Mixed Race Mishaps

This one goes out to all of us who get to check "other" in the "Race" box on questionnaires & applications...and then we get a line to explain.


Black. Check. White. Check. Mexican. Check. Swedish. Check. French, check. Cherokee Indian, check. Mutt...check. So much for an easy answer.

I can't tell you the number of times I have been asked what nationality I am. In fact, I'm willing to bet that many of you reading this right now are smiling because you have wondered the same about me. Don't be embarrassed...because I'm not even certain myself.


At first glance, I look black. That's why some of the white people double check their car door lock functions and hold their purses a little tighter when they pass me. But they don't know I was raised by my white Mama and went to a pretty much all white private school, where nobody understood my nappy hair and ashy skin problems. Other nationalities must see a glimpse of themselves in me, so they start a conversation with me in their native tongue. Spanish, Nepalese, Indian...I've seen a look of surprise or two when I give them the confused look and long "ummmm", to which they reply to me in very plain English what they were trying to say.

Having so many slices of the ethnic pie in my genes, I have the opportunity that most don't have...to be multiculturally diverse in personality. I can fit in to almost any cultural situation and have a fairly good idea how to handle myself. I notice this when I'm around my Dad, who is (switch to my overly white voice) "African American". When I talk to him, I start to let my blackness out. We crack on each other, start randomly rhyming in sentences  that ultimately don't make much sense (ie, "I'm the booger with the sugar, the boss with the hot sauce"). 

I'm black enough to be able to pull out the "it's because  I'm black, isn't it?" card for fun and watch people squirm, but white enough for people who know me well enough to know I'm probably the most "white" black person they've ever known.

I'm black enough to know that black hair requires special treatment and just how important hair is in our culture, but white enough to not know exactly how to take care of it.

I'm white enough to enjoy a plethora of different genres of music (and to be able to say that previous sentence with convincing elegance), but Mexican enough to have a special love affair with mariachi bands.

I'm French enough to be a phenomenal kisser, but Swedish enough to know to keep it private. Whoopsie, cat's out of the bag! That's my Cherokee Indian side, where I often call myself Foot-In-Mouth.

I have the privilege of being able to say whatever I want about almost any nationality, because...well, I'm likely part of it! Consequently,  I'm rarely if ever offended by anything racially either.

I was sitting outside a coffee shop a couple years back and a car drove by with some young punks in it. The window was down and one of them yelled out the "N" word and they drove off and laughed. I don't know if I was more amused that they did it (amateurs clearly didn't notice the fullness of my ethnicity), or by the look of terror and pity from those around that also heard and saw it happen. I think they were more offended by it than I.

I've had some very awkward moments in regard to my ethnicity. This weekend at church, an older lady approached Paul and I after the service. We attend a predominately white church, and she had been sitting just a few seats from us. For those of you who may not know, my husband is white. Anyway, we engaged in a few sentences of small talk and then there was somewhat of an awkward pause. She asked "So, are you guys husband and wife?" and we answered "Yes". I knew what was coming next, from experience. The second she started talking about her daughter immediately following our answer, I knew it was coming. And then the moment was there. She grabbed my hand and patted it and said with excessive blinking "My daughter is marrying a black man." I know why people do that, especially older people, because they want to let me know they approve or accept our mixed race marriage. I still find it comical.

Another time, I was checking out at a store when i began to engage in a conversation with the clerk. It was summer and I was wearing a tube top dress which showed the tan lines from my swimsuit. He made some comment about summer and the heat and how he could see I have been spending some time outside. Then he smiled and without hesitation said "I didn't know you guys could tan".

Hmmmm. Well, my white side tans...

More often than not, I'm entertained by my multicultural blood. But there also lies a deep respect for each culture amidst the humor, an intrigue about where I came from, what struggles my ancestors endured and overcame and experiencing firsthand some of those same things.  There will always be people who don't understand the beauty and depth of races and cultures that are not their own. I won't hold that against them.  Because no matter what color our skin is or if our hair is curly black or straight blonde, or if the soles of our  feet are soft and tender or made out of leather, we are made by the same Creator and made in the image of God. That, my friends, is something worth celebrating.

So until next time, I still don't have a cookie cutter answer for any of you as to what nationality I am. Until the come up with a box that includes "A lil' bit of everything", I'll be explaining my answers on the questionnaires. 

Adios! Namaste! Peace out! Good bye...and please enjoy this racially awkward moment from one of my favorite movies, Anger Management: