Before I got my first pro haircut at 11, people would ask if I was a boy.
And ever since that haircut, strangers have been comfortable asking, "What are you?" in reference to my race and ethnicity.
I don't enjoy the question and answer process, so why encourage something similar by putting on a costume? I'll let everyone else have Halloween. They can revel in their one day a year of being asked what they're dressed as, while I continue to spend the other 364 days of the year being prepared to explain what I actually am.
Showing posts with label biracial. Show all posts
Showing posts with label biracial. Show all posts
A Jew's First Easter
Yesterday I did an egg hunt for the first time in my life. As a black woman raised Jewish, I don't have a lot of experience with Easter. I associate it with ham, a mawkish rabbit and bad chocolate. As a kid, I never felt like I was missing anything because Passover is pretty awesome. Multiple nights of food, family and free money. Good times.
But I agreed to spend yesterday with a friend who loves the Easter egg hunt. I was down for it. It's Sunday; aside from read the Times, what else am I going to do?
Well, give me a late pass and send me to the principal: Egg hunts are fun! I hid eight eggs, my friend hid eight eggs and then we each went egg hunting. I believe I may have crowed at one point. As corny as it sounds, I was totally delighted.
Now I'm wondering what else I'm missing out on. Is Ramadan actually a soul-satisfying period of gentle starvation? Should I give a solstice party a chance? And what's that holiday George Costanza's dad made up? Festivus! I'm definitely down with holding onto a pole and airing some light grievances.
My point? I need to take more advantage of this ambiguous heritage and other people's stuff more.
But I agreed to spend yesterday with a friend who loves the Easter egg hunt. I was down for it. It's Sunday; aside from read the Times, what else am I going to do?
Well, give me a late pass and send me to the principal: Egg hunts are fun! I hid eight eggs, my friend hid eight eggs and then we each went egg hunting. I believe I may have crowed at one point. As corny as it sounds, I was totally delighted.
Now I'm wondering what else I'm missing out on. Is Ramadan actually a soul-satisfying period of gentle starvation? Should I give a solstice party a chance? And what's that holiday George Costanza's dad made up? Festivus! I'm definitely down with holding onto a pole and airing some light grievances.
My point? I need to take more advantage of this ambiguous heritage and other people's stuff more.
Racial Progress for the Biracial Couple
Last week I went to see "Selma" with a friend who is Black. After the emotional movie ended, he said, "Well, I think we've made some progress since then because I'm dating a White woman and no one has tried to kill me."
This isn't progress compared to 1966. I'm mixed and was born less than a decade after the march to Montgomery. As far as I know, no one tried to kill my dad during his short-lived marriage to my mom.
Decline in violence is a low bar for measuring progress. "No one tried to kill me" should be a given. Interracial couples being a norm shouldn't even be a measuring bar. What other people do with each other is, in the long run, unlikely to truly impact you. So, while some folks like to get heated about gay marriage or their trust-funded daughter running around with "the help," most of us really don't care.
What most people care about, on some level, is money and power. When other people have it and we don't, we get frustrated and sometimes hateful. When we have it, we work to keep it. Historically, this looks like preventing other people from getting it too.
Decades of people of color having an unimpaired path to money and power - in the voting booth, in our neighborhoods, in the work place - was a problem in 1966 and is still a problem today. I'll know we've made progress when all schools are funded so all children have access to a complete education and positive learning environment. I'll believe we've made progress when an election goes by without a single story of voting rights being blocked. We can all quietly enjoy the signs of progress when a Black person accomplishes something great and no one says, "She's the first African American widget inventor."
Being mixed is not big deal. Being in a biracial relationship is even less of a big deal. None of us Shackleton, exploring unknown seas and surviving without support for months.You're just two people doing something about as weird as wearing a shirt inside out.
The big deal, like Really Big Deal, is when any of us, no matter what color we are, actively do something to share our path to money, power, ease and happiness with other people. Tutor, volunteer for voter registration, donate to a worthy (by your estimation) cause, hold the door for someone who looks different from you. Being unafraid of bringing others with you as you rise, that's progress.
This isn't progress compared to 1966. I'm mixed and was born less than a decade after the march to Montgomery. As far as I know, no one tried to kill my dad during his short-lived marriage to my mom.
Decline in violence is a low bar for measuring progress. "No one tried to kill me" should be a given. Interracial couples being a norm shouldn't even be a measuring bar. What other people do with each other is, in the long run, unlikely to truly impact you. So, while some folks like to get heated about gay marriage or their trust-funded daughter running around with "the help," most of us really don't care.
What most people care about, on some level, is money and power. When other people have it and we don't, we get frustrated and sometimes hateful. When we have it, we work to keep it. Historically, this looks like preventing other people from getting it too.
Decades of people of color having an unimpaired path to money and power - in the voting booth, in our neighborhoods, in the work place - was a problem in 1966 and is still a problem today. I'll know we've made progress when all schools are funded so all children have access to a complete education and positive learning environment. I'll believe we've made progress when an election goes by without a single story of voting rights being blocked. We can all quietly enjoy the signs of progress when a Black person accomplishes something great and no one says, "She's the first African American widget inventor."
Being mixed is not big deal. Being in a biracial relationship is even less of a big deal. None of us Shackleton, exploring unknown seas and surviving without support for months.You're just two people doing something about as weird as wearing a shirt inside out.
The big deal, like Really Big Deal, is when any of us, no matter what color we are, actively do something to share our path to money, power, ease and happiness with other people. Tutor, volunteer for voter registration, donate to a worthy (by your estimation) cause, hold the door for someone who looks different from you. Being unafraid of bringing others with you as you rise, that's progress.
Relatives Who Don't Look Related
There are lots of odd things about being mixed. They're easy to forget until something weird happens. For example, not looking like my immediate relatives. It's no biggie until someone asks my dad if I'm his girlfriend.
Gross.
The weirdest interactions come when people see me with my brother Nathan. We have different dads and nothing physical in common. At 6+ feet, he looms over me. He has green eyes and wavy brown hair. We don't look like we go together but psychologically, that's my ace! Which means we act like family - the kind that gets along, not the kind that makes everyone else feel awkward. And that means that, if his wife isn't nearby, people think I'm Mrs. Nathan Weinberg.
That wouldn't be so bad if they believed us when we tell them "No, we're brother/sister." But we've actually had people say, "You're joking!"
Who jokes about that? Double gross.
Gross.
The weirdest interactions come when people see me with my brother Nathan. We have different dads and nothing physical in common. At 6+ feet, he looms over me. He has green eyes and wavy brown hair. We don't look like we go together but psychologically, that's my ace! Which means we act like family - the kind that gets along, not the kind that makes everyone else feel awkward. And that means that, if his wife isn't nearby, people think I'm Mrs. Nathan Weinberg.
That wouldn't be so bad if they believed us when we tell them "No, we're brother/sister." But we've actually had people say, "You're joking!"
Who jokes about that? Double gross.
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| Me and my brother. We don't look alike but sometimes we dress alike. |
Famous Mixed People
As an athlete (sorta) and a mixed chick, Friday was a pretty exciting for me.
First, thanks to my cousin, I got to spend the day at the USA Track & Field Outdoor Championships. It was a who's who of runners - Alison Felix, Lolo Jones, Sonya Richards Ross, Bernard Lagat, Wallace Spearmon, etc. etc. I'm a former long-distance runner and general geek around athleticism (which is very different from being a woman who tries to date athletes), so it was an overwhelmingly good day.
At the end of it, my cousin introduced me to Dan O'Brien, decathlete and 1996 Olympic gold medalist. Super nice guy, on top of being a super athlete. We took a photo, had a quick chat, and kept it moving. Of course, I posted the photo on Facebook. A friend commented that we look alike, which brought memories crashing back from the lead up to the '92 Olympics and during '96. I had forgotten that, back then, I often wondered if Dan O'Brien is, like me, a mixed kid.
Twenty years ago, there was no Google to easily answer these kinds of questions and so, as the summer games faded, so did my curiosity. But my friend's comment brought it back. After a few minutes on the WWW, I'm happy to add another talented person to my list of famous bi-racial people. Welcome, Dan O'Brien!
First, thanks to my cousin, I got to spend the day at the USA Track & Field Outdoor Championships. It was a who's who of runners - Alison Felix, Lolo Jones, Sonya Richards Ross, Bernard Lagat, Wallace Spearmon, etc. etc. I'm a former long-distance runner and general geek around athleticism (which is very different from being a woman who tries to date athletes), so it was an overwhelmingly good day.
At the end of it, my cousin introduced me to Dan O'Brien, decathlete and 1996 Olympic gold medalist. Super nice guy, on top of being a super athlete. We took a photo, had a quick chat, and kept it moving. Of course, I posted the photo on Facebook. A friend commented that we look alike, which brought memories crashing back from the lead up to the '92 Olympics and during '96. I had forgotten that, back then, I often wondered if Dan O'Brien is, like me, a mixed kid.
Twenty years ago, there was no Google to easily answer these kinds of questions and so, as the summer games faded, so did my curiosity. But my friend's comment brought it back. After a few minutes on the WWW, I'm happy to add another talented person to my list of famous bi-racial people. Welcome, Dan O'Brien!
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| Do Dan and I look related? |
Racial Progress, Measured in Advertising
Thinking about racism, advertising and social media
When I was a kid, my dad used to say, "You'll know we've been accepted when Blacks are in deodorant commercials." If you're younger than 20, that might sound crazy but seriously, Black folks used to be restricted to very limited commercial situations. We ate fast food, we bought American cars, we played sports, we cleaned and did laundry. We never traveled, cleaned ourselves, had sex, ate health food or got to be in the front of a group of people if the other people were White.
Today, Black folks are every where. And yet, my dad and I agree, it doesn't feel like we've completely made it. My new measure for racial equality and triumph over ignorance is when brands can air commercials like Cheerios', showing a mixed family doing regular stuff, and Coca-Cola's Super Bowl ad, showing Americans as multi-cultural, -colorful and -lingual, and nobody says a negative word on Twitter, Facebook or whatever social media channel is popular in that not-too-far-off future.
Money talks. When big brands are spending big cash on all Americans, you know that change is a'comin'.
And, just because I'm lovin' this dude like he's my own son, here's a little glimpse of today's Black teens: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6nLAaVeRjQ
When I was a kid, my dad used to say, "You'll know we've been accepted when Blacks are in deodorant commercials." If you're younger than 20, that might sound crazy but seriously, Black folks used to be restricted to very limited commercial situations. We ate fast food, we bought American cars, we played sports, we cleaned and did laundry. We never traveled, cleaned ourselves, had sex, ate health food or got to be in the front of a group of people if the other people were White.
Today, Black folks are every where. And yet, my dad and I agree, it doesn't feel like we've completely made it. My new measure for racial equality and triumph over ignorance is when brands can air commercials like Cheerios', showing a mixed family doing regular stuff, and Coca-Cola's Super Bowl ad, showing Americans as multi-cultural, -colorful and -lingual, and nobody says a negative word on Twitter, Facebook or whatever social media channel is popular in that not-too-far-off future.
Money talks. When big brands are spending big cash on all Americans, you know that change is a'comin'.
And, just because I'm lovin' this dude like he's my own son, here's a little glimpse of today's Black teens: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6nLAaVeRjQ
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:
- 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.
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.
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| Bishop Cox rocks 16th-century shoulder pads |
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| 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?
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| 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.
Biracial Characteristics: Awkward Outsider
Encountered an interesting new assumption the other day: Because I'm biracial, I must have been awkward or an outsider in high school. Wrong.
This sounds kinda gross/braggadocios, but I was actually a part of one of the popular groups of kids (I say "one of" because, like any big school, we had layers). AND, because I'm fairly outgoing and was raised by non-mainstream people, I was friendly with kids across the high school social strata.
In short, I liked, and was liked in, high school. (slightly embarrassed shuffling of feet goes with this statement)
I went to public school in St. Paul, Minn. The Twin Cities were racially integrated and home of one of the most famous mixed people: Prince. Being biracial didn't automatically make you weird or awkward. In fact, there was a mixed girl at our rival school who was so popular, she was known and liked at my school. I admit, I envied her because she figured out her hair before I did.
At my school, the pot head group had a mixed member; the jocks included two mixed guys; the smart, popular kids included biracial kids. You get the idea. We were everywhere, without stigma.
However, Minnesota is also famed for its Scandinavian population. This had an impact on my personality because it meant I was not considered good looking by most of my classmates. The standard of beauty that was in national magazines and on TV - blond, blue eyes, White - was also the standard of beauty locally. Kids who looked like me were not generally in demand. I think if I had been raised in the south, were being light skinned was valued, I might be a totally different person today.
Looking back, I feel lucky. Being a teen is angsty enough without being considered uncool based on race. And, watching oneself age is hard enough without the chip of lifelong beauty on one's shoulder.
I know this isn't the case for everyone. I know many people who were the "only" at their school - only Indian person, only mixed person, etc. They were treated as outsiders and forced to forge a new path in their classmates' minds or spend years socially isolated. I wish everyone could have Twin Cities experience. I wish America really did accept people for their character, not their color.
This sounds kinda gross/braggadocios, but I was actually a part of one of the popular groups of kids (I say "one of" because, like any big school, we had layers). AND, because I'm fairly outgoing and was raised by non-mainstream people, I was friendly with kids across the high school social strata.
In short, I liked, and was liked in, high school. (slightly embarrassed shuffling of feet goes with this statement)
I went to public school in St. Paul, Minn. The Twin Cities were racially integrated and home of one of the most famous mixed people: Prince. Being biracial didn't automatically make you weird or awkward. In fact, there was a mixed girl at our rival school who was so popular, she was known and liked at my school. I admit, I envied her because she figured out her hair before I did.
At my school, the pot head group had a mixed member; the jocks included two mixed guys; the smart, popular kids included biracial kids. You get the idea. We were everywhere, without stigma.
However, Minnesota is also famed for its Scandinavian population. This had an impact on my personality because it meant I was not considered good looking by most of my classmates. The standard of beauty that was in national magazines and on TV - blond, blue eyes, White - was also the standard of beauty locally. Kids who looked like me were not generally in demand. I think if I had been raised in the south, were being light skinned was valued, I might be a totally different person today.
Looking back, I feel lucky. Being a teen is angsty enough without being considered uncool based on race. And, watching oneself age is hard enough without the chip of lifelong beauty on one's shoulder.
I know this isn't the case for everyone. I know many people who were the "only" at their school - only Indian person, only mixed person, etc. They were treated as outsiders and forced to forge a new path in their classmates' minds or spend years socially isolated. I wish everyone could have Twin Cities experience. I wish America really did accept people for their character, not their color.
Today I am Latina
Based on outside feedback, this week I'm Latina. Based on genetics, I am not. Confused? You're not alone.
In the past I've talked about group think and the random shifts in how I am perceived, racially. Some days, I'm Black. On those days, I get acknowledging nods from black people on the street. Black people that I interact with, who are strangers, talk to me like we're old friends.
The "Black days" are comfortable because, in large part, that's what I am. But it doesn't matter what I think I am because, when I first meet someone, they interact with me based on what THEY think I am. And for quite a while, everyone agreed I was Black, inside and out.
Lately, I've had to work harder to establish myself as Black. No big struggles, just notable.
This week, I learned why. Apparently, I'm shifting to being Latina. Three proof points:
First, I met a man at the gym. He's from Italy. Cool, I love Italy. He said, "But you're Spanish, right?" Me, "No." Him, "But your name is Serena (it isn't) and you have some Spanish in your face."
Aside from boggling my name and making it sound like I have paella stuck to my cheeks, what does this mean? Thanks to being a mix of European, Native American and African stock, almost any one of my features might be Spanish but they could also be anything else. I chalked it up to my new friend being from Italy and kept moving.
Second, I was talking to my favorite clerk at the grocery store. He asked me what I do for living and I told him I write children's books. "Wow," he says. "Are they bilingual?" Me, "Uh, no, why?" Him, "Oh, they aren't in English and Spanish?" Me, (nervous laughter) "No, I don't speak Spanish." Him, (nervous laughter) "Oh...Ok...Well, it's cool that you're a writer."
This man has been talking to me for two years. I've never spoken Spanish to him and I have a Midwestern accent. I live in a neighborhood that is 80% White and about 20% Asian. I can understand him not thinking I'm the only local Black person, but why go Hispanic? There's no obvious answer. So I chalk it up to group think and the phase of the moon.
Except, THIRD, Yahoo! fed up this M&M ad in Spanish for me. I haven't done anything on Yahoo! to indicate an ability to speak Spanish. So, despite behavior to the contrary, right now, even my technology thinks I'm Latina. It's not bad, but it is weird.
No lesson learned. Just the life of a mixed chick in the U.S. Off to enjoy another day of surprising people with my secret blackness.
In the past I've talked about group think and the random shifts in how I am perceived, racially. Some days, I'm Black. On those days, I get acknowledging nods from black people on the street. Black people that I interact with, who are strangers, talk to me like we're old friends.
The "Black days" are comfortable because, in large part, that's what I am. But it doesn't matter what I think I am because, when I first meet someone, they interact with me based on what THEY think I am. And for quite a while, everyone agreed I was Black, inside and out.
Lately, I've had to work harder to establish myself as Black. No big struggles, just notable.
This week, I learned why. Apparently, I'm shifting to being Latina. Three proof points:
First, I met a man at the gym. He's from Italy. Cool, I love Italy. He said, "But you're Spanish, right?" Me, "No." Him, "But your name is Serena (it isn't) and you have some Spanish in your face."
Aside from boggling my name and making it sound like I have paella stuck to my cheeks, what does this mean? Thanks to being a mix of European, Native American and African stock, almost any one of my features might be Spanish but they could also be anything else. I chalked it up to my new friend being from Italy and kept moving.
Second, I was talking to my favorite clerk at the grocery store. He asked me what I do for living and I told him I write children's books. "Wow," he says. "Are they bilingual?" Me, "Uh, no, why?" Him, "Oh, they aren't in English and Spanish?" Me, (nervous laughter) "No, I don't speak Spanish." Him, (nervous laughter) "Oh...Ok...Well, it's cool that you're a writer."
This man has been talking to me for two years. I've never spoken Spanish to him and I have a Midwestern accent. I live in a neighborhood that is 80% White and about 20% Asian. I can understand him not thinking I'm the only local Black person, but why go Hispanic? There's no obvious answer. So I chalk it up to group think and the phase of the moon.Except, THIRD, Yahoo! fed up this M&M ad in Spanish for me. I haven't done anything on Yahoo! to indicate an ability to speak Spanish. So, despite behavior to the contrary, right now, even my technology thinks I'm Latina. It's not bad, but it is weird.
No lesson learned. Just the life of a mixed chick in the U.S. Off to enjoy another day of surprising people with my secret blackness.
Exotic = You Don't Belong
I've been avoiding Trayvon Martin related news, blogs and Facebook posts. The story breaks my heart wide open. Letting in other people's pain is almost more than I can take. Today, I thought five days of silence was enough. That I could handle a little input. That it might help me grow.
Instead, I'm crushed. Laid flat. Scared.
I know that it is unlikely that I will be followed and shot dead for looking threatening in America. I'm too old, too thin, too female and too racially ambiguous.
However, I have been turned into an outsider. And, when you're an outsider, you don't belong. And people who don't belong - from illegal aliens to Trayvon - don't get the same protections as the people who are inside, determining who is in and who gets left out.
This scab was picked today as I read a post from Questlove. His quick thought on being exotic rings true: "All the time I'm in scenarios in which primitive, exotic-looking me (6'2", 300 pounds, uncivilized afro for starters) finds himself in places that people that look like me aren't normally found. I mean, what can I do? I have to be somewhere on Earth, correct?
We all have to be somewhere on Earth. We all deserve to be where ever we want to be on this Earth. I believe that Quest is putting his tongue squarely in his cheek when he describes himself as exotic. I hope that anyone who reads that sees that too. I mean, what's so exotic about 6'2"? My White brother is that tall and, trust me, he has never been called exotic. 300 pounds exotic? In our ever-fattening nation, that's become almost average. That leaves the uncivilized afro. If you agree that Quest is exotic looking, but are willing to agree that his height and weight aren't all that remarkable, than you are agreeing that Black hair that refuses to meet a certain standard of length and shape is bizarre, outlier, worth investigating, doesn't belong.
Questlove is a famous "exotic," so he gets recognized and people want his rare star to be closer to them. He gets pulled off the shelf where we stash papayas and pygmies and brought behind the velvet rope.
Trayvon Martin was too exotic for George Zimmerman's world. He didn't belong. He needed to be watched, followed, confronted, killed. He couldn't be "somewhere on Earth" as far as George was concerned.
If you're an insider (in America, this means White but, insub groups it can mean "looking like everyone else in this community," be they White, Black or Latino), how willing are you to try being an outside for an hour? A day? A lifetime? Can you handle feeling, at best, like you don't belong and at worst, despised and feared and in danger?
Still unsure if this story applies to you? Try this: go to a predominantly Black neighborhood and walk down the street in broad daylight. Feeling comfy? Ok, good. Now, pick a moderately crowded hair salon or barber (I say moderately crowded because it's a sign of skills but you won't have to wait ALL day). Go in and ask for a hair cut. If you can stick it out, you will leave with a sharp hairdo and a strong sense of what it is like to be the only person in the room who looks like you.
Maybe you'll get stared at. Don't worry, a hard look hasn't killed any of us so far. Maybe you'll be laughed at. Get over it and get your cut. Pay attention. Are you afraid? Does the sound of the razor or scissor near your ear send you off on a nightmare fantasy of having your throat slit. Are you lonely? Do you watch the door, hoping another person who looks like you, even if it's Joe Serial Killer, will come in the door? Savor this rare moment and don't worry. It isn't hard to find "your place" again in America. It just might feel a little different when you get back there.
Instead, I'm crushed. Laid flat. Scared.
I know that it is unlikely that I will be followed and shot dead for looking threatening in America. I'm too old, too thin, too female and too racially ambiguous.
However, I have been turned into an outsider. And, when you're an outsider, you don't belong. And people who don't belong - from illegal aliens to Trayvon - don't get the same protections as the people who are inside, determining who is in and who gets left out.
This scab was picked today as I read a post from Questlove. His quick thought on being exotic rings true: "All the time I'm in scenarios in which primitive, exotic-looking me (6'2", 300 pounds, uncivilized afro for starters) finds himself in places that people that look like me aren't normally found. I mean, what can I do? I have to be somewhere on Earth, correct?
We all have to be somewhere on Earth. We all deserve to be where ever we want to be on this Earth. I believe that Quest is putting his tongue squarely in his cheek when he describes himself as exotic. I hope that anyone who reads that sees that too. I mean, what's so exotic about 6'2"? My White brother is that tall and, trust me, he has never been called exotic. 300 pounds exotic? In our ever-fattening nation, that's become almost average. That leaves the uncivilized afro. If you agree that Quest is exotic looking, but are willing to agree that his height and weight aren't all that remarkable, than you are agreeing that Black hair that refuses to meet a certain standard of length and shape is bizarre, outlier, worth investigating, doesn't belong.
Questlove is a famous "exotic," so he gets recognized and people want his rare star to be closer to them. He gets pulled off the shelf where we stash papayas and pygmies and brought behind the velvet rope.
Trayvon Martin was too exotic for George Zimmerman's world. He didn't belong. He needed to be watched, followed, confronted, killed. He couldn't be "somewhere on Earth" as far as George was concerned.
If you're an insider (in America, this means White but, insub groups it can mean "looking like everyone else in this community," be they White, Black or Latino), how willing are you to try being an outside for an hour? A day? A lifetime? Can you handle feeling, at best, like you don't belong and at worst, despised and feared and in danger?
Still unsure if this story applies to you? Try this: go to a predominantly Black neighborhood and walk down the street in broad daylight. Feeling comfy? Ok, good. Now, pick a moderately crowded hair salon or barber (I say moderately crowded because it's a sign of skills but you won't have to wait ALL day). Go in and ask for a hair cut. If you can stick it out, you will leave with a sharp hairdo and a strong sense of what it is like to be the only person in the room who looks like you.
Maybe you'll get stared at. Don't worry, a hard look hasn't killed any of us so far. Maybe you'll be laughed at. Get over it and get your cut. Pay attention. Are you afraid? Does the sound of the razor or scissor near your ear send you off on a nightmare fantasy of having your throat slit. Are you lonely? Do you watch the door, hoping another person who looks like you, even if it's Joe Serial Killer, will come in the door? Savor this rare moment and don't worry. It isn't hard to find "your place" again in America. It just might feel a little different when you get back there.
Being Mixed Sucks
I say that being mixed is no big deal. I should say, I wish it was no big deal because, in reality, it can be a blessing, a pain, an agony, a tearing of the mind and/or soul.
I'm reading "The Warmth of Other Suns," about the Great Migration of African Americans from the South to just about anywhere else. It focuses on three people, none of whom are significantly mixed, but also tells the story of a mixed family that crushed me. Here's what happened:
A family of mixed people is driving out of the South to California. The people in the car include a grandfather, grandmother, mother and her three children. All of them are very fair skinned with wavy hair except the youngest grandson. He's brown.
There are almost no hotels along the way that take "Colored" people. The grandfather - the only one who drives - is getting tired. He can't drive any more. They stop at a hotel and, according to the story, he self identified as Black and tried to get them a room. No, he is told. No darkies allowed.
They go to the next hotel. This time, he doesn't identify. He just asks if they have a room. Sure, they say, here's your room key. Bring your family in.
Great, except for that pesky brown grandson. They cover him in blankets and carry him in "like a bag of groceries." According to his sister, who told the story, the boy was emotionally scarred by that one event and troubled from that day forward.
Here's what I think: that family often tried to pass or wished out loud that they could pass but couldn't because of this little boy. I think they weren't quiet about it being his "fault" that their lives were harder than needed. I know how that generation was. They were not worried about hurting their kids' feelings. Unlike today's parenting mantra, not everyone was a winner. So it wasn't that one moment during their migration or the cursed South that wrecked this boy. It was his family, who made him feel like a bag of groceries.
Families aren't much different today. Sure, very few people try to pass. Being light skinned or ambiguous is becoming enough to get broadly accepted. So, there's no need to hide the brown son. But how we treat the brown son hasn't changed enough. I have a close acquaintance who has two biracial sons. One is light-skinned with wavy hair. He was allowed to grow it long and now wears it in "cool" corn rows. The other son is brown skinned, has full lips and tight, curly hair. He doesn't look mixed. He looks Black. And, according to his mother, he is the less good looking one.
She said this to me and I know that, across America, other parents are saying or thinking the same thing about their children. That doesn't mean they don't love them. My acquaintance loves both of her sons and also is very vocal about the fact that the brown one is smarter and will probably end up being taller. And thankfully he wasn't around at the time. But the way she said it, like it was fact, makes me believe that it is common talk around their house. So, here he is, going through the most awkward age - 13 with braces, yikes! - and his family has "agreed" that he's not good looking. His 17-year-old, light-skinned brother with his straight teeth (he already had his braces) and long, soft hair is the handsome one.
And this is when being mixed sucks. When everyone says "mixed babies are so cute," they aren't talking about the ones who come out looking White, Asian or Black. They are talking about the ones who have the perfect blend of two groups' characteristics. If you don't have that, you're not as cute. And so, before you're fully formed, it's already been decided. You are less than your siblings. You are less than other mixed people. You don't fit in with a group that is already small and usually without community. And, if you're a color that continues to be discriminated against, you're less than people who you may, actually, be greater than. You're stuffed under the blanket for the rest of your life.
Heartbreak in 2013.
I'm reading "The Warmth of Other Suns," about the Great Migration of African Americans from the South to just about anywhere else. It focuses on three people, none of whom are significantly mixed, but also tells the story of a mixed family that crushed me. Here's what happened:
A family of mixed people is driving out of the South to California. The people in the car include a grandfather, grandmother, mother and her three children. All of them are very fair skinned with wavy hair except the youngest grandson. He's brown.
There are almost no hotels along the way that take "Colored" people. The grandfather - the only one who drives - is getting tired. He can't drive any more. They stop at a hotel and, according to the story, he self identified as Black and tried to get them a room. No, he is told. No darkies allowed.
They go to the next hotel. This time, he doesn't identify. He just asks if they have a room. Sure, they say, here's your room key. Bring your family in.
Great, except for that pesky brown grandson. They cover him in blankets and carry him in "like a bag of groceries." According to his sister, who told the story, the boy was emotionally scarred by that one event and troubled from that day forward.
Here's what I think: that family often tried to pass or wished out loud that they could pass but couldn't because of this little boy. I think they weren't quiet about it being his "fault" that their lives were harder than needed. I know how that generation was. They were not worried about hurting their kids' feelings. Unlike today's parenting mantra, not everyone was a winner. So it wasn't that one moment during their migration or the cursed South that wrecked this boy. It was his family, who made him feel like a bag of groceries.
Families aren't much different today. Sure, very few people try to pass. Being light skinned or ambiguous is becoming enough to get broadly accepted. So, there's no need to hide the brown son. But how we treat the brown son hasn't changed enough. I have a close acquaintance who has two biracial sons. One is light-skinned with wavy hair. He was allowed to grow it long and now wears it in "cool" corn rows. The other son is brown skinned, has full lips and tight, curly hair. He doesn't look mixed. He looks Black. And, according to his mother, he is the less good looking one.
She said this to me and I know that, across America, other parents are saying or thinking the same thing about their children. That doesn't mean they don't love them. My acquaintance loves both of her sons and also is very vocal about the fact that the brown one is smarter and will probably end up being taller. And thankfully he wasn't around at the time. But the way she said it, like it was fact, makes me believe that it is common talk around their house. So, here he is, going through the most awkward age - 13 with braces, yikes! - and his family has "agreed" that he's not good looking. His 17-year-old, light-skinned brother with his straight teeth (he already had his braces) and long, soft hair is the handsome one.
And this is when being mixed sucks. When everyone says "mixed babies are so cute," they aren't talking about the ones who come out looking White, Asian or Black. They are talking about the ones who have the perfect blend of two groups' characteristics. If you don't have that, you're not as cute. And so, before you're fully formed, it's already been decided. You are less than your siblings. You are less than other mixed people. You don't fit in with a group that is already small and usually without community. And, if you're a color that continues to be discriminated against, you're less than people who you may, actually, be greater than. You're stuffed under the blanket for the rest of your life.
Heartbreak in 2013.
Self Identifying as Biracial with American-colored Glasses
If you're mixed, sometimes other people might not know what you are, racially. They wonder. And the wondering drives them so crazy that the first words they ever speak to you might be, "What are you?" or "Where are you from?" or "Are you mulatto?" The rudeness of the question is proof that their brains are going crazy with curiosity. Humans like to categorize.
Many mixed people try to cut back on the craziness by self identifying as soon as reasonably possible. That isn't always soon enough to prevent the intrusive questions but we do what we can.
However, some biracial people won't self identify for days, weeks, months or ever. A friend recently told me about the teacher of a class she was taking. The class was in the African-American studies program. My friends says the teacher looked Jewish. Some of the Black students were upset that a Jewish woman was teaching them about the Black experience. Half way through the semester, the teacher casually mentioned that she is biracial - Black and White. "Why didn't she say so sooner?" my friend asked. "It was irresponsible."
I wasn't there, so I can't speak to the need for the teacher to have explained her race. Ordinarily, it would be considered odd for a teacher to walk into a class and declare his or her race, creed or sexual preference. In many cases, I know the students would love that. In America, we've got race on the brain. There are times when we don't just want others to identify themselves. We need it.
However, we're a lot less likely to get it from at least one group of biracial folks: foreigners. In other countries, race is not as big a deal as it is here. People care more about religion, economics, heritage, etc. Race is the next level down. A sub-category or a rarity.
For example if you're mixed and from Canada, it might be more important to identify as French-Canadian. The bond of language, location and culture is stronger than color. If you're from Ireland, up until recently, it was much more important to self identify by religion. Being Protestant or Catholic made all the difference in how you were treated and what communities you could be a part of. Think about Bosnia. A few years back, the background of your White parent could have meant life or death. The existence of a Black parent might have meant nothing.
Looking at the global picture without our American-colored glasses helps explain why some biracial folks aren't thinking they need to self identify. At least not from a color perspective.
Losing that color-centric perspective will be part of our journey toward truly being "post-racial." But humans like to categorize. So, if we aren't deciding "you're not like me" based on color, it may be something else - money, weight, politics. For now, I'll keep self identifying when it fits naturally into the conversation, but I'm not buying (or encouraging) a Holocaust-style armband that declares me a "Mixed Chick." You may be curious but life is full of disappointments. You'll get over it. And maybe you'll even learn something along the way.
Many mixed people try to cut back on the craziness by self identifying as soon as reasonably possible. That isn't always soon enough to prevent the intrusive questions but we do what we can.
However, some biracial people won't self identify for days, weeks, months or ever. A friend recently told me about the teacher of a class she was taking. The class was in the African-American studies program. My friends says the teacher looked Jewish. Some of the Black students were upset that a Jewish woman was teaching them about the Black experience. Half way through the semester, the teacher casually mentioned that she is biracial - Black and White. "Why didn't she say so sooner?" my friend asked. "It was irresponsible."
I wasn't there, so I can't speak to the need for the teacher to have explained her race. Ordinarily, it would be considered odd for a teacher to walk into a class and declare his or her race, creed or sexual preference. In many cases, I know the students would love that. In America, we've got race on the brain. There are times when we don't just want others to identify themselves. We need it.
However, we're a lot less likely to get it from at least one group of biracial folks: foreigners. In other countries, race is not as big a deal as it is here. People care more about religion, economics, heritage, etc. Race is the next level down. A sub-category or a rarity.
For example if you're mixed and from Canada, it might be more important to identify as French-Canadian. The bond of language, location and culture is stronger than color. If you're from Ireland, up until recently, it was much more important to self identify by religion. Being Protestant or Catholic made all the difference in how you were treated and what communities you could be a part of. Think about Bosnia. A few years back, the background of your White parent could have meant life or death. The existence of a Black parent might have meant nothing.
Looking at the global picture without our American-colored glasses helps explain why some biracial folks aren't thinking they need to self identify. At least not from a color perspective.
Losing that color-centric perspective will be part of our journey toward truly being "post-racial." But humans like to categorize. So, if we aren't deciding "you're not like me" based on color, it may be something else - money, weight, politics. For now, I'll keep self identifying when it fits naturally into the conversation, but I'm not buying (or encouraging) a Holocaust-style armband that declares me a "Mixed Chick." You may be curious but life is full of disappointments. You'll get over it. And maybe you'll even learn something along the way.
Cheerios Commercial Shows the New Normal
Kudos to Cheerios. They have a commercial with a mixed family. Unlike a few folks across the U.S., they don't make a big deal out of it. They did a nice job of making sure that we hear the little girl call the White woman mom before pouring a box of Cheerios on her Black dad's chest.
The first time I saw it, I wondered if I understood the situation correctly. Surprising, considering my household looked almost exactly like the one in the commercial for a few years. The second time, I was like, "Cool. And during prime time!"
Mixed couples are not an anomaly. Children of interracial couples are more common than children of gay families. Strangely, on TV, there are a couple shows that have gay parents but, as far as I know, none that have a black parent and a white parent. Nice to see this version of the new normal.
The first time I saw it, I wondered if I understood the situation correctly. Surprising, considering my household looked almost exactly like the one in the commercial for a few years. The second time, I was like, "Cool. And during prime time!"
Mixed couples are not an anomaly. Children of interracial couples are more common than children of gay families. Strangely, on TV, there are a couple shows that have gay parents but, as far as I know, none that have a black parent and a white parent. Nice to see this version of the new normal.
Mixed Kid Problems
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Mixed kids’ problems are first-world problems. They aren’t
things like “no access to fresh water” or “school is 20 miles away and the bus
broke down.” I’m just saying, as a group, we may have our gripes but, in the
grand scheme, it could be worse. That said, here's a few, starting from the top:
- One or both of your parents has no idea what to do with your hair. Everyone knows it’s not right, but no one knows how to fix it.
- Hats - thanks to our hair, hats are often not our friend. Curls are great, except when they've been mashed down. And, if you're a girl with short curly hair, you will be called a boy when wearing a hat. Trust me, I know.
- You don’t look like you belong to your father. Out in public, people ask, “Are you ok?” and “Is that strange man (a.k.a. your dad) bothering you?”
- You don’t look like you belong to your mom. After seeing her, the other kids tease you about being adopted or wonder “Is that your babysitter?”
- Wrinkles…maybe? Most brown-skinned people have thicker skin that wrinkles less. Mixed kids, no matter what their complexion, aren’t guaranteed that anti-wrinkle power.
- Mixed = Caramel complexion, light eyes or wavy hair (or all of the above). Except we’re not all made that way. Mass disappointment (see bullet 8).
- Lingering looks that lead to the question, “What are you?” or “Where are you from?” and “But where are your parents from?”
- Mass exposure to racism. Being racially ambiguous means you’re more likely to hear it all.
- Disappointing your blind dates. I blame Halle Berry, Lolo Jones, Lenny Kravitz and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson for setting the bar too high!
If these are the biggest problems you face in life, count yourself lucky. Surviving
being mixed doesn't have to be hard. Simply hope you aren’t tender-headed while your parents
work out their beautician skills. Fight the right battles and try to let everything
else roll off your back. Avoid society’s beauty stereotypes and figure out what’s
good about you. And, when preparing for a blind date, tell them you’re mixed,
you know... like Malcolm Gladwell.
The Tragic Mulatto Must Die
One of the old stereotypes about people who are biracial is the "tragic mulatto," a person who doesn't fit in because he or she isn't White but isn't really Black. Millions of people who claim to be mixed are living well-balanced lives. Isn't it time for us to declare the tragic mulatto dead?
And yet, the stereotype was recently perpetuated by someone I've called a friend. Ignoring all that she knows about me, this woman told a stranger that the reason why he didn't know me in college is because I'm half black and half white, so I didn't know which way to go.
In my book, being accused of being confused about who I am is just slightly better than being called a sellout and much worse than being mistaken for a race/ethnicity that I'm not. What made the accusation shockingly hateful is that she knows better AND is almost the same complexion as I. And did I mention that the man she said this too is also light skinned?
So, imagine, three very light-skinned Black people standing around and one of them basically points her finger at another and says, "You're different, you don't belong, you have to prove yourself to us." It's ridiculous. Would she challenge our President, who is boldly biracial and happens to be darker than she is, with a similarly cruel statement? What about Frederick Douglas?
I won't honor her comment by detailing how Black I was in college or am now. I will say that it's hard enough when non-Blacks make racist statements to or around me - they think it's ok because I'm light. It's not. But it really cut me to the quick to have a friend and fellow light-skinned African-American put me into that tired old, tragic mulatto box. It was tragically thoughtless in the eyes of this not-tragic (and never mulatto) chick.
And yet, the stereotype was recently perpetuated by someone I've called a friend. Ignoring all that she knows about me, this woman told a stranger that the reason why he didn't know me in college is because I'm half black and half white, so I didn't know which way to go.
In my book, being accused of being confused about who I am is just slightly better than being called a sellout and much worse than being mistaken for a race/ethnicity that I'm not. What made the accusation shockingly hateful is that she knows better AND is almost the same complexion as I. And did I mention that the man she said this too is also light skinned?
So, imagine, three very light-skinned Black people standing around and one of them basically points her finger at another and says, "You're different, you don't belong, you have to prove yourself to us." It's ridiculous. Would she challenge our President, who is boldly biracial and happens to be darker than she is, with a similarly cruel statement? What about Frederick Douglas?
I won't honor her comment by detailing how Black I was in college or am now. I will say that it's hard enough when non-Blacks make racist statements to or around me - they think it's ok because I'm light. It's not. But it really cut me to the quick to have a friend and fellow light-skinned African-American put me into that tired old, tragic mulatto box. It was tragically thoughtless in the eyes of this not-tragic (and never mulatto) chick.
Traits of a Mixed Person: Linguistic Ninja
I was recently asked what the traits of a mixed person are. I think what the guy meant was, is there a stereotypical mixed look, style or way of carrying oneself. I couldn't think of anything that's standard issue "Mixed." Our hair runs the gamut, skin color covers the rainbow, and any part of us may reflect one parent's lineage or the other.
Except, I think that many mixed people have the makings of linguistic ninjas. Depending on who raised you and your socio-economic background, many mixed people have learned how to reflect the people around them in the way they talk. An op-ed piece on Barack Obama in the International Herald Tribune on September 10 reflected my thoughts on this.
The gist of the article is this: Barack Obama is flexible in his speaking style. Sometimes he sounds more typically African American while other times he is more racially neutral. The article also points out that Obama says he quickly picked up on the language and customs when in Indonesia, knows a bit of Spanish and a little Hawaiian Creole. Yes, the man is well educated and has proven intelligence, but this kind of linguistic agility and speed may be rooted in something else - having to blend in with different ways of speaking from a very early age.
And he's not alone. A mixed friend of mine, Lisa, speaks English, a bit of Black slang, French and enough Spanish to travel alone in Spain. Another mixed friend, Jeff, is the same - except his fourth language is music instead of French. Personally, I would say I speak American English blended with Black slang and British terms (from living abroad). But when I travel, I either pick up the local accent - my Scottish accent used to make my ex-husband so delightfully frustrated - or the language (if it's a Romance language). For this I thank being comfortable as a kid in Minnesota with my White family and Colorado with my Black family and feeling at home ever since, as I travel the world.
Except, I think that many mixed people have the makings of linguistic ninjas. Depending on who raised you and your socio-economic background, many mixed people have learned how to reflect the people around them in the way they talk. An op-ed piece on Barack Obama in the International Herald Tribune on September 10 reflected my thoughts on this.
The gist of the article is this: Barack Obama is flexible in his speaking style. Sometimes he sounds more typically African American while other times he is more racially neutral. The article also points out that Obama says he quickly picked up on the language and customs when in Indonesia, knows a bit of Spanish and a little Hawaiian Creole. Yes, the man is well educated and has proven intelligence, but this kind of linguistic agility and speed may be rooted in something else - having to blend in with different ways of speaking from a very early age.
And he's not alone. A mixed friend of mine, Lisa, speaks English, a bit of Black slang, French and enough Spanish to travel alone in Spain. Another mixed friend, Jeff, is the same - except his fourth language is music instead of French. Personally, I would say I speak American English blended with Black slang and British terms (from living abroad). But when I travel, I either pick up the local accent - my Scottish accent used to make my ex-husband so delightfully frustrated - or the language (if it's a Romance language). For this I thank being comfortable as a kid in Minnesota with my White family and Colorado with my Black family and feeling at home ever since, as I travel the world.
Interracial dating
One of the by-products of being mixed, for me, is that I don't have a good sense of what topics are off limits. For example, the question and possible answers below might not be comfortable (but they might be, I'm honestly unsure). But I've been wondering, so I thought I'd ask...
Why have most of the Black men I know dated non-Black women but almost none of the White men I know have dated non-White women?
Possible answers:
A: It's easier for Whites to find other White people with similar values, so there's no need to diversify. In essence, where one lives and works provides White people with enough options, they don't have to go on dating sites and say they are open to dating anyone.
B: It's less acceptable to date outside the race for White men. There's no historical precedent, no one died for their right to do it and maybe they feel like they have a duty to continue the White race. Dating Latinas or Black women is taking romance to strange new places and messes up the biological imperative.
C: The myths about Black men (big @#$%s) make them more appealing to other races than the myths about White guys (no rhythm) so they get more opportunities to mingle.
D: There's more status to be gained for a Black man when he dates a White or Asian woman than there is for a White man if he dates a non-White woman.
E: Black women are scary, Asian women tend to stick to their own and Latinas are sexy but not marriage material.
F: Other?
Just some thoughts as I wrap up my Tuesday. xo
Why have most of the Black men I know dated non-Black women but almost none of the White men I know have dated non-White women?
Possible answers:
A: It's easier for Whites to find other White people with similar values, so there's no need to diversify. In essence, where one lives and works provides White people with enough options, they don't have to go on dating sites and say they are open to dating anyone.
B: It's less acceptable to date outside the race for White men. There's no historical precedent, no one died for their right to do it and maybe they feel like they have a duty to continue the White race. Dating Latinas or Black women is taking romance to strange new places and messes up the biological imperative.
C: The myths about Black men (big @#$%s) make them more appealing to other races than the myths about White guys (no rhythm) so they get more opportunities to mingle.
D: There's more status to be gained for a Black man when he dates a White or Asian woman than there is for a White man if he dates a non-White woman.
E: Black women are scary, Asian women tend to stick to their own and Latinas are sexy but not marriage material.
F: Other?
Just some thoughts as I wrap up my Tuesday. xo
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