Since moving to California in the fall, no one has asked me what my background/heritage/ethnicity/parental birthplace is. It's been nice and I didn't miss it. Yesterday, my "It's been 160 days since our last questioning" sign was erased and put back to zero.
I was with my boyfriend, his friend and the friend's fiancee. We were having a great day. All of us are people of color and I wasn't thinking anything about it - it's nice to just be comfortable with the people around you. Out of the blue, the fiancee asks me about my background. It felt like someone slammed on the brakes of my good time. Suddenly, I was aware of the fact that I'm obviously different. I went from assuming I was part of the group to feeling like an outsider. And, because it's been so long since somebody asked or I thought about being mixed, I sort of stumbled over my answer. No snappy "What do you think I am?" Just, "Ah, well, um, huh, yeah, that came out of nowhere, uh, yeah."
It turns out she is mixed also - Asian and White. I assumed she was simply Asian, but maybe she is often asked about her heritage and didn't think I would find it disconcerting when she asked.
The upside is that I knew there wasn't anything malicious behind it and so I recovered pretty well. I still like her as much as I like anyone after one meeting (I'm slow to call someone a friend) and look forward to us reveling in the comfort of being four people of color on the town sometime soon.
Survey Says: Mixed People More Attractive
A recent study in Britain found that people rated the faces of mixed-race people as "more attractive" than those of either Blacks or Whites. (Source: The Week magazine)
This is the first time I've heard of a study on the topic, but I have heard plenty of people coo, "Ohh, mixed babies are sooo cute." In America, I've overheard White teenage girls tell friends who are dating Black guys, "You two will have the prettiest babies." And, I've had conversations with Black men where they assume a friend of mine is good looking because she's mixed.
Seriously, where does fascination this come from? Do White women deliberately pursue Black men because they hope to have cute mixed kids? Will "Mixed people are hot" become a saying, similar to "Blonds have more fun"? I hope not because, honestly, have you seen some of us? Malcolm Gladwell is brilliant and, I'm sure, a lovely person, but he's never going to make People's sexiest people list.
Don't get me wrong. I do think that a little diversity in one's background can be a good thing. To see homogeneity gone wrong, take a look at the British royalty. They have been inbred to the nth degree and now, no matter how cute they are when they're young, they all end up looking a bit horsey (or, in the case of Harry wearing a Nazi uniform, looking like an ass). At the other end of the scale are people from North Africa and the Middle East. Surveys consistently rate this group as one of the best looking on the planet. They are a seamless blend of the best of Black, White and Asian - naturally tan, luscious hair and almond-shaped eyes.
According to the Census, the number of marriages between Blacks and Whites continues to grow. If you buy into the whole 'mixed people are more attractive,' you're in luck. We're just a few decades away from being a nation of hotties!
This is the first time I've heard of a study on the topic, but I have heard plenty of people coo, "Ohh, mixed babies are sooo cute." In America, I've overheard White teenage girls tell friends who are dating Black guys, "You two will have the prettiest babies." And, I've had conversations with Black men where they assume a friend of mine is good looking because she's mixed.
Seriously, where does fascination this come from? Do White women deliberately pursue Black men because they hope to have cute mixed kids? Will "Mixed people are hot" become a saying, similar to "Blonds have more fun"? I hope not because, honestly, have you seen some of us? Malcolm Gladwell is brilliant and, I'm sure, a lovely person, but he's never going to make People's sexiest people list.
Don't get me wrong. I do think that a little diversity in one's background can be a good thing. To see homogeneity gone wrong, take a look at the British royalty. They have been inbred to the nth degree and now, no matter how cute they are when they're young, they all end up looking a bit horsey (or, in the case of Harry wearing a Nazi uniform, looking like an ass). At the other end of the scale are people from North Africa and the Middle East. Surveys consistently rate this group as one of the best looking on the planet. They are a seamless blend of the best of Black, White and Asian - naturally tan, luscious hair and almond-shaped eyes.
According to the Census, the number of marriages between Blacks and Whites continues to grow. If you buy into the whole 'mixed people are more attractive,' you're in luck. We're just a few decades away from being a nation of hotties!
Strong Like Bull
We have a new doorman for my apartment building. He's Russian and seems nice. We've met twice. The second time, after asking my name, he followed up by asking if I'm Indian because he has a friend with my name who is. No, but I heard that a lot when I traveled there.
The next question could be seen coming from a mile off: What's your background?
I had just run a half marathon, so I was in a good mood but a little tired. All I wanted to do was go to my apartment, ice and eat. Still, this is my doorman. I'm going to have to see him everyday for the rest of the time I live here. I decided to start with the less obvious and work up to what he wanted to know...
Me: I'm Irish and English...
Him: Wow, I never would have guessed!
Me: And French Canadian, Native American and African American.
Him: You must be very strong.
What?! Strong? That's a new one. I think I must have given him a blank stare, but that could have been the race-induced glazed look.
Him: All that mixing means you are the best of everything. People who are just one thing, they get, how do you say, thinned down. Not strong. You are probably very healthy.
Well, that explains why, despite being exposed to a sick boyfriend and mom in the last week, I'm still well. Mixed chicks; we're strong like bull!
The next question could be seen coming from a mile off: What's your background?
I had just run a half marathon, so I was in a good mood but a little tired. All I wanted to do was go to my apartment, ice and eat. Still, this is my doorman. I'm going to have to see him everyday for the rest of the time I live here. I decided to start with the less obvious and work up to what he wanted to know...
Me: I'm Irish and English...
Him: Wow, I never would have guessed!
Me: And French Canadian, Native American and African American.
Him: You must be very strong.
What?! Strong? That's a new one. I think I must have given him a blank stare, but that could have been the race-induced glazed look.
Him: All that mixing means you are the best of everything. People who are just one thing, they get, how do you say, thinned down. Not strong. You are probably very healthy.
Well, that explains why, despite being exposed to a sick boyfriend and mom in the last week, I'm still well. Mixed chicks; we're strong like bull!
Native, Slave and...
On average, once a month, someone asks me some version of the question "What Are You?" This past weekend, in Washington, DC, I got it twice, so I'm good until July, I guess. Sometimes, I enjoy making people guess. It usually makes them uncomfortable. Makes them realize they've casually asked the equivalent of how much money do I make or how old am I. Besides, I like puzzles and games. When it comes to my race, every day is a carnival and I always win the prize because no one has EVER guessed correctly.
And yet, I am one of the most common American mixtures, I think. Black, white, Native American. No islands, except England. No Latino, but my mom speaks Spanish. No Middle Eastern, even though a version of my name is common in Lebanon. Just a basic combo of Americans - Native, slave and Son of the American Revolution.
There are times when people ask when I'm in a bad mood or taken by surprise and I don't want to play the guessing game. This weekend someone asked as a way of flirting with me. I was not wooed. A couple months ago some boys sidled up to me in Times Square to say, "What you mixed with?" I wasn't in the mood and didn't think they should continue to live in this world thinking that was a good opening salvo. "Do I know you?!" I snarled, in a rare moment of righteous New York bitchiness.
Humans love to categorize. We do it naturally, even compulsively. I know that my parents did not combine into an easily categorized human being but trust me, if you get to know me, you'll find out soon enough what I am. However, if we're passing on the street, just meeting at a party, standing in line at Walgreens or sitting next to each other in a park, I ask that you resist your biological urge to hunt, gather and categorize me.
P.S. If you can't help yourself, here's a quick guide to terms you could use and might want to avoid:
Mixed, bi-racial, person of color - fine by me
Mulatto - reeks of 1975, like honky or afro american
Mutt, redbone, high yellow gal, mariney - jokey, diminutive, borderline (unless you're mixed, too)
Snowflake, light bright (damn near white), Triple H (half and half ho) - generally insulting, very loaded, what some might call "fightin' words."
Halfrican, Leprecoon, Mixie-can, Something Rican, Real Black Irish - to me are all hilarious, but watch yourself; not all mixed people look alike and we certainly don't all feel the same about how we're discussed!
Halfrican, Leprecoon, Mixie-can, Something Rican, Real Black Irish - to me are all hilarious, but watch yourself; not all mixed people look alike and we certainly don't all feel the same about how we're discussed!
Bad judging
This weekend I met a woman at a party. She is married to a black man. When he introduced me, I had a small moment of judging; a fleeting thought of "Oh, another black guy married to a white woman."
She was cool and so we talked for a while. Some how the fact that I'm in a sorority that is made up predominantly of African American women came up. She asked me which one, I told her (Oo-oop!) and she told me that she is a member of what is sometimes described as a rival sorority.
I was almost stunned. It's good that people can't see what happens inside out heads. It would have looked like a tornado. Even I, a frequently mistaken for "other" mixed girl, hadn't realized this woman was black.
I felt myself completely rearranging the story I had created for her, her husband and what we could talk about -- I felt I could be more open, in some ways.
But it was also a moment of real self awareness. I realized how many boxes I had put her in based on her looks and being married to a black man. They weren't all bad or good, just judgements. And definitely unnecessary. It's easy to wish other people wouldn't make assumptions about me. The reality is, I need to take my own advice!
Pick It Out
Most black people know what the term "good hair" means. If you haven't encountered this phrase, you're lucky or live in a very homogenous community. Good hair is not typical black or African hair. It usually is some combination of fine, soft, shiny, long and naturally straight or wavey. I might be missing some elements, but you get the gist.
I'm sure there is a similar term amongst Asians and Latinos. Any group with tendency towards coarse hair will have at least a few, if not many, amongst them who yearn to have their hair look and feel different. Some would say those people want white hair, but that shows a lack of awareness of the hair of many Native Americans and Middle Eastern people.
I was raised by very, um, practical people. To them, hair covers your head, helps keep you warm in the winter, prevents sunburn in the summer and should either be short and out of the way or long and pulled back (again, out of the way). Having "good hair" meant nothing to them. My mom, who has very fine, bone-straight hair, thought keeping my big, bouncy curls functional was a challenge and a novelty. Solution: home haircuts for 11 years that only varied in how perfectly round they turned out. Result: for most of my elementary school years, strangers told me I was a very cute boy.
My dad, in the 70s, had a mid-length afro and carried a black power pick. Every time I'd get in his car, he'd turn to me and say, "What's going on here?" -- talking to my hair. Before I could protest, he'd attack me with the power pick, mercilessly torturing my tender head and turning my individual curls into a single, bouncy halo of dark brown fluff. In the summer it was hot. In the winter, I couldn't fit a hat over it. Year round, people thought I was a cute boy.
When I was about to enter junior high, I got my first professional cut. Of course, living in Minnesota in the '80s, I chose a Prince/Sheila E-style cut with long curly bangs and the sides and back cropped short. Parents: aghast. Me: happiest mixed kid on the block!
But the parents left their mark. To this day, I rarely do the things that would take advantage of how my genetic pool influenced my hair. I wear my loose curls in a ponytail more times than not. I am too aesthetically lazy to blow it out straight more than three times a year. I've had it an inch long twice in my life and only grown it out to the middle of my back once. It was hot and boring to comb. But I have to admit, no one ever thought I was a boy.
Today, I am ...
This weekend, I'm definitely black. Yes, I'm still mixed, but I'm really just black.
I haven't suddenly decided to accept my heritage (done), I'm not talking or dressing differently (unless you count a pair of gold sandals bought in frenzy of spring shopping) and I haven't gotten a tan.
I say I'm black this weekend because of how people are interacting with me. This happens sometimes - people treat me in a certain way and, call me paranoid, I can just tell that they have made some assumptions about me.
There are times when people think I'm Latina. I recognize these times by the slower speed at which people talk to me, the surprise when I don't have an accent, the questions about where my parents are from and were they born there (i.e. which one came over the border, young lady?). On those days, Latinos ask me for directions or try to sell me food in Spanish. Crazy as it sounds, I feel a little guilty on those days - like I'm a bad Mexican for forgetting my mother tongue and the struggles of my people.
Some days I'm so ambiguous, people don't think about what I am and just act like themselves. Sometimes, this means actin' a fool and saying things you wouldn't say in front of a person of color. I like to think of those as teachable moments, when there's time. I know when I'm having one of those days because, invariably, a taxi driver will talk to me about how the blacks can't be trusted and asks why am I going to Harlem. There's nothing quite like a high-speed, 60-block ride uptown arguing about race to get your heart rate up.
But this weekend, like times, I'm black. I'm getting the black folks eye contact and nod on the street, a shoe salesman felt a little too familiar and made jokey comments about white women and shoe shopping and I got followed in a department store. Nothing about me changes, and yet, everything about the way I'm treated changes.
Experiencing being treated like what I'm not is a little interesting, but it also feels like accidental passing, which I'm very against. "You're black" interactions are comfortable because it's what I think of myself as, but it's also a shame that, despite the Obama mantra of change and accepting, we really haven't and really aren't.
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