Friday, June 29, 2012

Greetings from Cold Bay, Alaska

There's this guy I know from Cold Bay, Alaska. That's a lie. But that's what he used to tell people. And even though they would ask questions about the population, location or whatever; he always knew the answer. At least he always responded with the confidence that could only come from knowing the answer. 


Because people often ask me where I'm from... I've been thinking that my complexion has obviously given me the gift of mystery. I could literally pick a spot on the map, and you would probably believe me. Colombia, perhaps? That would put me in the company of Shakira... And Pablo Escobar (but let's focus on Shakira). Hawaii is always popular among the inquiring minds as well. 


So maybe this weekend I should choose a destination and fascinate some strangers. 

Any suggestions?





Monday, June 25, 2012

The Coworker

Job training can be an exciting thing. It can also mean spending a whole week in a box with only one other person. So when my trainer finally gave me some alone time, I welcomed the intruding coworker. The conversation was standard enough... The same old How are you? What's your name? 


So where are you from?
I explained that I was born and raised in Indiana before moving to Saint Louis. 


You don't look like you're from Indiana. 


So where are your parents from?


Then it hits me; this isn't about getting to know me at all. I offer up the answer, telling him that they were both born on the east coast. I refused to offer him any satisfaction. 



Next he gave a quiet sigh with a partial eye roll. "Nice to meet you," as he turned and walked out the door. 

Monday, June 18, 2012

The Student Teacher

Let's call him Mr. W

It was a history lesson about the Civil Rights Movement. In an attempt to illustrate segregation, Mr W began to point out all the minority students. He explained that if we relocated our classroom to the 1950's, then everyone he had just pointed to would not be allowed in the classroom. A hand shoots up, and one student poses a question. 

Pointing at me, the student asks "What about her?" Mr. W, obviously confused, asked what the student meant. There's a quick reply. "Because she's mixed." 

Mr. W finally gave a response, "she's light enough to pass." 

There's a mild roar of objections and grumbling before Mr. W can settle down the classroom. 

I stare down at my desk, waiting for the awkward moment to fade. 












Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The Call

There are some that seem to think that you can distinguish a person's ethnicity by their manner of speech. While there might be some vocal cues; it's obviously not a fair or accurate gauge.


For Example:
It was a typical day at work, returning phone calls of the inquiring minds. A child answers the phone, and I ask to speak with Lady Anonymous. (Obviously not her real name, but 1. I don't remember and 2. It's not relevant.)
The kid doesn't bother to put me on hold or mute the phone because I heard him shout, "Mom, there's a white lady on the phone." 








Monday, June 11, 2012

The Job Application

When you are 16 and seeking employment, you will have to do the inevitable; fill out a job application. Undoubtedly this is probably one of the first times that a person will complete any sort of paperwork alone. I was pretty excited about the whole process, earning money that wasn't based on chores or report cards. 
I first applied at a tire shop. I know it seems like a strange place for a teenage girl to want to work. But Fast & the Furious had just come out, and I thought I'd meet a Paul Walker lookalike. Despite the assortment of ordinary people in the lobby, I sat down to complete my first job application. Name, phone number, address, gender, race... Not sure which box to check, I skipped ahead and finished the rest of the application. Then I decided to ask the woman behind the counter. 
"All done?" she asked. 
I explained my confusion about the race question, probably gave her too much information. But clearly she was the expert; after all she had a job. "So what should I do?"
Her confused look made me believe that she had given this a lot of thought. 
"I would check Pacific Islander since that matches your skin tone."


Right. I pretend to check a box, hand her the application and walk away. 

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

The Birth of Blirish

Thanks to Tiger Woods for calling himself "Cablinasian" (for Caucasian, black, American Indian and Asian), I felt the need to create my own race-label. It was then I developed Blirish, a hybrid of black and Irish. Why Blirish? Easy. Because Blite and Whack were quickly vetoed. 

I realize you may not know much about the Blirish community. Don't worry; I created a chart to better educate the general public.




Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Home Is Where Your Race Is?

I saw this article the other day about a study regarding residential segregation from the University of Washington in Seattle. [Reuters: Residential Segregation]


Personally I like to identify neighborhoods by their amenities. For example, I like that my neighborhood is historic. Walking down the brick sidewalks, I can imagine the times when horses were the primary mode of transportation. But I also like that a car isn't necessary. I can walk to the following attractions; a farmer's market, a park, a brewery, a convenient store and several restaurant/bar options. For all these reasons, I hope my neighborhood says more about me than whether I'm white, black or something in between. 


What does your neighborhood say about you?

Monday, June 4, 2012

The German

In 10th grade, one of my friends hosted a foreign exchange student from Germany. In an effort to expose her to typical American teenage life, we took her to the mall. This wasn't just any mall. We were going to drive the 100 miles to the impressive Woodfield Mall in the Chicago suburbs.


We file into my friend's family van, with her dad as our chauffeur and hit the toll road! Clearly all of my friends had been struck with some sort of motion-induced narcolepsy, because I found myself wide awake along with The German. Just as my mind begins to race about what conversation topics I'm going to use to occupy the remaining 90 miles, she asks if she can ask me a question. Phew! What a relief. "Sure," I said. Then the German asks "Why do you look different from all of your friends?"
First I'm puzzled because we don't look alike for several reasons... But then she continues, adding "you know, your skin..."


I explain about being biracial and pray that the Chicago skyline will come soon to distract her from asking anymore questions.