Unexpected Gathering

It is part of human nature to try to figure things out, so I try not to be too disconcerted when I get the dreaded, What are you? question.

I know, I know. I could answer, I’m human. What are you? or Well, my mom was hoping for a kitten, but I came out a person, so there you go. But really, I know what they’re asking, and they know what they’re asking, and I have found that being snide doesn’t make either one of us feel any better, so I typically do my best to make a gracious response while gently challenging their right to ask.

Them: What are you?

Me: Well, if you are speaking about what race I am, I am Black/White Biracial. What makes you ask?

Them: I don’t know. I just wondered what you were.

(Typically, they start to look a little sheepish at this point. Well, unless I’m in the Deep South, then they just peer at me a little closer and ask, “So was your mom white and your dad black?) Yep.

Me: Hmmm…well, that’s it. No big story here.

(Then I try to move the conversation on to other things, or I just keep walking down the grocery aisle).

This conversation in no way upsets me. Most of the time it makes me smile a little bit. I have been asked What are you? in some way, shape, or form many times for a lot of years. I have been spoken to in languages other than English when someone mistakes my identity and have been given extra courteous treatment at particular restaurants before people figure out that I’m not quite what they think I am.

Perhaps the only thing that causes me a bit of angst is the use of the term “mixed”. I find this particular term quite annoying. I tend to think of it as a similar characterization as oreo or twist cone – not hateful, but not especially humanizing, either. (For purposes of fairness and full disclosure, many multiracial people have no trouble with the term “mixed” at all).

Please, please do not read the above and begin to believe in the myth of the tragic mulatto – you know the tortured soul, who doesn’t fit in with either group and would have been better off not being born. I am really firm and happy in my identity, and I was really pleased when the last census forms allowed me to check every single category that I belong to.

And more recently, I had a really fabulous experience as a biracial woman. Oh sure, it came during the dreaded trip to Chicago, but it was still a stellar experience.

Me and Zane in Chicago – Breathing Treatment #764

While at a conference, I decided to go to a workshop entitled, “Straight Talk About Multi-Racial People”, which was described as a space to come together to talk about the concerns and needs of multiracial people in higher education.

Anyway, I walked into the workshop to find a room full of multiracial people – an experience I have never had in my entire life. I cannot tell you how singularly cool this was for me. I was in a room of people like me – a veritable Benetton ad of multiracialism. A plethora of folks who were not “either/or” but were “both/and”. It was totally, completely delightful.

We talked. We laughed. We disagreed. We laughed some more. We shared our experiences, and we nodded as each person told pieces of their story. It was so flippin’ beautiful I can’t describe it. It made me feel great. It made me feel so excited for my son and what his experience as a biracial person will be, and it made my god-awful trip to Chicago bearable.

And what do you know, but as the session was nearing its end, the workshop facilitator happens to say as an aside, “…well, I don’t care for that term, mixed, so I don’t use it, but I understand that it is okay with some people…”

I thought I might die of validation nirvana.