Lies I’ve Told White People
Since the day I floated down a river and arrived on my birth parents’ doorstep in a basket (my version of the story, not theirs), I’ve been #blessed with the gift of an ethnically ambiguous appearance. I’ve spent the majority of my life being told by strangers what race they thought I was, which usually resulted in them listing nearly every country represented by the United Nations. I’ve heard it all, from someone interjecting a conversation with, “So what are you, Indian?” to being flat-out asked, “Are you black?” The latter question came up several times in high school, in addition to when I was seven and someone called our landline asking to speak to Diana Ross, which happens to be my mother’s name — an attempt to find out if the real Diana Ross lives in the suburbs of New Jersey and lists her number in a phonebook accessible to the public.
It didn’t help that the Catholic elementary school I went to was mostly Caucasian, and my public high school felt at times to be 110% Italian. As a kid, I downplayed my ethnicity and tried to seem as relatable as possible to my peers, who boasted what I thought were cool nationalities like French, German, Scottish, British, Irish… basically any country you’d currently find a college student taking a photo in front of an old castle in. If I was asked to share my background, I would whisper “Syrian,” (which I am the most of), scream “IRISH,” (I’m 1/8, or half a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream) and not even mention Indonesian because I felt like I already lost them at “Syrian.” Most kids had no idea what the hell I had just said, even when I repeated it louder than a whisper.
It wasn’t until I attended a much more diverse college that I felt like I could embrace my differences instead of covering them up with little (and literal) white lies. And if someone wanted to make me feel uncomfortable about my ethnic background, then I felt bad for them, because I was going to offer some of my grape leaves I had for lunch before they gave me a weird, disapproving look. But when I was too afraid to stand out, I kept these lies I’ve told white people in the back of my OshKosh B’Gosh denim overalls:
- “I’m adopted. My real mom is the real Diana Ross.” (In response to, “You look NOTHING like your mother.”)
- “I’m more Irish than Indonesian. I love corned beef and cabbage.” (The amount of Irish in me is equivalent to one stale marshmallow from an expired box of Lucky Charms cereal. And not even the pot of gold, I’m the goddamn red balloon.)
- “Actually, I just found out I’ve got some German in me, too.” (Some is a vast exaggeration. I’m as German as a scenario when a person says “gesundheit” after someone sneezes instead of “bless you,” just to be that person.)
- “Caucasian.” (In response, “Please describe your ethnic background” on college applications. There wasn’t a box for Middle Eastern yet and I didn’t think I was good enough for “Other.”)
- “You’re right. I’m the love child of Joe Pesci and a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.” (In response to, “You’re definitely Italian, I don’t care what you say.”)
- “Yep, because that’s a synonym for ‘Syrian.’” (In response to, “Oh, so you’re basically Lebanese.”)
- “Syrian food is pretty much exactly the same as Greek food.” (Nope. Both very delicious though.)
- “Syrian food? Ya it’s like Italian food, bro.” (This was just to humor myself.)
- “All pita bread and hummus are the same.” (This one hurt the most.)
- “That picture of you smoking hookah makes you look cool and cultured.” (Pray 4 me.)
- “My dad’s in the Middle Eastern mob.” (This was just to get people to shut up.)
