“What ARE You?”
The ramblings of a mixed girl: Growing up in the 90’s looking racially ambiguous
I’m working as a cashier at my local drugstore, making polite conversation with a customer as I ring up their goods. The customer abruptly says, “I’m sorry…but what ARE you?”
This may or may not sound like a strange interaction to you. But for me, this happens so often, that I am used to it — it took 38 years, but finally, the question has lost its sting. Maybe it should have never hurt in the first place, but to understand where I’m coming from, allow me to take you back. *Steps into a Doctor Who time-traveling Police box and shouts* “To the nineteen hundreds!”
(Note: This is a very personal tale of my own experience, and I only speak for myself here.)
I grew up in a small Canadian town with almost ZERO diversity. We moved there when I was two, and at that time, we were THE ONLY multiracial family around. My father was African American, my mother is Caucasian; her heritage stems from Germany and Ukraine. My entire school, my entire town, it seemed, was white. Needless to say, my brother and I stood out.
Now back then, I didn’t sport the natural curls. This was THE NINETEEN HUNDREDS for goodness sake! I had my hair relaxed. It was the only way my mother knew to manage it. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s a harsh chemical process that breaks down the keratin bonds in your hair, making it easier to straighten. And I wanted it straight as can be. It didn’t make it so I woke up with smooth, flowing hair — it still took work, albeit less. But this article isn’t about hair — that will be its own article — but I do think having my hair being more or less smooth, contributed to people’s confusion.
No one could tell what, exactly, I was. My hair was straight, but it wasn’t the same kind of straight. “Why doesn’t your hair move?” I would be asked. My eyes were almond-shaped — so many, and I mean many — thought I was Chinese. (These days, I still get Asian, but now with the curls, I get Spanish and Indigenous more than anything.) My lips were full, which was a big no-no at the time, and all of it would culminate in the question: “What ARE you?”
Now, as a child, especially when you are just starting to go into your teens, ALL YOU WANT to do is be accepted by your peers. I was bullied terribly for my facial features. My eyes, my lips, my nose— oh, and my hair too— these were the talking points. I had terrible self-esteem issues because of it, and have only managed to fully heal from that with God’s help, in my mid-thirties. But at the time, I thought, “What am I supposed to do about my face!? I can’t change my face!” I was twelve. And so I grew to deeply resent my features.
I thought, Surely if ten people are all picking on me for the same thing, what they say must be true. Why would all ten lie about this?
I grew to hate monkeys because that’s what I was often compared to, and yes, I realize now that racism played a part, but at the time, it wasn’t so clear. After all, no one even knew exactly what I was unless I told them. All those kids knew, is that I was different. It was a visible difference, which made me an easy target.
So, with that information in mind, let’s skip forward again. I’m now an older teen, nearly out of high school, and every single time someone asked me “What are you?” through the lens of my own trauma, it felt like a physical blow. All I heard was, “You are different. I look at you and see you are different.” Which was, at that time, the last thing I wanted. And it always seemed to happen when I was starting to feel like, ‘Finally, I’m just like everyone else.’ At last, people only saw me as another person. Someone like them. That was always my internal answer: I am a person. How idealistic and naive of me.
Pushing forward again into my twenties and the question is still there haunting me like a poltergeist, only now, I am a bit more used to it. Now, the question is a touch more nuanced. It’s not always so straightforward as “What are you?” Sometimes it’s “What’s your nationality?” (They ALWAYS mean ethnicity, but could never seem to get the distinction right, so I would say Canadian, knowing it wasn’t what they meant.) People would also ask, “What’s your last name?” and, “What’s your background?” Now, if I know you, or we are friends and you asked me this, it wasn’t a big deal at all. It didn’t hurt my feelings or irritate me. I only got annoyed when it was complete strangers — and it seemed like more often than not, those were the people asking!
I made up a little game to turn the tables of awkwardness. They would ask, “What are you?” and I would say in response, “Well, what do you think I am?” And I would make them guess, which often embarrassed them. But if they played along with my little game, then I would reward them by answering.
It took me some time to get over the trauma of being bullied. Some days, it creeps back up and I still feel the sting. The road to self-acceptance, and then self-love, is a long and bumpy one — at least it was for me.
It helps now that mixed-race people are more represented and more, well, common. When I visit the town I grew up in TODAY, I am blown away by all the diversity! It’s a stark difference. It really seems like it’s mattering less and less to people, which is fantastic! The media even presents it as ‘cool.’ Dare I say — trendy. Can it be trendy to be mixed? Excuse me!?
Apparently, it can.
Back to the hair thing for a bit: It helps that natural textures are being embraced now. I have options. Options are fantastic. Frizzy doesn’t automatically equate with ugly now.
I had to change my lens.
This was vital to my healing. As I matured and developed I learned to see things from a different perspective. One that gets that humans often fear what they don’t understand and are not exposed to. One that knows we are innately curious beings. I know now, that when someone asks me what I am, it doesn’t mean they think something is ugly or wrong with me. That is the trauma talking. People may even like what they see. They are merely curious. Some may see asking a stranger this as rude, but many do not, and I’m fine with it now. Ask away — though I will still make you guess first. ;)
“You’re like a different species of human!”
I’ll never forget the first time a hairdresser squealed this at me — in DELIGHT. In theory, it was the exact wrong thing to say — but it was presented in the best possible way. He made it sound like I was this amazingly unique goddess. Like, Wait — What!? You think I look awesome because I look like this!? I’m sure he has no idea how much his words impacted me. His hilarious statement will stick with me forever. My husband and I still joke about it from time to time.
What’s more, I’ve come to appreciate my uniqueness for what it is, because I have always admired it in others and thought, it’s about time I start appreciating it in myself.
How boring this planet would be if everyone looked like everyone else! We are all mixed with something — mine’s just a little more noticeable — and apparently, mysterious.
I was so busy thinking about how others perceived me, that I didn’t stop to think about how I should be perceiving myself.
I believe how we view ourselves to be extremely important. I choose to look at myself through a lens of love and acceptance. It makes my life a whole lot easier, and I’m making it my mission to try to look at others through that same lens: Love, acceptance, understanding.
Now, you can ask me, “What are you?” and I do not feel the sting. It’s okay that I look like I’m a bit of everyone —
And a bit of no one.
Have you ever been asked this question? How did it make you feel?
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