But it's something I think about, nonetheless.
Growing up biracial didn't seem weird to me as a kid. It wasn't something I struggled with. Not until I realized that my friends' parents were all the same race. Irish, Egyptian, Filipino--it didn't matter what it was as much as that it was something. "I'm _________," they'd say when questioned, confident of their answer.
My answer was always a long story. "How did your parents meet?" The shock registers on everyone's face. As if planes were unheard of in the '80s.
I'm embarrassed of my hair and my skin. Too light. Ambiguous. I'm embarrassed of my name. I'm embarrassed of my toe hair and my tan lines in the summer. I'm embarrassed of my claddagh ring and my rakhi bracelet.
They mark me as other. They all remind me that I am nothing--unassigned.
I am a question mark. An unchecked box on a census form.
I have to make a joke of it though. You know? If I was upset about it all the time, my world would be a much grayer place.
My white roommates think it's hilarious that I want to marry an Indian guy. "He's cute," they whisper, nudging me as we walk across campus. "And Indian! You should give him your number." I don't think they realize how scary it is to not know who you are. I don't think they realize how much I worry that, to my children, their heritage will be just a piece of trivia; nothing more than a fun fact to tell people at parties.
"But you look so white," people will say.
"You should see my mother," my children will tell them.
The word "exotic" makes me see red.
Growing up biracial didn't seem weird to me as a kid. It wasn't something I struggled with. Not until I realized that my friends' parents were all the same race. Irish, Egyptian, Filipino--it didn't matter what it was as much as that it was something. "I'm _________," they'd say when questioned, confident of their answer.
My answer was always a long story. "How did your parents meet?" The shock registers on everyone's face. As if planes were unheard of in the '80s.
I'm embarrassed of my hair and my skin. Too light. Ambiguous. I'm embarrassed of my name. I'm embarrassed of my toe hair and my tan lines in the summer. I'm embarrassed of my claddagh ring and my rakhi bracelet.
They mark me as other. They all remind me that I am nothing--unassigned.
I am a question mark. An unchecked box on a census form.
I have to make a joke of it though. You know? If I was upset about it all the time, my world would be a much grayer place.
My white roommates think it's hilarious that I want to marry an Indian guy. "He's cute," they whisper, nudging me as we walk across campus. "And Indian! You should give him your number." I don't think they realize how scary it is to not know who you are. I don't think they realize how much I worry that, to my children, their heritage will be just a piece of trivia; nothing more than a fun fact to tell people at parties.
"But you look so white," people will say.
"You should see my mother," my children will tell them.
The word "exotic" makes me see red.
No comments:
Post a Comment