The wonders of being ethnically ambiguous

jeff youngblood
Aug 25, 2017 · 7 min read

In the mid 80's, during the summer after 6th grade my family moved from a small town in Oklahoma to Durham, North Carolina. Where I had come from contained very few ethnic people, and no blacks that I can recall. This was a sharp contrast to Durham, which was close to evenly split between black and white, interspersed with other ethnicities. It was a total departure from what was at the time “normal” for me. Durham was a racially charged environment that presented challenges I hadn’t faced before. They began right away on the bus I rode to school that year in 7th grade.

The bus was divided into factions. In the very back (ironically) were whites, some wearing jean jackets emblazoned with the confederate flag. It was clear they ran things. There were only a few blacks on the bus who rode only in the middle or front of the bus. Everyone somehow knew their place, well, except for me, initially. But I quickly realized there were really two groups: “us” and “them,” and it was clear also that I needed to choose sides. At the time, I chose the side of power rather than what was right. It was based on self-preservation, it was cowardly, and it led me down a path I would come to regret. I slowly learned to be racist.

Fast forward another year and I’m being pulled into the principle’s office for calling a black guy the N-word. “Did you call this young man a n****r?” the principle asked, gesturing to one of the boys.

“No, I called him a n****r,” I replied, pointing at another black person. I remember adults and teachers retelling this story, finding that particular part very humorous. I guess partly because it illustrated the absurdity — of my position, and as I see now, of racism itself. But it seemed to make sense to me at the time. I remember a lie I oft heard repeated back then: “Not all blacks are niggers,” which implied somehow racial slurs were ok if the victim of them deserved it. But some words shouldn’t be said. Some words are inescapably destructive and racist.

Well, the administration didn’t find it all that humorous and decided to suspend me for 5 days. They probably did that as much to keep me from getting my ass kicked as to teach me a lesson. I’m thankful for both reasons.


“fear lead me away from truth”

What I chose to listen to in my environment gradually taught me blacks were inferior and the enemy. I made that choice out of fear, and fear lead me away from truth. But slowly things began to change. I don’t remember everything that helped to change me, as this was over 25 years ago, but two things stick out in my mind that helped break the curse: the book: “To Kill a Mockingbird”, and my black friend, Kevin Murphy. Literature like that moved my heart and helped me to see hypocrisy and injustice in the world and in myself more clearly. That book stands out above all others, though I also remember Native Son and Black Boy, both by Richard Wright, making a big impact on me.

And then there was people Like Kevin. He had an infectious smile, was very witty, always positive and authentic, and it was clear he accepted me as I was. We were never really close friends; in fact, I don’t ever even remember hanging out with him outside of school, but his impact was tremendous. We shared a few classes and always talked and joked together in class. I think there’s a lesson in there about never discounting small acts of kindness. He was just simply an all around likable good guy. He was my friend.


You may be wondering about my ethnic background. Before reading further, do me a favor. Take a look at my photo below and make a guess about my ethnicity. What do you think?

Recently I posted a similar photo on Facebook inviting people to guess my ethnicity. Some were clearly swayed by my last name, Youngblood, which I had changed when my stepfather adopted me at age 12. Even when I cleared that up, the guesses were quite varied; people thought that I was either some combination (including 100%) of the following: Persian, Armenian, Iranian, Portuguese, Greek, Dutch, Italian, Spanish, Hungarian, Middle Eastern, Jewish, Moroccan, Turkish, African, Nepalese, Egyptian, Syrian, Gypsy, Mexican, Argentinian, Indian, Irish, Mediterranean, Romanian, Colombian, Baikal, Armenian, Georgian, Chechenian, Caucasian,German, Basque, Latino, Middle European, Cuban, Arabic, Native American, French, Cablasian, Hawaiian, and even a few different races from Game of Thrones.

I’ve gotten similar guesses my whole life. It’s always fascinated me, being placed in almost every ethnic group you can think of... and I’ve noticed some people seem to either want to believe I am in their ethnic group, one they are “okay” with, or in one they really don’t like and don’t mind letting you know about. For example, some Russians on a bus in Eastern Europe a few years ago told me “go back to your own f#$-*ing country, you Arab!”

It’s been very interesting to have such experiences and yet other times to be able to blend in almost seamlessly. I consider myself a minority, yet I’ve had many experiences where people have said things openly to me I don’t think they would normally say in front of minorities. A few years ago, for example, while working a manual labor job where everyone else was “clearly” Caucasian, I often heard the N-word and derogatory statements against blacks and other minorities. It’s like they wanted some kind of agreement, a sign I was in their “club.” Is this because people want a world where most other people are “just like them”? I don’t know. It sure seems that way sometimes, that some want the world to confirm what they already believe, good or bad, true or untrue, real or imagined. Confirmation bias is powerful.

I remember a date I was once on where the girl said she couldn’t stand Puerto Rican guys because… and I let her elaborate on that. Eventually it came around to her asking what I was, and I informed her I was half Puerto Rican. There wasn’t a second date.

The truth is I don’t really know my exact ethnic background. I know what I’ve been told by my parents and grandparents, but that also relies on what they have been told. And it relies on things people didn’t always keep the best track of or are honest about. Historically, people have always had compelling reasons to lie about these things. Take my birth last name for example: Garcia. Definitely Spanish…or is it? One of the historical rumors about that name is that it was one Jews who immigrated to Spain took on to hide the fact they were Jewish because of racial discrimination. And it’s possible some of those came to Puerto Rico.

Puerto Rican itself is an ethnically diverse category. Traditionally, it’s thought to be Taino (indigenous Caribbean), Spanish and African, with a heavy emphasis on Spanish, and you can find Puerto Ricans who resemble all of these ethnicities and more. But the true story of what it means to be Puerto Rican is a little more murky. There is some caucasian in there as well and also a much larger percentage of Native Taino DNA than what most people have historically and currently believe.

The Taino were some of the first natives to welcome Columbus, only to soon after face extinction due to a campaign of extermination by Europeans. So my Heritage is literally a combination of natives and the Europeans who tried to exterminate them. No wonder I feel so conflicted inside. And that’s just on my father’s side. On my mother’s side, I’ve been told that I am American Indian, Dutch, Irish, and some other “European variants” such as “Black Dutch”. Add all this together and what do you have? A mutt. It would appear I’m mostly indigenous “American” but still a mutt.

I am an American mutt. In no way do I mean that in a derogatory sense. We all are mutts, really, no matter how hard some of us may try to deny it. For example, the average black American is around 60–80% African, while the story of the average Spanish American is even more complex. I celebrate ethnic diversity. But it’s never something we should be proud of to the point of discriminating against others. We all come from the same original stock, we all are a mixture. It’s just more evident with some of us as it is with others. Race as a form of division is an illusion. There is only one race: human. Our culture and environment shapes what we are, not DNA, and not the different amounts of melanin we have.

So can we all, as Americans, celebrate being Mutts together? I’ll leave you for now to consider the words of Bill Murray, from the movie Stripes, just after he had broken up a fight, to remind the men in his regiment that they had more in common — to celebrate, to fight for — than what was currently dividing them:

(to be continued. this is part 1)

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