“What are you?” asked a classmate.
“I’m a 5th grader.” I responded.
“No… where are you from?”
“Oh! I was born right here in Marietta. Lived here all my life.”
“No! Like, where are you really from? What are you?”
Imagine being asked that on a constant basis and having to explain yourself. Now imagine you’re a 10 year-old. That was my life. Honestly, I can’t remember the first time I got asked that, but it was definitely a common occurrence by 5th grade.
Have you ever asked someone, “What are you?”
Can you imagine how it feels to be asked to explain what you are to another person? Do you know what underlying implications are revealed by the question? I certainly picked up on the words left unsaid by my schoolmate.
“You look different. You don’t fit into the normal categories that I know of. You’re not white or black. And you don’t speak Spanish so I guess you’re not Hispanic. So, if you’re not any of those things… what are you?”
I would point out that being born in Georgia clearly makes me American but that wasn’t satisfying. They immediately moved on to asking about my mom and dad.
“Ok, so where are your parents from?”
“Well, my mom was born in California and moved here when she was young. And my dad was born in Algeria and immigrated to America to go to college.”
“Oooooooh! So you’re Nigerian.”
“Actually, no. Nigeria is a completely different country. My dad is from Algeria.”
“Oh, ok. So you’re Algerian.”
Often the conversation ended there, and that didn’t make much sense to me. I was convinced most kids my age couldn’t find Algeria on a map so how was that a sufficient answer? Eventually, I figured out they didn’t really care where the country is. They just wanted a name for a category to define me. They weren’t actually interested in understanding anything about my particular category.
Most kids at school weren’t very aware or knowledgeable when it came to race and ethnicity. In fairness, it felt like many adults weren’t, either. And I remember getting so frustrated when I heard people incorrectly use race and nationality interchangeably, or when they used race and ethnicity interchangeably. Didn’t they know that those were three different things? The short answer, no. And spoiler alert, many still don’t.
Can you remember when you became aware of the significance of race? I don’t mean your first race related experience but when you first discovered its power?
Growing up as a brown kid in the late 1980s and early 1990s, I was very aware of it. I didn’t really have a choice. I mean, my mom and dad were different races. Plus, I spent a lot of time with mom’s predominantly white family, and I remember noticing as a child that I looked different from everyone. But so what. Big deal. Not everyone looks the same. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. And then one day I remember a white family member telling me, still a child, that people should only marry within their race. Uh… what? So what does that make me? Illegitimate? Undesirable? I wasn’t sure what to make of all the thoughts and feelings that were swirling in me, but the comment did demonstrate to me that not all people view everyone equally or think people should be desegregated. Ok… but people, and hopefully only some people, have these opinions, right? No one is actually treated differently, right? And then I would think back to the aforementioned question. What are you? That question appeared to illustrate different treatment because it seemed to come with an unspoken rule. Anyone can, and did, ask the question. But the question only seemed appropriate to ask of people of color.
Why were white kids exempt from having to explain what they were all the time? Was it inappropriate to ask a white person? Was it irrelevant to a white person?
When asked, most black kids identified as African-American. Other people of color identified as some version of a hyphenated American or a sometimes with an entirely different nationality altogether, even if they were born in the United States like I was. Meanwhile, I don’t ever remember anyone (other than me!) asking the question to a white kid.
It could have been because of my frustration or resentment, but sometimes I would ask. And the answers I got were revealing. Most would reply by saying, “I’m just American.” And that led me to believe that white people were to be automatically associated with American. More specifically, an official and unhyphenated version of American. Not a diluted version that was somehow less than. Another common response was, “I’m just normal.” That was also upsetting because it implied to me that, as someone who wasn’t white, I was abnormal.
Do you equate whiteness with being American? Do you consider white to just be normal? If white is normal, does that mean everyone else is abnormal?
My racial and ethnic identity journey really intensified when I entered Middle school. That was partly due to being around so many new people at school, and that meant my recurring conversation about me being Algerian happened more frequently. But it was also due to a new struggle I was having. As insignificant as it might sound to some, I had trouble when I started filling out the Race & Ethnicity section on forms for myself. Conversations up to this point affirmed to me that I was Algerian, but that was never an option. And it felt like I was starting all over with how to answer the same old question. Only for some reason, the question started to take on a new meaning for me.
What group did I belong to?
Have you ever had to actually reflect on that question? Or have you always just felt like you belonged without even thinking about it? I’m sure many have felt that way when it comes to friends and social groups at school. Can you imagine having to contemplate that about your racial and ethnic identity as a preteen?
I immediately noticed there was always an option for Black or African-American. And while I was technically both African and American, that didn’t seem like the appropriate option. And of course there was an option for White, which rarely had any qualifier regarding geographic or ethnic origin. And when it would sporadically include things like Middle Eastern and even North African, it just did not feel right. White didn’t seem appropriate, either. Then, there were options for Native American, Hispanic, and maybe a few other nationalities or islands. But none applied to me. It really was a dilemma for me, but it was also necessary for me to think about. Because I was sure to be asked again at some point in the future. So, given the limited options, more often than not I was forced to make one particular selection.
Other.
What does other mean to you? Who comes to mind when you think of other? Does that person, or group, know that you consider them as other?
Otherness and its effects are very real. And I never liked being forced to identify that way. It was disparaging. It was insulting. The question sought to determine what group I belonged to, but it made the opposite very clear. I didn’t belong. And this was hard for me to comprehend. I mean, I was familiar with ethnic groups and racial dynamics. And I knew that even the small, disregarded minority groups had commonly recognized names for people to belong to. Everyone belongs, right? Turns out, no. There’s an exception. Other. That’s for everyone else. For those who don’t fit into a neatly defined group. And to me this was monumental. This wasn’t about color. This surpassed race. This was about inclusion.
As much as I despised identifying as other, that’s what I frequently chose. But that was my selection. And racial and ethnic identities are heavily influenced by those around us. More specifically, it’s shaped by what others say we are. So what did others say I was? That depended on who you asked. And believe me, I heard it all. Some called me black. Some called me African-American. Some called me mixed. Many thought I was Hispanic, and some thought I was Pacific Islander.
The inconsistent, and seemingly infinite, answers from my peers affirmed two things. First, it reinforced that I didn’t fit into a single commonly accepted category. I truly was other. Second, white was infrequently used, if ever. And that struck me as odd. My mom was white. Half of my family was white. But people considered me everything but white. Why was that? I really spent a lot of time trying to understand this concept of who was considered white. But try as I might, I couldn’t make sense of it. That all changed with French class in 7th grade.
My teacher was Ms. Bugg, and she was very nice. She was actually from France, which I thought was really cool. Because we got to learn from an authentic French accent. Plus, I have uncles that live in France so part of me thought that was something to connect with. So there I am minding my own… conjugating verbs… trying not to get called on… and then out of nowhere one day something hit me…
She was white.
Wait a minute… She’s white? How is she considered white? She wasn’t born here? I thought white corresponded to American? Shouldn’t she be French?
And that’s when I discovered that white transcended American. It was more than that. Someone could be white no matter what country they were from. And that also meant everyone that is considered white, regardless of geographical origin, shared and enjoyed the status and significance that came along with being white.
As confused as whiteness was before all this, now it was even more so. And I couldn’t let it go. I had all these random questions. Would she have been allowed to sit in the front of the bus with other whites during the civil rights movement? What if there was some other white person who wasn’t even American and didn’t even speak English, would that person have been allowed to sit in the front of the bus? And the more I thought about things, the more questions I had. What about Jesus? Why was he regularly depicted with such fair skin and light hair, sometimes even with blue eyes? I wasn’t even a Christian then but I still knew Jesus was from the Middle East! And I recall my dad telling a story where he dressed up as Santa Claus one Christmas and some thought it was unusual. It was unusual for a brown person to dress up as a fictional character? Apparently, they presumed Santa to be white. Fun fact, some actually think the origin of Santa can be traced back to a real person from the Middle East!
Very few of these questions actually resulted in suitable answers. But they did instill two new big ideas in me. First, race is a socially constructed system that subjectively defines people based on physical appearance. This was confirmed by the lack of clear definitions for groups or categories, especially when it came to someone being white. But just because it’s a fallible system created by man, that doesn’t make it any less relevant or real. It was, and still is, both very real and very relevant. Second, whiteness is on a level all its own. Whiteness is not bound to geographical origin or language. And it’s comparable to both black and African-American. In other words, it is both a race and a culture. And it was obvious that whiteness was something to be revered and preserved. For me, this was emphasized not only by our nation’s history and struggle for equality but also by the fundamental beliefs that Jesus and Santa were white!
Do you believe that Jesus and Santa are white? Where do those ideas come from? Do you think everyone agrees on whether Jesus and Santa are white?
From then on, I’ve made a conscious effort to pay attention to the ideas of race and ethnicity and how they are integrated into ideas and experiences of people. And that has certainly helped me to be aware of my own racial and ethnic identity, which has certainly evolved over time. It has also educated and equipped me to address that infamous and unavoidable question. Because, even though it’s 2020 and the question is considered a microaggression, people haven’t stopped asking it.
So… what am I?
That question takes on many meanings in 2020 with regards to someone’s identity. But if you’re asking me to answer based on my racial and ethnic identity, I identify as MENA. Too bad that wasn’t an accepted term that I was aware of when I was a kid. I remember feeling excitement when I heard it might be added to the 2020 census as an option, but obviously it wasn’t included. Although I have to admit, while I do admire the term, if I’m honest, there is still this part of me that resists it. Because I am an American. I was born in this country. And I have the passport to prove it. But somehow, since I’m technically not white or black, I’m still classified by the other part of me that isn’t American. Isn’t that just some progressive version of the archaic one-drop rule?
That’s just a little about me and my racial and ethnic journey. And even today I continue to constantly evaluate all these things to better understand myself and how I fit into the world that we live in.
What about your racial and ethnic identity? How do you identify? How aware are you of the role that your race plays in your daily life?
If you’re thinking to yourself that race doesn’t apply to you or that it doesn’t play a role in your life, you’re wrong. And I bet you’re white. How can I say that? Because I can’t imagine any person of color in America today thinking that race doesn’t somehow affect their daily experience. Even 12-year-old me knew that. Do you really believe that race isn’t applicable to you?
Maybe that’s because no one ever forced you to stop and think about it. For me, being a brown kid who didn’t look like his family, no one had to force me to think about it. It was unavoidable. And the same can be said for other people of color. But I was reminded recently that it’s entirely possible for a white person to go a very long time, perhaps a lifetime, and never be forced to address or consider their racial identity. If you’re white and have never examined it, maybe it’s time for an honest, intentional, and voluntary exploration of your racial identity.
How aware are you of whiteness? Do you understand the significance of whiteness and race regarding our nation’s history? How does all of this shape your worldview?
Those might sound like heavy and complex questions, especially if you’ve never considered them before. But I think it’s imperative you do. And not only these questions but many others like them to help explore and understand your own racial and ethnic identity and the way it influences how you fit into the world.
Because we all have one worth exploring.
All of us.