Being Ethnically Ambiguous in a Race Fueled America
Originally published January 21, 2021
No one I’ve ever met has guessed my race correctly. Not that it’s a competition, or that being able to tell where someone’s parents are from just by looking at them is a notable activity in any way. Mostly it’s an idea that’s lingered in my head because of how many times people have tried, and failed. I’ve gotten a variety of guesses: Latin American (when my hair is naturally wavy), Eastern European (when my hair is more calm), Pacific Islander or Native American (when I’m really tan). I’ve gotten frequent assumptions: older ladies politely asking me in Spanish for directions to the nearest bathroom in the airport terminal. Even in those interactions I still notice an air of uncertainty, one that has blanketed my racial identity since I was born. I’m half Chinese and half Iranian. No, I’m not muslim, but my paternal grandparents who live in Iran are. Yes, I’ve been to China, and yes, the locals in my maternal grandparent’s Shenzhen town used to stare at me with absolutely no disregard because I was the only one in the whole neighborhood that didn’t look Chinese. And to those who stare, no, my mother is not our maid or nanny, and yes, we’ve been asked that more times than I care to count. When I was younger, it never fully dawned on me how unusual it is to be ostracized in the country you share half your heritage with. Not until I began to look at where I belong in this country, the country I was born and raised.
One afternoon I was talking with some acquaintances when we stumbled upon the topic of school. A white man, around my age, started ranting about the many Muslim schools in a nearby town with a large Muslim population. He was disgusted that apparently these Muslim schools are brainwashing children into hating America and forcing them into a dangerous religion. The irony was not lost on me that this man was also a proud Catholic, and that many students in our own town attended Catholic schools. What was most astounding was how he was telling this to me as if he were confiding in a friend, like this was a conversation he thought I would actually enjoy having with him. I was utterly shocked. For a few seconds I actually just stared at him with confusion, running scenarios in my head about the appropriate response in such a situation. I wasn’t surprised at what he said, I just couldn’t understand why he would say that to me. Me, whose father was born and raised in “Muslim” schools in Iran, whose grandparents practiced this religion every day. In the end I couldn’t think of one thing to respond with before he was beckoned elsewhere and walked away.
For so long, I never realized how much the ambiguity of my race has affected what I do — or moreso, what I do not — experience. I’ve never had an incident in my life where a stranger has been biased, rude, or even violent towards me for the sole purpose of my race, simply because no one could ever tell. And if that’s the case, can I truly claim the same experience with those who I share half my heritage with if I do not share the same discrimination? And, how can I be so devoid of these experiences if so much of my being, both biologically and culturally, is so similar to those who face them every day? Some may brand me as white-passing, but I still do not share the same privileges as white people either. I have no generational wealth, and my immigrant parents have no network in this country to offer me opportunity and guide me through adulthood. What I do experience, however, is respect and even kindness from many people I know to be at times openly prejudiced towards the very parts that make me whole.
I’ve heard stories about my Iranian father being “randomly” selected at the airport, even followed around by suspicious associates at department stores. I’ve seen my mother, who holds a Master’s degree in computer science, be patronized because she is a 5’0” Asian woman with an accent. I’m privileged in many ways, but it’s only recently dawned on me that this may be another way too. I’ve never experienced what it’s like to have my character or ability be preconceived based on my race, because my race has always been inherently unidentifiable to those who have sought to judge me off it. How can I dare to call myself “non-white” or a “person of color” in this race-fueled age, where attacks have become personal and counter-movements even more so. Where do I stand when I both belong with and are alienated from both sides?
I’ll always regret that I did not speak up during that incident. Why couldn’t I stand up for my culture? Is it because I didn’t feel like I was a valid mouthpiece for a religion I do not practice, and an ethnicity I am only half of? In the end, I’ve come to realize that I’ve pigeonholed my identity through the lens of being “half,” “mixed,” and, ultimately, less than 100%. But I’m ready to accept that although my experience being Chinese and Iranian won’t be the same as others I know, it is a unique and valid experience nonetheless. Being mixed race isn’t just an amalgam of various cultures, but something different entirely, and something worth owning and standing up for.
