This post originally appeared on Medium.
A few months ago, I not-so-subtly asserted myself as biracial while having dinner with a new coworker. “I’m a Capricorn,” she’d said. “Yeah…my mom’s black,” I responded (not verbatim, but the exchange was similar). Whoa. What? Immediately after I injected that part of my identity into the conversation, I had a come-to-Jesus moment. What was I doing? Did I always do this when I met new people?
The answer, if you’re wondering, is yes. (Although the timing and context are usually a bit more appropriate.) I’ve been coming out this way since I was a teenager. First, my friends would do it for me, whenever one of our peers said something racist in front of me (which was often). “Dude. Steph’s mom is black!” The requisite retort was always, “Oh, sorry, Steph. Are you half-offended?” (No, but I am wishing tired-ass jokes qualified as hate crimes.)
Here it is: My mother is black. My dad is white. Two of my siblings look like my mom, and two of us look like my dad. Of the two who favor my dad, only one is biracial — that’d be me, the pigmentally challenged Michael Jackson of our troupe. Are you confused yet? Good. Welcome to what it’s like to be biracial.
I grew up in a culturally diverse environment, which meant I missed the memo that it’s “not normal” to be mixed. In fact, I grew up believing the opposite — in my grammar school class of thirty kids, five were mixed race. Not a bad ratio.
So I didn’t discover my otherness through being teased by peers or by having after-school-special chats with my parents. I discovered it in other ways, like when strangers would mistake my mother for my nanny, would stare at a black woman holding a white child’s hand in the middle of a crowded flea market. Or when I finally figured out why Mom always stayed home whenever we visited Dad’s parents in Florida. I figured it out when I began obsessively clipping photos of Tyra Banks from my mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalogs and when I began hoarding pictures of my aunt, who I didn’t even like but thought was beautiful. I was collecting portraits of black beauty I couldn’t have for myself.
Because my exploration of race was largely internal, I spent much of my adolescence identifying as … well, whatever I wanted. Sometimes I’d simply call myself a mutt. Other times I’d list each nationality I owned, no matter how little cultural influence it had over me: Greek, Grenadian, Native American, Panamanian, Irish-Scottish (the last two were a stretch). My preferred identity, though, was one that didn’t even belong to me. In middle school, I began telling my classmates I was Hispanic. All my friends were, after all, and I quickly learned I could manipulate my hair and style to look the part. When I did this, I no longer had to explain my mother’s brown skin. I no longer had to come out.
Even with this solution in place, a certain fear lived in me. I was afraid of mispronouncing foreign words that effortlessly rolled off the tongues of friends, afraid of being invited to dinner and not knowing the Spanish words for the foods I was eating. Most of all, I was afraid my friends would talk to my parents and realize that my roots were rooted in lies. I didn’t belong anywhere, and I was ashamed of it.
At thirteen, I moved and got a chance to reevaluate my identity. My new school was predominantly black, so copping to what I was — black and white — was easy. Sometimes, anyway; other times, I was exposed to white kids who would speak their minds on our black classmates whenever they were under the impression they were in good (white) company. I realized how few people believed me about my mother’s race and wanted evidence, and how it never got less frustrating to have to prove my identity, court-of-law style (note that, on the flipside, my black classmates celebrated my race, would tell me: ”I knew you were black!”).
(My mother as a teenager. She’s still just as gorgeous.)
Gradually, I learned how to parse my race, make sense of it on a personal level. Even with my white skin, I didn’t know the white experience entirely. I didn’t know it because when people use that poisonous n-word, I instantly think of my mother—and how people have used that word to hurt her simply for lack of time and effort. I think about the things my parents sacrificed to be together, things bigger than letters can spell. I grew up eating collard greens and black-eyed peas and other foods white kids in New York City never ate; I grew up knowing I was the fruit of something forbidden by family, strangers, you name it. I took my spankings with a helping of, “When I was your age, my mother would just go in the backyard and get a switch from a tree — you’re lucky it’s just a belt.” When #shitblackmomssay trended on Twitter, I laughed. I was on the inside of something, for once.
That’s not to say I understand the black experience. For starters, I have white privilege. Olive skin with curly hair, fine and versatile. Police don’t see me. No one follows me around stores (but they’re confused as hell when I come in to shop with my mother and sister). No one assumes I’m uneducated or that my father left me. No one calls me her token black friend or asks why I talk so white (though I can imagine my mother, sister, and brother have heard that one a bit).
And the biracial experience? Can’t say I understand that entirely, either. Depends on what we look like, on what we’re mixed with, on how we identify. I love this aspect of being biracial, but it’s also what makes it alienating. My sister has had a completely different biracial experience than I’ve had. We share the same parents—the same blood—and our experiences are disparate. Growing up, we had different friends, different hobbies. And it wasn’t a coincidence. Biracial people are largely invisible as a group; we get tossed into whatever category we resemble most. We’re expected to choose black or white (or Indian, or Chinese, or whatever traits dominate). But lots of us don’t want to quietly “Circle One.” Some things aren’t black or white. Like human beings.
I don’t know the black experience, and I don’t know the white one either. All I know is my own biracial experience, which looks like this: it’s strangers addressing you in Greek instead of English because your name is Greek and what else would you be? (I know two words of Greek.) It’s telling a new acquaintance you’re biracial, then furnishing a photo of your family when she insists that you’re lying. You have to do this, though, show her a picture — because you might be the one person who can change her mind about what blackness looks like. It’s census reports that won’t acknowledge you, and a white friend screaming the n-word through his open window because someone cut him off in traffic. It’s that same friend turning around to say, “Oh. Sorry,” as though the problem is that you’re in the car, not his own racist inclination toward someone he’s never met.
It’s your mom’s brown face floating in a sea of white at the Greek Orthodox church, which she’ll eventually stop attending. It’s not understanding why you’re still expected to go. It’s befriending someone great and immediately wondering if her mom, or brother, or grandparents will say something offensive in front of you because why would you care, you’re white, right? It’s segregated proms in 2013, sobbing over segregated proms in 2013. It’s mainstream Hollywood ignoring interracial relationships, even though one in ten Americans is in one. It’s Cheerios commercials and YouTube comments and knowing that somewhere, a total stranger has called your ‘kind’ “unnatural” or worse, just because your parents’ skin tones don’t match up. Who cares if they love each other? It’s knowing your parents’ new home state — Florida — will protect you before it protects your mother. It’s witnessing one of the most exciting conversations about race since the civil rights movement, and wondering whether you’re the white voice that should shut up and listen, or the black voice that should speak out, or the mixed voice that should ???. It’s the feeling that you belong nowhere, and not knowing what to do about that, and not knowing who to ask.
And it’s coming out. It’s coming out to strangers, and friends, and lovers on the off chance that you might convince them that race isn’t one size fits all. It’s coming out to see the look on some bigot’s face when he realizes his idea of white is wrong. It’s coming out so that interracial couples don’t have to fear the America their future children will grow up in. Looking like a white woman comes with white privilege, but it also comes with the responsibility of making myself known, of changing minds. I’m treated the way all black Americans deserve to be treated, and it’s only because my dad’s genes won a round of tug-of-war with my mom’s. My skin color is just a small joke that racists—career or casual—aren’t in on.
So I come out. Again and again and again. My appearance can’t do the talking, but I sure as hell can.
Tags: biracial identity, family, race, steph georgopulos
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love love love love love this article. I’m also white/white passing and biracial and it’s nice to see this here.
A warning to fellow toasters: if you start clicking around and reading some of Steph’s other stuff, you may never stop. She has a way with words, and irresistable insight into the world around her. Love to see her work on the toast!
thank you, super nice person!
Thanks for letting us publish this, Steph! (Steph also did not charge us for this piece!)
Oh cool, I thought this was brilliant when I read it on Medium. It’s a really great article. The “half-offended” bit is awful, and I identified, as my first boyfriend’s sister, when she heard I am half-Chinese, said, “Oh, does she only have one eye like this then?” and did the pulling up the corner of the eye motion.
…what. WHAT? Jesus. Who DOES that?
Question for Biracial Toasties! (Or any Toasties).
So, when I was younger, I never stopped my friends from making jokes about me being biracial. Maybe it was just me trying to be “in on the joke” about my own identity, or knowing they “didn’t mean it,” or trying to fit in, whatever. But basically, now I can’t stand them, and I still have some friends who make these jokes just around me, because to them it’s the same joke they’ve been making for the past 10 years that I’ve been ok with, and even laughed at. Is there a way to bring it up to them now?
Ooh definitely just bring it up; you should be comfortable around your friends and that isn’t cool. I am quite militant about things like this and have only had this issue with friends of friends, luckily, and if such a thing gets said, I say “Hey, actually, that makes me feel uncomfortable – making fun of people’s heritage isn’t cool”. I know it’s different as your friends possibly feel like it’s part of your whole thing, but all you have to add is, “actually, just so you know, I’m not really into these kinds of jokes – I’ve had some time to think about it.”
I personally am an advocate for not waiting until the next time they say a joke, as I don’t think you should have to listen to even one more, and just bringing it up, but obviously that might be a bit nervewracking and serious.
Yeah.It sucks, because a lot of these were jokes I’d make too about myself when I was a teenager, so I just feel awkward coming in now and saying “wait it’s not ok anymore.” But they’re all smart and aware people and we talk about issues of race and culture all the time so I’m pretty sure they’d understand.
yeah, I can see how friends (I assume these are good/close friends) would think this is ok if you have been/are acting ok with it. I definitely take my cues from the other party on stuff like this.
In this case, assuming again that these are good/close friends who you trust, I’d actually do this by email so that they have a chance to think about it and don’t feel like they have to respond right away. (Human beings: we don’t always do our best thinking when we’re pressured to respond to something complex.)
I would feel bad if a friend of mine was always feeling shitty about something that I was saying and assuming was a shared in-joke that we were all laughing about in the same way. I would want to know! I don’t want my friends to feel shitty.
I wouldn’t say “it’s not ok anymore” but more something like “it’s something I’ve realized was never ok”
Over the past year, I started start doing this with some close friends about certain jokes about gender that we all made (for like, the past four years or so). We’re all in computer science, and that’s how we met in college. And I would make jokes about how funny it was that I was top of the class, despite having ovaries, basically. It was a way to deal with the discomfort of being in a really male-dominated space, even though all my friends (and even the ones who weren’t my friends) were super cool about me being there. What’s worked for me is mentioning it in mostly one on one situations, when it comes up, where you can have a conversation without shaming or embarrassing them. It’s gone well. One or two friends has gotten upset, but not because I’m asking them to change, just because they’re upset with themselves when they realize that they have been hurting my feelings, which they wouldn’t wish to do. I’d personally avoid doing something like writing an email, because it’s much easier to modulate tone in person, so that they understand that you’re aware that they have not intentionally been hurting you. Criticism that clearly comes from a place of love will probably go over a lot smoother. And thanks for bringing this up, Jaya, it’s reminded me that I need to cut out some less-than-sensitive jokes that we share with a friend who’s from a mixed-race background. He’s never expressed any discomfort, but I want to be better about it regardless.
Similarly, I had and participated in a somewhat offensive nickname growing up. As I got older and really began to identify as mixed race, it felt weird to let my best friends call me it. Luckily we updated our nicknames (Harry Potter related now haha) and it has since just gone away. (And I wasn’t the only one in the group- we each had cringe worthy names based on our race and we now just awkwardly laugh at the whole thing)
I agree w/ other posters that you should probably just say something to them, and hopefully in the process you can find a less offensive joke to collectively laugh at!
(Disclaimer: I am that person who is always nominated and/or cannot withstand awkwardness and thus feels compulsion to bring stuff like this up. Not everyone wants to be that person, but I have found myself unable to NOT be that person.)
I would 100% bring it up, but would be inclined to try to find a way to bring it up in a related conversation (e.g., watching/discussing tv or a movie that deals with nicknames or racial/biracial identity) as opposed to calling someone on using the nickname, which would be more likely to become antagonistic. It’s basically our friends’ and families’ jobs to be able to handle our feelings. Said friend can either just sit quietly and be introspective, while they think about it themselves, or probe further/apologize. Different people react differently.
If possible, I would probably try to start with the person who you think would be best able to deal with it. It’s very hard to foresee all possible actions/reactions/objections. It also depends on the group of people, but with most of my family and friends, it would only have to be told to a couple of people and they would circulate it among themselves in an effort to not be assholes. Note: although I haven’t had this exact situation come up, my son is biracial and will be dealing with this shortly, and I’ve had to expend a fair amount of effort navigating people’s reactions to interracial relationships and biracial kids. Once it’s out of the bag, so to speak, then it’s a matter of whether you want to talk it through personally with everyone or have the group just come to a tacit, unspoken agreement to not revisit the nickname. I am very much a talk-it-out kinda person, but there are advantages and disadvantages to each approach and I’m not saying my tendency to talk things through with everyone is necessarily better.
Oh, I liked this piece and I am glad it’s here now, I know Toasties will have a great conversation around this!
My husband can identify with Steph’s experience in a way because he LOOKS like the whitest white guy that ever whited (seriously – cannot shave his head, instant Neo-Nazi) but he identifies as indigenous Australian (his mother is, his father is white, insert long explanation about why Aboriginal people don’t identify as half- or part-Aboriginal). Back in Australia people would say the WORST most offensive things about Aboriginal people not knowing they were talking to one. Here, Australian is sort of exotic enough, we don’t get too many comments about that.
AND, my children have Latino heritage, but only one has dark skin and one has the same coloring as Mr. Iceberg, so she may have some feels about claiming that heritage when her appearance doesn’t call it out like her siblings.
Just, speaking as someone who is Latina but totally doesn’t look it if one is defining being Latin@ by the stereotypical depictions of what that is in the media. Latin America, like the US is super diverse and has a complicated race history due to colonization, slavery, racism, and later immigration. You can have dark skin you can have light skin you can be black you can be white you can be from a particular indigenous/native latin american group and be either very connected to that heritage or not so much, you can be a mix of all these things, etc.
Obviously I’m simplifying things a little and there is a history of colorism both within Latin America and in the US that will absolutely affect how your daughter is treated (and how I have been treated!) but I do think it’s really really important to stress the diversity of Latin@s and Latin America, particularly because if she isn’t growing up there she might not see it for herself and even more importantly because not only are portrayals of Latin@s (especially women) so very limited in the US to a very specific (from skin color to body type to clothing) look but portrayals in the news are also often very negative (coincidentally, the Latin@s shown in the news are often darker skinned than the one’s portrayed positively on tv, ex Sofia Vergara in modern family vs images of Latin@s whenever someone talks about immigration).
I guess the point I’m getting at here (I ramble and get distracted while I type, sorry!) is that while she’s probably have all kinds of super complicated feelings about claiming that heritage you personally shouldn’t feel conflicted about encouraging her to embrace that part of her heritage if that’s something you feel like she might want to do.
Oh no, I don’t feel conflicted about it at all, I just mean that like the writer it might possibly be a little harder for her to navigate other people’s reactions than it will be for her brother who is *visually* not-just-white.
But everything you wrote is really thoughtful and helpful, so thank you! I myself didn’t grow up in America so I’m less familiar with the racial dynamics and stereotypes vs. realty (although striving to be educated).
Ah, ok I’m glad and I figured that was the case but I just wanted make sure you didn’t feel like, bad about it or anything because we’re all snowflakes and so on. One thing that might help is books, both books by Latina writers, books featuring Latina protagonists as well as books about being biracial or mixed in America (even if she isn’t biracial, just light skinned, I find these types of books can help when you are growing up within a mixed family). There’s lots of this kind of stuff for kids and teens out there and so that might help her feel more cool with herself.
Also, my mom had this giant book about Colombia (where I’m half from) growing up with all kinds of pictures which, while it was about the country and not about diversity, did show a wide variety of different people/different skin colors so that was good to see. I bet they have books like that about Latin@s in the US that could be neat to have around the house : )
This was excellent, and I’m so sorry that people are racist to you.
Also, your mom is gorgeous.
Great piece! Before the Toast started publishing about it, I hadn’t really read much of other people’s views of being biracial. I’m pretty surprised by how closely other people’s experiences/feelings line up with mine, even though they may be from a completely different racial mix than I am.
I’m white-passing native/white and between hearing some pretty racist things from my boyfriend’s parents (who don’t know I’m biracial) and reading an op-ed by an indigenous writer who said that white/indigenous marriages are another form of attempted genocide (what does that make me?) it’s been on my mine a fair bit in the last week.
“white/indigenous marriages are another form of attempted genocide” – WHAT. JUST. ???
Ahh omg that’s like the worst sentence. I’ve definitely heard stuff like that about white/indigenous relationships as well as just biracial relationships and on one hand I respect their right to talk about this stuff and navigate it the way they do and on the other hand I think it’s so important to realize that when you talk about those things you are talking about real people lives, and the lives of their children.
This is giving me flashbacks to a conversation on jezebel way back when, that was about marriage between women from developed western countries and women from developing countries that was all about how it’s always oppressive and terrible and ‘those women’ are always suffering. And I, as the daughter of a white American man and a non-white Colombian woman politely popped in to say about about myself and my/my family’s personal experience with this and someone literally told me I was a naive child who hadn’t yet realized how awful these relationships are. Which is about when I quit Jezebel and fled to the hairpin (which showed me the way of the toast).
if you haven’t already read it, you might find this piece interesting/helpful: http://nativeappropriations.com/2013/09/revisitin…
This is a hugely tricky issue that, as a nonminority human who will probably never procreate, I don’t feel is mine to comment on, except to generally say that I hope that parents can be happy if their children have found happiness, because jeez, isn’t that hard enough?
I like that post a lot. I always admire when people re-evaluate their earlier work based on what they’ve learned, while still owning it.
This is an excellent piece, and so much of it resonates with me. I don’t want to quietly “Circle One” either, but I don’t officially belong to my ‘other’ race group.
I didn’t realize that I look visibly ‘other’ until I left my small hometown for far-away-big-city university and started getting questioned about my ethnicity. Many people who are from where I am from have a similar heritage (canadian first nations + white) and ‘other’ look to them, so it was normal for us. At that time I did belong to a first nations group, but a membership revamp left me out as being not ‘other’ enough to qualify.
And I’m not sure I disagree with being left out. My first nations ancestry makes up less than a quarter of my bloodline. My family life was basically like any small-town family and did not include the elements of hunting, fishing, camping that many other families still embrace. I’m not pure white, yet I have no real connection to the ways of my first nations ancestors. I’m still working out where I belong.
white kids who would speak their minds on our black classmates whenever they were under the impression they were in good (white) company
Fuck these people. I loathe this demographic so much. They are the absolute fucking worst. I can’t really even explain why these people get so far under my skin, because my feelings about them are beyond language.
On a happier note, your mom’s earring are awesome.
oh my god I HATE accidentally being in meetings of the White People Club.
Me too! I’m half Iranian, and over here in the UK there’s mostly tension with Middle Eastern and Asian people, since 9/11 and then the London bombings. I’ve had to say ‘you know you’re talking about me there’ far too many times when idiots start banging on about how they’re all terrorists.
seriously. where’s the frigging unsubscribe button for these people? Augh.
God save us all from the Safe White Space. I have not yet found a single casual way to mention my husband’s ethnicity early on, but I do it, anyway, because I cannot handle another “greedy gooks” comment without bursting into tears in public. Again.
yerp. i’m a white-looking half-puerto rican (who actually lived there for awhile) and people are always looking for chances to make one feel like a fraud. i pondered the ethics of checking “latino” on college applications–is it fair for me to presumably be availed of diversity-promoting financial aid policies when i also benefit from white privilege? but i think i do have a unique perspective to add to the chorus. i definitely grew up steeped in the culture, and it’s so maddening when people (often other puerto ricans) call me a gringa or assume i identify as caucasian or question my legitimacy. but i also try to understand where they’re coming from–it doesn’t seem quite fair that i can both benefit from reading as white, and also claim special otherness.
Just on the ethics of checking ‘latino’ on college applications as someone who was in the same position I really wouldn’t feel bad about it. Not that there’s anything wrong with it if you did check white but I don’t think it’s at all fair for you to feel like you can’t claim your own culture (that you were raised in!!) just because everyone else is being racist and ruining things.
Also, I did check ‘latino’ on all of those forms and it didn’t really give me any extra opportunities/take away financial aid from others. Part of those forms is definitely statistics for the college to know who’s applying/what their demographics are, and part of it (especially with SAT and PSAT forms) is to track grades and scores of different students. They do use them to offer financial aid (especially if there is like, a scholarship specifically for a certain demographic) but you don’t have to accept them if you don’t want to or don’t feel comfortable doing so. My school had diversity based scholarships and I was just offered one based on academics, and not tied to race or ethnicity.
I always felt so weird even in elementary school having my own little identity crisis on the first question of standardized tests–“Race or ethnicity: Check ONE.”
it just makes me want to check all of them and then draw an angry face next to the bubbles on the scantron
Of course its fair! You are who you are! You have special otherness, and you should get whatever you deserve from being Puerto Rican as well!! If nothing other than to be able to check on the box your true identity. Let your diverse light shine!!
“It’s witnessing one of the most exciting conversations about race since the civil rights movement, and wondering whether you’re the white voice that should shut up and listen, or the black voice that should speak out, or the mixed voice that should ???.”
This resonates with me the most.
I’m all for the ‘mixed voice ???’!
Excellent on Medium, excellent here.
I can’t believe people ask you to “prove” you’re biracial!? What the actual hell.
I found out recently that a new-ish friend of mine is biracial. Her dad is black and her mom is white, and my friend looks white. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but some of the other people we were with said things like, “What? Really?” and “I never would have guessed, but now that you’ve said something, I can see it!”
I didn’t really know what to say, if anything. This girl looked kind of uncomfortable with people’s reactions, but didn’t seem to know what to say. I wish I had said or done something more supportive than just, “Oh, cool” and silence while she tried to explain how genetics works.
I love the article, and I’m so glad to be introduced to a new blog! I’ll be reading Medium regularly.
One request, though — I spent a good 10 minutes trying to figure out who was pictured in the top two photos. I finally saw the author photo and got that figured, but it wasn’t until I clicked through to Medium and saw that the photos were captioned that they made sense. Maybe add in the original caption on this piece, too?
Done, thanks!
It is very different, but I pretty much do the same thing when people denigrate those with mental illness. "Oh but you are different/ handle it differently/ aren't violent/ whatever." I hates it.
Also, some people think it is uncouth to analogize the difficulty of being of one minority to another, so I am sorry if I offend. I haven't really figured out how to navigate that one, yet, and am open to suggestions.
This article was very interesting. I'm actually tri-racial – Asian, African-American, and Caucasian – and it's always a fun time explaining. It's pretty clear that I'm mixed, but no one ever guesses the mix correctly. I consistently have to prove that my mother is Asian, but I've never really had an identity crisis. Maybe I'll have one when I'm older and run into less politically correct people.
“It’s the feeling that you belong nowhere, and not knowing what to do about that, and not knowing who to ask.”
This breaks my heart. Probably because its how I feel deep down. I’m dark skinned bi-racial. Grew up on the white side. NEVER stop hearing how I’m “The whitest black girl” or why do I “talk like a valley girl”. People definitely stared at my mother and myself (but no worries, I’m sure they just assumed I was adopted).
I am thankful to live in the melting pot of Toronto, Ontario. I celebrate diversity and I’ve never ever cared about anybody being different. Race, gender, differently-abled, sexuality, no matter what the difference is, I always try to treat people how I think they’d want to be treated.
It is like therapy to hear other people’s struggles and journey through similar situations. Thank you so much for sharing!!!
Ah, I know that way of just being whatever people think you are. Greek people thought I was greek, other people spoke Spanish to me on the subway. I’m half white and half hispanic (Ecuadorian). Growing up, I never thought it was a thing to be “biracial.” I called myself, just like you, “a mutt,” quite joyfully. When I was little and living in Queens, my friends and I were always trying to prove we were more mixed than the other. I’d say I was part Ecuadorian, part Spanish (well, they did colonize Ecuador), maybe even part Arabic from way back when they were in Spain — the family name having possibly Moorish origins — part Swedish, part German, part Scottish, maybe part Jewish on the German side. I was proud of it. Teachers still evoked the “melting pot” back then, in school. I thought I was a “real” American for being from that big melting pot.
And then all of a sudden we moved to a really white neighborhood and that was all over. I was astounded the day my mother, to justify her forbidding me to date a black boy who called me once (for homework, not even for a date, that’s how hysterical she was) on the basis that she’d suffered all her life because people thought she was my father’s black wife. Mixed couples would only suffer, she tried to tell me. She’d spent my whole life, unbeknownst to me, feeling like people looked at her like my father’s exotic wife, which offended her. Well, I do know that “wow, so here’s the exotic girlfriend” look from people. But, having taken a bit of sociology and women’s studies, I take it more as a misogynistic thing than a racial thing. I just think, “idiots.”
She hated Parent-Teacher night because she thought people judged her, or didn’t believe she was really our mother. Which was silly, because we all looked more hispanic than white. She was just really paranoid about it. When I got my social security card, she told me to say I was “white, because it’s better.”
In Europe, my friends would laugh at my family photos because my dad’s the only “white guy,” and say, “one of these things is not like the other. Even we kids used to laugh at his sunburn when we’d go to the beach, when we were little. Simultaneously, we loved imitating our mother’s accent and did so mercilessly. She laughed so much, because we nailed it, and then one day, she hated it.
The weirdest thing was, that the “not you” racist comments actually came from inside our own family for a while. My dad would complain about the hispanics coming and stealing jobs and having babies and not even learning English, and say they should all go home. My brothers would do the same. I’d say, “but our mother is hispanic! She had babies who are your own [children/siblings]!” And the response would be, “that”s different,” for the longest time. It took a lot of arguing to convince them otherwise, finally. My own brother doesn’t realize that he was once picked up with his (hispanic) friend just for being hispanic. Until it came out that his friend’s dad was a high up in the police force, upon which they were released. Sometimes as mixed race kids, we are just completely oblivious to the racism we’re subjected to, until much later. You just think, sometimes, “That was weird,” or “S/he was weird.” It has often occurred to me later why someone was acting weird with me: that they thought I was a member of a race they didn’t like. It depends on the neighborhood, the country. I’ve had people complaining about “certain people, but of course, not you, who are getting into colleges not based on merit anymore.” The potential landlord who on the phone liked me, but in person, didn’t want to rent me his apartment after all, in France, where I was often perceived as Arab instead of Hispanic, mistaken often for the maid or the nanny, in the posh neighborhoods. Some kid in Washington Heights yelling, “Hey, white girl!” out the window at me. You’re like, make up your damn minds, people.
It doesn’t feel good. At least it’s not 100% of the time, as it is for people who have a pretty much immutable racial identity, whether to their advantage (for white people) or disadvantage. I get to step out, step back, blend in sometimes, stand out sometimes, watch from the sidelines, or empathize with all sorts of people and situations.
Anyway, just rambling/gently ranting. I’m just saying, yeah, I’ve been there. I loved this piece. It’s all true.
I love this article! Can’t wait to share it.