Growing up bi-racial has its pluses and minuses. I realize I’m not the first generation of mixed-raced children; I think this really began a couple of decades before me, about the time that President Obama was born. It was very rare back then, especially between a black man and a white woman. By the time I was born in 1980 it certainly wasn’t unheard of, but it was still a relatively new topic for our society (especially in the more conservative areas).
My (white) grandparents used to worry that we would be picked-on because we were bi-racial (they should have been more worried we’d be picked on for being nerds). I was surprised to know they felt that way, because I never experienced any “real” harassment growing up. I say “real” because, well, I’ll just show you:
Could I *be* wearing anymore pink?!
Yeah, this was basically child abuse. Anyone who sends their bi-racial (with a tendency to be confused for multiple races) child out, looking like this, should be arrested.
It was awful. I was in 2nd grade and showed up to school wearing this – the kids had a blast calling me “Eskimo!” And as much as I loved that coat – pink! – I hated being called an Eskimo more. I think I wore it to school a total of two times. Don’t worry, it never got below 50 in Florida, I didn’t actually even need a coat. Especially one with a faux-fur hood (NO ONE NEEDS ONE OF THOSE).
Also, you don’t have to say it; there’s nothing wrong with being an Eskimo, I know that. But when you’re 7 and being called anything and laughed at…well, it’s no fun.
I think one of the advantages I have is being able to shift in and out of different ethnic groups easily. I feel comfortable hanging out with any group of color (wow, that sounded RACIST). Why? Because most people have a hard time figuring out what I am. It usually goes a little like this:
So…what is your…..where do you….where are you from?
Normally, I just mess with them and say “I’m from Florida” with a straight, I’m-not-sure-what-you-meant face. Yeah, I know it can be an awkward question to ask someone. However, it doesn’t bother me at all. I actually find it hard to believe that many would care being asked their background these days. I always explain,
I’m an Alabama Asian. My Mom is from Thailand and my Dad is a white guy from Alabama.”
Where’s my PC medal??
Yup, I can pass for many races: Hispanic, Hawaiian, Native American, (half) black, and most any kind of Asian (let’s me honest, no one’s confusing these hips & thighs with being Japanese…so tiny!). I mainly get get confused for being Hispanic, dare I say Mexican, and have had countless people speak to me in Spanish. Both Hispanics and whites do this….AND black men trying to hit on me in DC.
HOLA, SENORITA! COMAS ESTAS??
Sigh.
So, back to the advantages. I can mix it up with most peeps. When I moved to Boston (the second time), I started working for an inner-city charter school. Later on, one of my co-workers confessed that they thought I was black when I applied.
We saw your name – “Kristina Jones” – and thought you were one of us!
Yeah, I have a black girl’s name. Kristina, with a “K,” and the last names Jones? I see it. I do.
When I arrived, though, they thought I was Hispanic. I can’t blame them. The celebrity I most look like? America Fererra, of “Ugly Betty” fame. I once dressed up as her for Halloween.
I might have gone a little overboard. Might.
Did I mention that I also worked for a Hispanic organization? Yes. And when my boss asked if I spoke Spanish, I casually replied, “un poco.”
I’m nothing if not smooth.
So, as a result of looking like several minorities, I end up being accepted by all. I feel lucky that I don’t feel out of place, or uncomfortable, around any group.
Growing up, I actually felt like I was totally white. This was helped by the fact that my classmates and friends were mostly white, my extended family (on my Dad’s side) is all white…I was a reflection of what was around me. It was never a problem, me believing I was white.
That is, until I thought about acting.
No, I never seriously considered acting, but there was that hot second when I desperately wanted to be in movies like Little Women or Anne of Green Gables, or on “Little House on the Prairie.” (Yeah, I’m a “Little House” fan. What?) I was obsessed with books and movies and shows that took place in the past. Problem was, I didn’t exist during those times. Sure, part of me existed…but the me that I saw in the mirror – well, it certainly wasn’t getting me a role in Gone With the Wind.
So yeah, that was the main downfall of my minority status. I couldn’t find fame as a period actor. I’ve led a tough life.
Back to that idea of being a reflection of your surroundings. I listed to a great speech Junot Diaz gave when he was visiting the Hispanic organization I worked at. He was speaking to our staff about growing up Hispanic in America. He mentioned that one of the reasons he writes is to put his reflection out there. See, he grew up not seeing himself, or his people, reflected in the media. The TV he watched, the movies he saw, the books he read – they were void of Hispanics characters and references. When you don’t see yourself in society, you don’t feel like you belong. You feel like an outsider. It’s a loss of self, of identity. He wanted to create something that was a reflection of who he was, so that others might see themselves in it.
And that totally resonated within me. I felt that way growing up. Sure, I was apart of, and accepted by, my white community, but I always felt a little slighted. I always wished there were things out there that spoke directly to me, who I was. Whether it be on TV, at the movies, in the books I loved. There’s only so much Sweet Valley High you can read or “Full House” you can watch without wondering where you are in all of this.
For a long time I wished I looked like the way I felt.
Over time, this feeling has changed. It’s been a combination of things – mainly, getting older and becoming more confident in myself and liking what makes me different. Also, it’s been what Junot talked about – seeing my reflection in society. Seeing different minorities portrayed over the various media, it’s made a difference. It’s given me something to identify with. It’s made me feel welcome in my own country. I know that sounds cheesy, and a bit dramatic, but it’s true. There’s nothing quite like seeing something and thinking “that’s totally me!”
Like this scene from Season 5 of 30 Rock:
I should have auditioned for that!
EVERYTHING SUNNY ALL THE TIME, ALWAYS 
I was just thinking today about a classroom experience in Belmont, Mass, where I felt as if my family had no history worth sharing. The assignment was to go home and gather information about our older relatives – Where they came from? Which port they entered from? Any wars they fought in? My grandparents didn’t come to the US. My grandparents did not fight any wars. No reason to even ask my mom these silly questions, as I already knew the answer – we didn’t belong in that history.
The underlying message(which I’m sure was not at all what Mr. Kleponis, or was it Ms. Moss, had intended) was that other people’s roots in this country ran very deep, and we were only looking in on this glorious history without having contributed anything. The first time anyone asked me again why my great-grandfather had come to the Americas, the question came from my Korean co-worker who grew up in a completely different environment. He grew up in California, where according to his experience, Latino students ruled the roost. This time I did go home and ask my mom…I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me to ask such an important question. Her grandfather came from Catalonia to Panama and then to Nicaragua. He was looking for gold, which he mined for in Nicaragua until he died of TB. As sad as that story sounds, this made me feel a sense of history and of being rooted. This story was actually very much part of the shared American experience, right? European man comes to the Americas in search of opportunities, he works hard, and he suffers. Somehow that story made me feel more part of the common thread, not so much just of the experience in the US, but of the Americas.
Of course, all this highlights one key aspect of my understanding of important history. it somehow involves Europe. My great-grandmothers both refused to share any of their native American history with us. Any identity related to being native to the Americas washed away with el mestizaje.
Oh god, I did this to you, the day we met by the pool. In my (admittedly weak) defense, I was young, uneducated about race, and I desperately wanted to meet someone who was Native American and compare tribes. I’m sorry!
OMG Beth, stop it. I just told you I didn’t care if people question my ethnicity! Plus, being a minority yourself, you were just looking to me for a reflection of yourself in society 😉
Estela! So glad you left a comment – I really appreciate what you wrote. And you know what, it takes a LONG TIME to get your thoughts out like this; if I had kids/family, there’s no way I would have time to do this…but I’m glad you stayed up and made time 🙂 As happy as I was to hear that you finally asked about your grandparents, and got some answers, it made me sad to hear that your Native American relatives won’t share their story. I see their point of view, and I respect it, it’s just a loss for the rest of us who might want to (need to?) hear what they went through. However, everyone’s struggle is their own, and you can’t know what someone is feeling – or a group of someones who share the same struggle – and what they believe they *should* or shouldn’t do with their story. Perhaps keeping their story to themselves was one way to feel in control at the time, or to take back what they felt had been lost. Ok, now I’m rambling….but thank you for posting!