What does it mean to me? Well, overall, it is something that has taken me the beginning of my adulthood to embrace. Fully. Meaning, whether or not people accept, respect or understand who I am, it is not up to them. It is up to me.
Throughout my life, I've constantly been asked "what are you? What's your background? Where do you come from? Why are your eyes so slanted?" I've often answered "female, human being, etc." Of course, that is not what the masses intended. For those who have not asked about my background, they've played the guessing game. The list is as follows (in no particular/ranking order):
1. Black and white--seems to be the most popular biracial combo.
2. Polynesian--my combo of brown skin and almond eyes...eh, not a bad guess, I suppose.
3. Samoan--yeah, I'm not a small woman, and my nickname for years was AMAZON. Go figure.
4. Indian (South Asian, not Native American)--hmmmm.
5. Chinese and Black--GETTING WARMER. For those who asked, evidently China is the only country in Asia (that they know of, anyway).
6. Puerto Rican*--my dreaded college days. More about this later.
7. Black and something---yeah, I get that a lot.
8. Filipino.
As a child, I remember being asked why my skin was so dirty. In many ways, it seemed like par for the course. Of all of the "categories" I've been placed in, my being Black has been the front runner in the identity marathon, for many BUT not necessarily for me. As many of my friends of color can attest to, we've all hit the "blackness" wall at some point or another. "You talk like a white person (WTF???) You dress a certain way. Where did you grow up? Who are your friends? Well, I know who my friends aren't.
*Some of the (lasting) memories of my identity challenge formed when I was an undergraduate. It was the first time in my life that I was, (often) due to my immaturity, persuaded, and forced, in some respects to fit into a "box." Whether it was sitting at the "colored" table in the dining hall or becoming a wallflower at student of color events, somehow I figured that was sufficient. Not for "them." From the Black Student Union (BSU) president asking me who the "old white people I was with" during Parents Weekend and the BSU Coffee House with a cake quoting Malcolm X-"the only thing I like integrated is my coffee," I was getting mixed signals. While this is just one example, this is one of a culmination of incidents that helped my (past) self-loathing, internalized racism evolve. I distanced myself from many Black students, and even went so far as to completely denounce that part of my identity. I quickly became the Korean and Puerto Rican woman who was raised in an Irish Catholic family. How exotic. Let us not forget the Korean part of the self-discovery debacle. So you've read. :-)
The toughest and most disappointing part of all of this was my failure to challenge people's ignorance. I was so easily influenced. I folded. Fortunately for me, life went on and I moved on as well. It all made sense. "They" were the problem, not me.
I could spend all day writing about my various experiences, both positive and negative, but I will spare your eyes. :-) In simplest terms, my identity is something that will NEVER fit into a box. Not even the OTHER box with the obnoxious little line next to it (insert snicker here).
I am a woman. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister. I am a baker. I am an individual. "Nuff said. Goodnight all.
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