So my first real reflection was brought to me by my students. Every year we start with the class asking, “What are you?” to which I sarcastically reply, “Human.” Why do I consider this sarcasm? Well, remember, PC is not my thing. Though I am biracial I consider myself to be Black.
I was raised by my black family and at the age of 14, I moved out of my sweet little multiracial corner of the world, to the “hood” in Boston. My world went from being small and safe to large, mobile, exciting and consisting of mostly three groups of people, Black Americans, Black Caribbeans and Latinos. It wasn’t until we moved to “my side” of Dorchester, MA that I even thought I looked different from anyone else. I didn’t think about my race at all and I don’t recall any of my friends ever questioning it before the move. In Dorchester, I graduated from “Falisha” and became “that-Puerto-Rican-light-skinned-bitch.” In 9th grade girls suddenly wanted to jump me (and one of them actually told me) because I had light skin and long, curly hair.
Ok, let’s go back a little. I wasn’t completely dumb about race. I remember when that lady in the Laundromat told me she could help me get a new mother when I grumbled that I hated mine for making me do some random task. I was about 8 and it scared the shit out of me. I knew I looked different from my mother in skin color but I never thought about it since my aunt, her older sister, was light skinned like me. Why then did I not know I was different? Have I mentioned my father? Oh that’s right, I haven’t. Since I don’t know him, he’s nothing to mention. All I really know about him is that he was White, and only because my grandmother told me. The circumstances around that little tidbit may or may not come later. That’s not really what this reflection is about tonight. And let’s be honest, if I told a White person I was White and didn’t add the Black, they’d look at me like I’m crazy.
So anyways, at the age of 14, suddenly everyone wanted to know what I “am,” and that since has become a major part of my identity. When I moved to Dorchester, suddenly people were speaking Spanish to me (I even got cursed out at a bus stop by a Spanish-speaking woman who said I should be ashamed of not knowing my language). Boys liked me because light skin was “in” thanks to 80’s hip hop videos. I even got a job once because the interviewer and staff assumed I spoke Spanish – suckas! As I got further into high school, proving my “blackness” became important to me. My friends might recall my African T-shirts, necklaces and fake-kente cloth Hammer-pants. Suddenly I was all about proving myself and if my face didn’t prove it, damn it, my clothes would!
And just when I convinced everyone in my 3 different high schools (again, another story) that I was Black, off I go to college, where I have to start the “What are you?” routine all over again. This time though, I decide to become the coordinator of the Black Student Center, not to prove my Blackness, but because I actually liked community service and thought it would be cool. Except one thing…I forgot that in order to fit in with Black people I was supposed to look Black and sound Black too. It’s hard enough growing up in Boston with that Bahston accent. Of course, difficult me, I don’t have the Boston accent or the “Black” accent so no one knows what the hell I am. “She looks Spanish, but she talks ‘White.’ Why isn’t she working at Casa Latina?” I can’t tell you how many times I overheard that conversation. Suffice it to say, the only time I have not had to have the “What are you?” conversation, is the 2 weeks I spent in Amsterdam. The people there were more excited that I was an American and could care less about where I got my skin and hair.
I’ve definitely come to terms with who I am and instead of getting upset when people initially speak Spanish to me, I love the look on their face when I tell them I’m Black. In Orlando, I’ve been assumed to be Puerto Rican, Mexican, Greek, Chinese and Hawaiian. And now, having acquired my last name from my Nigerian husband, I even further confuse people. (I secretly laugh to myself when they tilt their head puppy-style, because apparently looking at me sideways makes it easier to see my Blackness.)
Flash forward to Orlando (my current city) and my classroom. I work in a Title I school, in one of the worst gang neighborhoods in the city and I love it. My school is 90% or more Black and my students have little exposure to people outside their community. So here we are on the first day of school, every year for the last 5 years, having the “What are you?” conversation again. I make it a game now and don’t tell the kids. Usually in the first two weeks, they either figure it out or forget about it all together. Until this week. This week someone brought it up again and half the class looked at the kid, saying, “Duh,” while the other half looked at me with the “duh” look on their faces. Someone tried to confirm this new information by asking me if I was “mixed.” One asked if I was “mulatto.” All were surprised when I told them my mother was Black and my father was White because they always assume the reverse. While I laughed, because I do think it’s funny when they get it, it also reminded me that we are not as far along as we assume, as adults, we are on the issue of race, especially in the Black community. These kids, aged 12-15, have been embedded with the same stereotypes and beliefs about “being Black” that I grew up with over 20 years ago. It’s both amazing and sad that we are still stuck in this “what box do you belong in?” view of the world. Damn…
