine a could-be Daughter of the American Revolution and a coulda-been-a slave?
 |
| Me in Morocco |
Hypocritical Pride in Being "Mistaken" for Black
Last weekend, at my college reunion, someone who has known me for a long time was shocked to learn that I'm mixed. He thought I was Black, like him and almost everyone else in our homecoming crew. In return, I was shocked to realize that I was...flattered? Proud? Something about his error made me happy. For someone who says being mixed is no big deal, this is embarrassing.
I'd like to say it was the context. I had asked the group if my alma mater's quarterback is Black. A former player said yes and then the caveat was put on it. "Well, Biracial."
Because I've known this person for a while and understand where he comes from, I was able to genuinely laugh and respond, "We count, too!" Shock and confusion ensued. And I was happy. I now knew that, if someone had asked him, before this exchange, if I was Black he wouldn't have equivocated. His answer would have been the same as mine. An absolute yes. And I was sad to know that I had lost that "in-the-club," without-qualification acceptance.
People who know me and my lifestyle even better than this guy put the same equivocation on being mixed. I get sad when I experience it and that's what makes me a hypocrite. I say that being bi- or multiracial is no big deal but the truth is, I experience most of the distresses of any person of color who is sensitive to race and a bit extra I still don't deserve the key to a city or special paperwork, but maybe it's time to accept that there's no shame in being sensitive to other people's deep or shallow biases.
p.s. Yes, I'm still proud of my heritage.
I'd like to say it was the context. I had asked the group if my alma mater's quarterback is Black. A former player said yes and then the caveat was put on it. "Well, Biracial."
Because I've known this person for a while and understand where he comes from, I was able to genuinely laugh and respond, "We count, too!" Shock and confusion ensued. And I was happy. I now knew that, if someone had asked him, before this exchange, if I was Black he wouldn't have equivocated. His answer would have been the same as mine. An absolute yes. And I was sad to know that I had lost that "in-the-club," without-qualification acceptance.
People who know me and my lifestyle even better than this guy put the same equivocation on being mixed. I get sad when I experience it and that's what makes me a hypocrite. I say that being bi- or multiracial is no big deal but the truth is, I experience most of the distresses of any person of color who is sensitive to race and a bit extra I still don't deserve the key to a city or special paperwork, but maybe it's time to accept that there's no shame in being sensitive to other people's deep or shallow biases.
p.s. Yes, I'm still proud of my heritage.
Multiracial health issues Part 2
Fifteen years ago, I was at a party in a typically dark club. Which is why it surprised me when a woman, maybe five years older than me and my same complexion, walked across the room and said, "If I had freckles like yours, I'd be unstoppable."
It was weird. I was surprised because:
Melasma is hyper-pigmentation of the skin on the face. It is most common with women of color. It often shows up when women are pregnant - hence its nickname "the mask of pregnancy." This is so common, in fact, that when I met up with a male friend of mine who hadn't seen me in a few years, the second thing he said was, "Serene, are you pregnant?" I had acquired the same facial freckling as his pregnant wife. The only upside to melasma, and this is a stretch, is that it tends to be symmetrical. So, giant freckle blob one cheek equals giant freckle blob on the other.
My blobs are above my lips, above my eye brows and on my cheek bones. That's a lot of blobbing. I can no longer forget that I have freckles because the blobs are extremely sensitive. Even 15 minutes in the sun, without sunblock, can turn them into coffee stains, swiftly spreading across my face.
I worry about the blobs because both my mom and her mom had skin cancer. I have seen multiple dermatologists. The derms run their fingers across the blobs and tell me that, so far, I'm ok. They suggest creams and retinols. They insist on sunblock and recommend hats. They do not recommend lasers or lights that White women use to beam away this problem because my naturally tan skin could respond by scarring. That would be even worse.
The best treatment would have been knowing 25 years ago that, as a biracial woman, I was more likely to end up with melasma. If I had known, I like to think I would have been more diligent back when my freckles when cute. More sunblock and hats, less hormonal birth control, which can make melasma appear. Maybe I just would have appreciated what I had (or didn't have) 15 years ago, when that woman surprised me in the club.
It was weird. I was surprised because:
- I used to forget that I have freckles (the past tense is deliberate and will lead to my point)
- I certainly didn't think they could be seen from far away, in the dark
- This woman also had freckles; they were big drops of molasses on her cafe au lait skin
Melasma is hyper-pigmentation of the skin on the face. It is most common with women of color. It often shows up when women are pregnant - hence its nickname "the mask of pregnancy." This is so common, in fact, that when I met up with a male friend of mine who hadn't seen me in a few years, the second thing he said was, "Serene, are you pregnant?" I had acquired the same facial freckling as his pregnant wife. The only upside to melasma, and this is a stretch, is that it tends to be symmetrical. So, giant freckle blob one cheek equals giant freckle blob on the other.
My blobs are above my lips, above my eye brows and on my cheek bones. That's a lot of blobbing. I can no longer forget that I have freckles because the blobs are extremely sensitive. Even 15 minutes in the sun, without sunblock, can turn them into coffee stains, swiftly spreading across my face.
I worry about the blobs because both my mom and her mom had skin cancer. I have seen multiple dermatologists. The derms run their fingers across the blobs and tell me that, so far, I'm ok. They suggest creams and retinols. They insist on sunblock and recommend hats. They do not recommend lasers or lights that White women use to beam away this problem because my naturally tan skin could respond by scarring. That would be even worse.
The best treatment would have been knowing 25 years ago that, as a biracial woman, I was more likely to end up with melasma. If I had known, I like to think I would have been more diligent back when my freckles when cute. More sunblock and hats, less hormonal birth control, which can make melasma appear. Maybe I just would have appreciated what I had (or didn't have) 15 years ago, when that woman surprised me in the club.
Multiracial health issues Part 1
I used to work for a stem cell bank. Yep, we collected, stored and released the cells that are the root of the human blood and immune systems. It was cool because using stem cells to treat diseases works. Not just in the lab. Not just in Germany or China. Here and now, stem cells are saving lives. Like I said, cool.
But here's the thing, if you're mixed, like me, and you have a health issue that could be treated with stem cells, you're probably screwed. And by screwed, I mean, get your affairs in order because the odds of finding a match are slim. Unless, of course, you have full-blooded siblings who are your exact same mixture. Then, you're in the double-digit percentile of finding a match. Phew!
Without those potentially matching siblings, your odds go up and down, based on how common your mixture is. For example, if you're "mixed" German and Irish (I'm being nice; everyone's heritage is sacred, even if it's ordinary). In America, the banks have LOTS of German-Irish stem cells. It's another one of the upsides of being part of the White majority. Yay!
But, maybe you're mixture is Ugandan and Irish. Like I said, screwed. Because, really, think about it. How many Ugandan-Irish people have you met? If you're answer is more than one, please, tell me: Are you part of some secret enclave of Irish-Ugandans? Where is this Oz-like land? And where are you storing your babies' stem cells?
The solution, going forward, is for every expecting parent to save their future child's stem cells. Your little Norwegian-Egyptian baby's stem cells could save a life in the future. And, if they don't get to save a life, they might be able to regrow your baby's own damaged cartilage. Knowing that you have those stem cells stored could ease some of your concern when little Italian-Filipino Jimmy goes all Peekaboo Street while skiing (she tore her knee THREE times). Maybe his stem cells will help him recover faster and better. Cool!
But seriously, my main point is that mixed kids are more likely to die from leukemia because they can't find a match (I'm not siting a source because I don't feel like searching for the data). If they are part Black, they are more likely to have sickle cell anemia, which afflicts people of African descent more than Whites, and yet they are less likely to be find matching stem cells that could cure them.
So, please, save your babies' stem cells. Now that I no longer work for a private stem cell bank, I can publicly root for you to donate them via the National Marrow Donor Program (www.bethematch.org), if you don't want to pay the private storage fee.
And no, this blog post was not sponsored by anyone. I just got home from the gym and was thinking about mixed people health issues.
But here's the thing, if you're mixed, like me, and you have a health issue that could be treated with stem cells, you're probably screwed. And by screwed, I mean, get your affairs in order because the odds of finding a match are slim. Unless, of course, you have full-blooded siblings who are your exact same mixture. Then, you're in the double-digit percentile of finding a match. Phew!
Without those potentially matching siblings, your odds go up and down, based on how common your mixture is. For example, if you're "mixed" German and Irish (I'm being nice; everyone's heritage is sacred, even if it's ordinary). In America, the banks have LOTS of German-Irish stem cells. It's another one of the upsides of being part of the White majority. Yay!
But, maybe you're mixture is Ugandan and Irish. Like I said, screwed. Because, really, think about it. How many Ugandan-Irish people have you met? If you're answer is more than one, please, tell me: Are you part of some secret enclave of Irish-Ugandans? Where is this Oz-like land? And where are you storing your babies' stem cells?
The solution, going forward, is for every expecting parent to save their future child's stem cells. Your little Norwegian-Egyptian baby's stem cells could save a life in the future. And, if they don't get to save a life, they might be able to regrow your baby's own damaged cartilage. Knowing that you have those stem cells stored could ease some of your concern when little Italian-Filipino Jimmy goes all Peekaboo Street while skiing (she tore her knee THREE times). Maybe his stem cells will help him recover faster and better. Cool!
But seriously, my main point is that mixed kids are more likely to die from leukemia because they can't find a match (I'm not siting a source because I don't feel like searching for the data). If they are part Black, they are more likely to have sickle cell anemia, which afflicts people of African descent more than Whites, and yet they are less likely to be find matching stem cells that could cure them.
So, please, save your babies' stem cells. Now that I no longer work for a private stem cell bank, I can publicly root for you to donate them via the National Marrow Donor Program (www.bethematch.org), if you don't want to pay the private storage fee.
And no, this blog post was not sponsored by anyone. I just got home from the gym and was thinking about mixed people health issues.
Multiracial Family Stories
Since my last post, something has slowly dawned on me: my whole family's immigration and migration story is interesting and valuable.
Sometimes, I devalue the experience of the white side of my family because it is one of the things that makes me different from my friends. I wish that I knew more about my black family in Georgia and that I could talk about being sent there for summers. I can't because I wasn't. I spent summers in Colorado where my white and black halves converged.
And it was great, just not like everyone else - filled with southern food and gospel and R&B. I spent my summers riding horses, learning how to drive, biking at altitude and hiking in the mountains. The neighbor kids weren't cousins but they were friendly and we did everything from jump on the trampoline to break into their own homes when we got locked out.
Aside from my experiences, here are some of the things I value about the two sides of my family. Both of my grandpas left the south. They were the only ones of their generation to do so. They both joined the Air Force and used it to pull themselves up from poor country boys to the middle/upper middle class.
Both of my grandmas were smart. One was a teacher. One started her own beauty salon (one might assume this was the black grandma; one would be wrong) and then went on to be a secretary in the Air Force. They both left the north with their husbands and lived all over the United States.
On both sides of my family, relatives have left what was comfortable for a better life. On one side, a Jewish great-grandfather left England. He arrived in Ellis Island with his sisters. He supported his growing family by running numbers and gambling. My grandma inherited his love of betting and took it to the dog track. She loved to wear stilettos. I'm not sure how those went over in the stands.
I have lived in seven states and two countries. When people hear this, they ask if I was in the military or married to someone who was. I think that, without an understanding of my family's willingness to seek out better opportunities, to keep moving until they found home, to bet on a long shot, I would feel weird for having moved so much without a "good" excuse. Instead, I am able to make it a part of my family story and accept that we are adventurers and optimists.
I hope everyone can see how their family has shaped them in a good way.
Sometimes, I devalue the experience of the white side of my family because it is one of the things that makes me different from my friends. I wish that I knew more about my black family in Georgia and that I could talk about being sent there for summers. I can't because I wasn't. I spent summers in Colorado where my white and black halves converged.
And it was great, just not like everyone else - filled with southern food and gospel and R&B. I spent my summers riding horses, learning how to drive, biking at altitude and hiking in the mountains. The neighbor kids weren't cousins but they were friendly and we did everything from jump on the trampoline to break into their own homes when we got locked out.
Aside from my experiences, here are some of the things I value about the two sides of my family. Both of my grandpas left the south. They were the only ones of their generation to do so. They both joined the Air Force and used it to pull themselves up from poor country boys to the middle/upper middle class.
Both of my grandmas were smart. One was a teacher. One started her own beauty salon (one might assume this was the black grandma; one would be wrong) and then went on to be a secretary in the Air Force. They both left the north with their husbands and lived all over the United States.
On both sides of my family, relatives have left what was comfortable for a better life. On one side, a Jewish great-grandfather left England. He arrived in Ellis Island with his sisters. He supported his growing family by running numbers and gambling. My grandma inherited his love of betting and took it to the dog track. She loved to wear stilettos. I'm not sure how those went over in the stands.
I have lived in seven states and two countries. When people hear this, they ask if I was in the military or married to someone who was. I think that, without an understanding of my family's willingness to seek out better opportunities, to keep moving until they found home, to bet on a long shot, I would feel weird for having moved so much without a "good" excuse. Instead, I am able to make it a part of my family story and accept that we are adventurers and optimists.
I hope everyone can see how their family has shaped them in a good way.
Im/migrant Stories
My book club is made up of an interesting group of women. We are all well educated with degrees from Stanford, Columbia, Northwestern, etc. We all like to read, at least enough to belong to a group that mind if you haven't finished the book, "Just come, and catch up!" We've all converged on the Bay Are. We are all at least partially Black/African American
Today, we each shared a part of our backgrounds that makes us different from one another: the stories of our families' migrations and immigrations. We were inspired by "The Warmth of Other Suns," a nonfiction book about three unrelated people who each were a part of Black's Great Migration out of the South.
Despite the things that bind us, our tales varied. One in our group - a chemical engineer - is the first in her family to leave the South. Another woman's parents left the South to pursue higher education but returned, PhDs and Master's degrees in hand, because they wanted to give back to the system that made them. There are several multiracial women in our group. Each of us were able to share the stories of our African American families' migration and our White families' immigration.
I feel fortunate to be a part of this group. All are strivers who have made the most of their boot straps, pulling themselves into lives rich with work, children, culture and travel. Lives made richer by honoring the family histories that make us who and what we are.
Family is a complicated thing. Up close, it can be painful. At best, embarrassing - I keenly remember a particular Hawaiian shirt my step dad loved to wear. At their worst, emotionally or physically damaging. We all have baggage. But, if you can back away and look at the big picture, that baggage includes brave travels, unimaginable ventures, a patchwork of people and places that, sewn together, produced me. And you.
I can't tell anyone how to interact with their family. All I can say, is that I am beyond glad that I had time to talk with most of my grandparents about their history. White, Black, Native American - all of that history is real and it's mine.
Today, we each shared a part of our backgrounds that makes us different from one another: the stories of our families' migrations and immigrations. We were inspired by "The Warmth of Other Suns," a nonfiction book about three unrelated people who each were a part of Black's Great Migration out of the South.
Despite the things that bind us, our tales varied. One in our group - a chemical engineer - is the first in her family to leave the South. Another woman's parents left the South to pursue higher education but returned, PhDs and Master's degrees in hand, because they wanted to give back to the system that made them. There are several multiracial women in our group. Each of us were able to share the stories of our African American families' migration and our White families' immigration.
I feel fortunate to be a part of this group. All are strivers who have made the most of their boot straps, pulling themselves into lives rich with work, children, culture and travel. Lives made richer by honoring the family histories that make us who and what we are.
Family is a complicated thing. Up close, it can be painful. At best, embarrassing - I keenly remember a particular Hawaiian shirt my step dad loved to wear. At their worst, emotionally or physically damaging. We all have baggage. But, if you can back away and look at the big picture, that baggage includes brave travels, unimaginable ventures, a patchwork of people and places that, sewn together, produced me. And you.
I can't tell anyone how to interact with their family. All I can say, is that I am beyond glad that I had time to talk with most of my grandparents about their history. White, Black, Native American - all of that history is real and it's mine.
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