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I Hate Being Biracial
Race mixing is not always ideal. Sorry, no, I will not serve as an avatar of sunshine rainbow diversity multicultural “success.”
Years ago, this was a taboo subject for me. If someone asked me, “What are you?” (which, by the way, is not really the most tactful way to ask someone about their ethnicity) I would freeze up. I’d get angry, but try not to show it. Sometimes I’d just ignore the question altogether as if it were clearly only asked by mistake, or uttered due to a Tourette tic, and therefore to be ignored so as not to embarass the asker. It would take me hours to calm down.
Nowadays, I don’t really care as much. I’ll usually answer with some generic version of, “I’m a lot of things.” If I’m feeling spicy, I’ll say something like, “What, are you a census taker?” It’s more a source of humor for me now. I can laugh at it. I don’t turn into some schizoid weirdo anymore when the subject of my race comes up. I can examine it detached, clinically, and somewhat neutrally. But it’s not exactly a subject I care to get into. I truly do wish we lived in a race blind world where it was no big deal. But people are curious. And like it or not, race is a fascinating and often contentious subject.
I should probably clarify what I mean when I say, “I hate being biracial.” That’s a…
