My life is not a sitcom.

“And what are you, exactly?”

Here I am, sitting in a bar with a friend and their friend from high school, let’s call this guy “Smith.” So, Smith has just met me and he has taken a particular interest in me. All night he’s been asking me leading questions like, “where is your family from?” and “what does your father do for a living?”, as well as my personal favorite, “you’re very tan, did you just get back from vacation?”. I suppose my answers (“Ohio”, “insurance”, “nope”) were unsatisfactory because they did not give him any indication as to what I was.

“I’m a woman,” I replied, “I was pretty sure that the long hair, birthing hips and boobs were a dead giveaway…”

Here is where I usually get an uncomfortable look/laugh but Smith seemed downright exasperated and that is what annoys me. Clearly, my sarcasm had flown right over his pretty, little, faux-hawked head. He rolls his eyes in frustration, I die a little inside. Let me reiterate, I don’t mind if people are curious about my looks or ethnicity, but what really kills me is when people are on a mission to find out whether I am black or white before they even try to get to know me.

“I mean, are you mixed or something?”

I admit to being a little drunk and a little bored with this conversation, so at once, I give him the full rundown, hoping that will answer all future questions and this way, we can move on and talking about something really interesting like beer or Project Runway. Black, yadda-yadda, very light, whatever. Smith’s eyes suddenly got very big and he started screaming, “I knew it! I knew there was something in you!” Okay. Now, I’ve heard this a lot and I’m never really sure how to respond. Pat on the back? Thumbs up? Let me just assure you, this in not a game called “Spot the Negro,” and there is no cash prize for correctly identifying that someone that (gasp) might not be white.

But then Smith said something to me that no one, no one, has ever said to me before. After hearing that people ask me a lot about my ethnicity, he suggested that I come up with some clever little catch-phrase that might clarify things. Catch phrase. Catch phrase? Even if I had some sort of banging catch phrase (seriously, I’m at a loss, any suggestions?) I would never use one. Let me give you a couple reasons why I am above such a thing.

First and foremost, I’m not a secondary character in some shitty ABC sitcom or reality show. I do not use catch phrases because I refuse to be reduced to a cartoon. Get that? I am not your sassy, black friend. Don’t ask me to snap my fingers and call you “girlfriend” either. I don’t do catch phrases. I’ll use full sentences, when you ask me an important question regarding myself, my family, my history, if you don’t mind.

You may think that I am being unnecessarily harsh on poor Smith’s suggestion. Hell, maybe you’re even on board with the catch phrase idea. But how do you boil down the decades of rape, slavery, and racism that make up my familial history into just a few words? Excuse me, a few smart, funny, catchy words? I just think that the truth, the full truth, is better. I guess the truth is complicated and uncomfortable. A catch phrase, however, is not. It’s simple, it’s lighthearted and it puts everyone at ease (or annoys them to death). But is it my responsibility to make sure everyone is happy and smiling? Especially when they are grilling me about what I am?

My famous catch phrase comic. Yeah, I whipped it up in 5 mins, wanna fight about it?

Black & White: The Idea of Racial Purity

Black & White: The Idea of Racial Purity

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Discussions with my high school “guidance” counselor, part 1.

There have been times in my life when people, who have known me for awhile, start treating me differently after they find out that I am black.  Shocking, I know. This occurred most frequently when I lived in Ohio, especially when I was in high school.  Ugh…Excuse me for a moment while I mentally prepare to revisit my high school years.

Okay, okay.  They weren’t that bad, but they certainly weren’t the best years of my life and I was always suspicious of those who tried to convince me that these particular four years would be the absolute pinnacle of my very existence.  My high school guidance counselor was certainly guilty of this, and yeah, I know, that was sort of her job.  Whatever, I still wasn’t buying her story.  Our relationship was tenuous at best, mostly due to the fact that she was always trying to push Ohio State or Miami University down my throat when I told her repeatedly that I was, like, so leaving Ohio for Chicago and, “if I had to spend another four years in this God-awful state, then my tuition better come with a loaded gun.” Angst! I had it.

I remember her come-back as plain as day.  She told me that her daughter had received a full ride to University of Chicago but had to decline after a college visit because, “she felt so much safer in Ohio so, she decided to go to Ohio State.” 

“She turned down a scholarship to one of the best schools in the country?” I asked, my voice dripping in disbelief.

“Well, she just wasn’t comfortable there.  You really should go out there for a college visit, you might change your mind as well,” she leaned in for the next part and whispered, ” I mean, there are a lot of minorities in Chicago and you have to ride the bus!”

“Well,” I began calmly, “I think I will be alright around minorities since I am one,” she looked confused, “ya know…since I am black?  So, I don’t have a problem with black people.” She looked at me for a long time, squinting, looking for the “blackness.” I simply sat back and waited for the back-pedaling to begin and I have to say, it was impressive.  She put on a big fake smile and quickly agreed that of course, I should go to Chicago where I would fit right in! She even suggested that I might even, “discover my roots there.”

Uh, what?

“Well, I’m actually from Chicago, I lived there so but my parents are from–”

“Really?” her eyes went wide.  You’d think by now she’d have the good sense to shut the hell up, but honestly, this woman just didn’t know when to stop jamming her foot in her throat.  I wish I remembered the exact wording, but shock started to take over.  In a nutshell, she wondered how my parents had managed to work their way out of the ghetto that was Chicago and make their way over to this middle class utopia that was Westerville? So, now that she realized I was black and from Chicago, she assumed that my parents were uneducated and lower class and she marveled at the fact that I, “spoke so well” and told me how lucky I was to have received such a wonderful education.

It was an education alright.

It was people like this, and there were more than a few, who made my time at Westerville North less than pleasant.  The people who treated my teenage self like an oddity, an inferior being who was just lucky to be there. Keep in mind, this conversation took place in the year 2000.  After my early acceptance to DePaul University, I skipped out on these little chats.  Especially since she kept trying to convince me to major in African-American Studies because I needed to, “discover my African roots.” 

Guess I wasn’t black enough for her? Ugh, I’ll stop there. That’s another blog, for another time…

In Three Acts: That time someone asked politely. That time someone someone asked rudely. That time I totally misunderstood…

FADE IN: 

INT. STARBUCKS- DAY

LAUREN and FRIEND sit in the corner drinking coffee and, of course, using their Macbook Pro’s.  Friend scrolls through his iPhotos and points to a particular picture of a young woman.  

FRIEND: You know, you sort of remind me of my cousin Lindsey.  We’re Greek…Just out of curiosity, what’s your ethnic background?

LAUREN: Not Greek.  Black, just light.

FRIEND: Ahhh. Oh! Did you see this picture of Eric? He’s so drunk…

CUT TO: 

INT. CTA BROWN LINE TRAIN- DAY

LAUREN jams herself into the crowded rush hour train.  She leans back against the closed doors and prays for a swift commute.  She does not notice the MAN eyeing her from across the train.

MAN: Hey! 

LAUREN does not look up.

MAN: Hey…Hey, girl in the green dress!

She looks up, thinking she must be in someone’s way or maybe the hem of her skirt is caught in the door…?

LAUREN: Uhm…yes?

MAN: Which one of your parents is white? And which one is black?

The Man stands on his tip toes so he can get a better look at Lauren.  He is yelling, and most of the early morning passengers look annoyed.  Then they look at Lauren.  She shakes her head, and looks down at her iPod.  The Man speaks again very slowly, as if talking to a child.

MAN: Is your Dad black? Or is your Mom black?

LAUREN: Both.

The MAN is quiet for a long time.  Lauren looks out the window to ignore his gaze.  

MAN: Yeah, but which one is white?!

CUT TO: 

INT. EARWAX CAFE- NIGHT

JOHN and LAUREN sit by the window in the Earwax Cafe on their second date.  Both are visibly nervous.  

JOHN: So I…I want to ask you something…I, uh, was wondering-

LAUREN: About my ethnicity? Yeah, I’m black, both of my parents are just really light-

JOHN: No, no, actually I was wondering if you know…We could keep seeing each other? Sorry, I–

LAUREN: Oh. Ohhh. No, I’m sorry, jeez…I’m an ass.

JOHN: No, no.  You’re not an ass.  But this is awkward.

I am not your pet negro.

“Can I touch your hair?”

I get asked this question a lot.  It’s usually the follow up question to, “so…what are you?” 

“I’m black.  Just very light.”

“Really? Can I touch your hair?”

“Uhhh,” then the petting begins, “sure, why not?”

“Wow, it feels like white people hair.  When does it turn into an afro?”

“After midnight.”

Okay, I lied.  It never turns into an afro.  Not after midnight, not after it gets wet, not if you if you sprinkle fairy dust on it.  My hair just does exactly what it wants to do.  And it wants to be long, thick, wavy and let me mention this again–thick.  So thick, in fact, that I have trouble finding a decent stylist.  It took me years to find my current one (thank you Ella at Studio 110).  I would walk into a salon and the hairdressers would avoid making eye contact with me, or give me the, “I hope she’s not in my book” look.  Once I was in the chair at the Aveda Institute for four hours.  After they finished, the instructor came over and politely suggested that I never return.  Once at Milo’s on Belmont, the stylist bitched me out for two hours because I asked him to straighten my hair (something I do everyday and I’m not a professional).  My favorite story, however, is the time I went to a salon in Wrigleyville, they washed my hair and then immediately proceeded to blow-dry and flat-iron.  I figured the stylist just liked to cut dry.  Suddenly, she spun me around in the chair to face the mirror and proclaimed that she was all done! And she never even picked up a pair of scissors!

“Uhh…But you didn’t cut my hair.”

“Oh! You wanted a cut?”

“Yeah…That’s usually why I make an appointment at a salon…To, you know, get my hair cut.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.  Well, my other appointment is already here.  Besides…I don’t ever cut ethnic hair.” 

I couldn’t help but notice that she whispered the word “ethnic” the way I whisper the word “cunt.” I remember telling this story to my little brother and it is perhaps the reason why he is afraid of getting his hair cut.  My brother has beautiful curly hair and when it gets long enough, yes, it DOES turn into an afro.  A glorious ‘fro.  So glorious that people, strangers, stop him on the street and try to touch it.  Why do people do this? Really, why? If anyone has insight into this, please let me know.  It doesn’t have any magical powers, the ‘fro will not grant you three wishes.  So, let me take the mystery out of it for you, it feels just like hair.  Now, my brother is an extremely shy and private person, so please, please–refrain from petting him.  And don’t even bother asking beforehand because his reply is always the same, “No.  Please, no.  I am not your pet Negro.” 

I think I’m going to steal this line and use it next time someone asks to touch my hair (unless they are paid to do so).  My brother shouldn’t mind, he stole it from The Boondocks, anyway.

(Sidebar: For more reading on this topic,  check out this old essay by Dodai Stewart from Jezebel. Love. It.)  

(Sidebar part deux: My father often pats my brother on the head and this is okay because he does it in that “atta boy, oh, I wish I still had hair” sort of way.)             

It’s the differences

I like to say I put the Asian in Caucasian – being half Chinese and half anglo. Born and raised in the U.S., everyone here sees my Asian half. That is, when they’re not mistaking me for Native American or Latina. So when I went visited Taiwan and met some relatives who live there for the first time, I was curious which half they would see. If Americans generally see the minority part of me, would that also prove true for the Taiwanese? I’m not sure, but I think I got an answer of sorts.

All week, an aunt kept saying I reminded her of an American actress. Who was it? It kept nagging at her until the last day, when it hit her like a bolt. “You look like Renee Zellweger!” I’ve been mistaken for a lot of groups, but NEVER a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Texan.

-Audrey

Beginnings; also known as that time I thought I was white.

I seem to get called out on the bus a lot.

I remember it like it was yesterday, when in fact, it was 19 years ago.  I was 6, on the way to my suburban elementary school named after a famous astronaut.  The kid sitting in front of me kept standing up on his seat so that he could look down on me.  

“Hey…hey…hey…hey!”

He kept jumping up and down on the seat.  I ignored him.  He got louder.  

“Hey…Gotta ask you something.”

Ignore. 

“Are you black or white?”

I was floored.  I looked up at him in confusion.  Couldn’t this kid see the color of my skin? 

“I’m white.”

“Oh, okay,” he seemed relieved and sat back down.  

Later on, I relayed that story to my Mother, expecting her to laugh at the silly little boy but instead, she patiently explained to me that I was in fact, black because she was black, Dad was black and…well, pretty much everyone else in my family.  I remember shaking my head and explaining to her that Grandma Alberta was black because she had brown skin,  Uncle Dwight was black because he had brown skin, Dad was maaaybe black (because his skin is a very light brown) but she and I were white because…our skin was white.  Simple as that.  

I was 11 and on the bus, making my way to my suburban middle school, when I felt someone watching me. I looked up to find three of the older black girls staring me down.  They point and whisper.  I self-consciously check my hair and clothes.  Finally, a spokeswoman, an ambassador if you will, is chosen and she makes her way over.   

“Are you black or white?” she demands.

“I’m black.”

She considers this for a moment before taking this news back to the tribunal.  They don’t seemed satisfied with my response, so a new ambassador is chosen and sent over.  She looks pissed, for some reason.  

“But you’re like, mixed, right? ‘Cause you don’t look like any black girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Well,” I think about this for awhile.  I mean, technically yeah.  Most African-Americans are mixed, unless their parents are fresh off the boat from Africa.  She doesn’t like this response either.  

“So, is your Mom white?”

“Nope.”

“Your Dad?”

I sigh.  Then patiently explain that both of my parents are light-skinned blacks and their parents are blacks, and their parents are black and cherokee, and their parents are black and irish.  I go back to the slave owner that raped my great, great, great, great…Grandmother.  She looks genuinely confused and returns to the tribunal.  As we are getting off the bus, she approaches me one last time.

“So, are you gonna sit with the black girls or the white girls at lunch?”