(U-WIRE) LOS ANGELES, Calif. - Every once in while some ignoramus leads me to look in the mirror and ponder the inevitable questions every American person of color does throughout their lives, "Do I look American? Will I ever? Or does being American require the rare commodity of blond hair and blue eyes?"
As a child who grew up watching re-runs of "The Brady Bunch" and eating TV dinners, these questions never seemed to cross my star-spangled mind. I always considered myself as American as apple pie; as American as the dream boasted to children in far-away lands.
Unfortunately, as I grew older I realized that perceptions are one thing, and skin tone another.
It seems that no matter how old I get, or how long I spend in this country, I am perpetually reminded of the fact that I am an outsider looking in. And sadly, despite all my efforts, I will never be what people allude to when they speak of the "All American girl." Take, for example, an encounter I had while crawling along the 405 Freeway en route to the airport last week. As we weaved in and out of traffic, the middle-aged shuttle driver felt compelled to start small talk. On the other hand, I was content to read my enthralling textbook in the dimly-lit cabin.
But being the social butterfly that I am, I felt obliged to engage in conversation. Did he ask my age or my major? Did he inquire about my future career aspirations? No, of course he didn't; such neutral queries were out of the question. Predictably, as so many before him, he inquired about my ethnicity and then to further exasperate the situation he complimented me on my English proficiency. "You speak English so well. How long have you been here?" I resisted the urge to punch him, and responded, "Since birth," and left it at that.
It was the same feeling I get when people ask another one of my favorite questions, "Where are you from?" The simple answer - San Francisco - never seems to suffice. Most of the time the inquirer stares at me as if ellipses linger in the air, as if they expect me to site some exotic locale I was born in and describe my daring voyage to America. Occasionally, they'll compensate for my lack of detail with, "No, I mean where were you born?" or "No, I mean where are your parents from."
The problem with this query is that besides being utterly offensive, it elicits a response more complex than superficially apparent. The interest of the speaker exceeds mere geography or cultural curiosity. Depending on who asks the question, it can be interpreted as either "Are you one of us?" or "Are you one of them?"
It follows that the response to this question is actually a proclamation of allegiance.
My ethnicity has been a topic of interest ever since I can remember. People are never quite able to pinpoint my origins. Most of the time people compensate for their confusion by lumping me into one of various categories - usually defining me as Mexican.
This is not surprising, being that we live in a society that revolves around the idea of lumping. We lump people into economic brackets. We lump people according to religion. We lump people according to political affiliation. In fact, we all began lumping in high school when we first identified the nerds, the cool kids and the rebels.
It almost seems logical to lump, being that categorizing is based on simplification, and through categorization we better understand the world around us. But the problem is that this phenomenon of lumping leads to stereotyping and generalizations. Soon, distinctions are so vividly drawn that it becomes a matter of us versus them.
Of even more immediate concern is the fact that lumping robs the individual of his or her identity. Take, for example, when people ask me, "Are you Mexican?" This infuriates me for two reasons. First, I am Puerto Rican and Salvadoran, two cultures completely different from the Mexican one. To classify me in a category which I do not belong to robs me of my culture and identity.
Furthermore, if people really must ask about my ethnicity, why can't they ask about it directly without first making assumptions. Not every person with brown skin is Mexican. Moreover, the funny thing is that these assumptions vary regionally. Here everyone thinks I'm Mexican. When I visited Florida everyone thought I was Cuban. If I go to New York, maybe people will finally get it right.
My second problem with lumping people into ethnic categories is that it only seems to happen to people of color. I don't go up to every Caucasian I see and say "Are you Irish," and neither does anyone else. The thought doesn't cross our minds. Every Caucasian is American. Period. It is, however, acceptable to go up to every Latino and say, "Are you Mexican?" This serves as a constant reminder of the double standard within society.
It also serves as a constant reminder that I will always be viewed as an outsider no matter how American I may be. Take, for example, my friend, who was born in Poland and immigrated at the age of six. The irony is that because she has blond hair and blue eyes no one will ever ask her, "Where are you from." On the other hand, I will constantly face questions such as these for the rest of my life - despite the fact that I was born here.
The epitome of this is the question, "What nationality are you?" Nationality is synonymous with citizenship.
My nationality, therefore, is American and my ethnicity is Puerto Rican and Salvadoran. Yet people stare in awe if I respond "American" to this question. Much like when asking if I'm Mexican robs me of my ethnic heritage, asking my nationality (and meaning ethnicity) robs me of my American identity. Is it that hard to believe that a person can dwell within two cultures? Moreover, is it truly a coincidence that people use the terms ethnicity and nationality interchangeably?
I remember when I was a child and race never seemed to matter. Children of all backgrounds played together without need for interrogation. It was only as I "grew up" that race became a defining characteristic of both self and others. Then people began asking me to choose - choose a language, choose a culture, choose friends, choose your alliance. I chose both and that made me an outsider. But the truth is that I already was an outsider.
Throughout my life people have referred to me as exotic. This term abridges the perception many fellow Americans have of me. Exotic is defined by Webster's dictionary as "Belonging by nature or origin to another part of the world: foreign; strangely different and fascinating." A rug or a bird is exotic, but I'm about as domestic as you can get. More importantly, I'm a person. When people call me exotic it makes me feel like imported chattel.
No person should be made to feel that way. I am not exotic. I am not a minority. I'm just as American as any of my fair-haired counterparts. Therein lies the cause of racial conflict in this country.
Until people begin to realize that skin tone does not necessitate allegiance or nationality, there will never be equality and we will never supersede the racial inequities this country was founded upon.