Why Aren’t You White?

Megan Beam
Sep 8, 2018 · 2 min read

Like everyone else in their twenties, I’m trying to figure out who I am. For many of us, our gender, sexuality, religious background, ethnic makeup, and so much more are key components to how we view ourselves.

From as far back as I can remember, I was always asked my ethnicity or background. There is always the assumption I was Mexican since I grew up in central California and I managed to learn some Spanish in high school. (Although if you hear me speak Spanish, you clearly know I am from the U.S.) Then there’s the list of them I’ve received in my time abroad. Mongolian, Mexican, Dominican, Hawaiian, mixed (part African, part white; a term used by my Ugandan host mama). You name it, someone probably assumed I was part of that ethnic group.

I never had a clear answer. “We think a little bit of Native American, probably Cherokee. Maybe some African American, but we’re not sure,” I respond with a hint of a smile. A thought swirls through my brain. You’d have to go back and ask great-great-grandma Saffrona.

Although the questions seem harmless, they slowly became draining as I tired of explaining that I don’t really know my ethnic background. Questions about my ethnicity were difficult enough as it was.

But then I decided to travel.

Traveling is one of my passions. I have jumped at every opportunity to travel. Everywhere I travelled, I fell in love. The cultures. The people. The food. The languages. My journeys brought me endless experiences I treasure dearly. They also brought confusion with them.

I found myself identifying with different parts of cultures to which I didn’t actually belong. I wanted to identify with those cultures as I felt I belonged more in those than I did in the culture of the U.S.

I wanted to be part of Mexican, Dominican, and Costa Rican culture as I fell in love with the people and the language spoken there. In my heart, I feel a little Ugandan as I spent time with my host family, learning how to peel matooke (kind of like an unripe plantain), wash my laundry by hand, and harvest coffee.

Not knowing my ethnicity kind of grew into an identity crisis as people tried to put me into boxes not intended for me. At the same time, I tried so hard to disassociate myself with the United States as “Americans” have a reputation abroad.

My constant attempts to identify as anything other than estadounidense (a Spanish term for from the U.S. since English doesn’t really have one) were draining as I failed to accept the culture I was born into.

And while I identify with the welcome of the Dominican, Mexican, and Costa Rican cultures that value people over time and I long for the greeting of “Wasuze otya?” each morning, I still am estadounidense.

I don’t necessarily have to like it, but it’s part of who I am and as I grow to love myself, that means every part of it. Including the estadounidense.