Disclaimers:
A. I am not a sociologist on middle child trauma.
B. I am not claiming I was actually denied affection as a child. I'm just needy.
I am a middle child. I crave affirmation. I can be babied at times, yet much is expected of me. I live in a household where I am the odd one out. Both my older and younger sister suffer from physical and mental ailments that make them often priorities. My brother, being both youngest and the only boy, enjoys the benefits such as his own room.
I don't know exactly what the stereotypes of middle children are. We can sniff one another out, that I know. We feel for one another. I read on the internet that the middle children try and find a role that is not filled by their older siblings. This is true I believe, which is why middle children can find each other. We are all different, yet unified by our overwhelming desire to be set apart.
***
But enough about stereotypes. What has birth order done to me? Naturally, I am a person who is desperate for affection. I like being told "I love you." I need you to HUG ME, damn it. A few weeks ago I was at a Bible study. I was having a hard day. And I kept waiting for someone to like, put their hand on me and bless me. No one did. But as I left the apartment, the hostess (who I'd known for two weeks) comes out behind me.
"Are you ok?" she asked. I nod and take a deep breathe. She is an incredibly discerning person and had somehow magically read my soul. Then she said, "I love you." And she hugged me. A real warm hug and a real "I love you."
(Since then she and her family has done more for me than I can conceive. I barely know them. This is a picture of Christ-like hospitality. But I digress.)
This sort of pointed attention is what middle children often get less of growing up. This is not malicious. I am not accusing anyone in my family or any of my friends of emotional negligence. I think middle children come to realize their place in the family order and begin to adjust accordingly. I think they assume they're going to get less, so when any comes their way, it's a bigger deal.
***
When Kate (the older sister, but you knew that) was finishing highschool, being the oldest grandchild, all eyes were on her. Hours were spent in my Titi's kitchens as her choices were reviewed, and her skills considered. Whether that level of attention was something Kate wanted is debatable. But nevertheless, she got it. I graduated without much drama, and lost momentum by taking a semester off. Then I impressed everyone I knew by halfheartedly starting at a community college in January of all times. The eyes were not all on me. Once again, I don't know if I particularly regretted the lack of attention I received, but I did notice the lack.
I do have an uncle, Uncle Steven. He is a middle child. He will always take me aside to discuss my life. Middle children call out to middle children. Even across the generations. But for the most part, the middle child gets less parties, less excitement, and less questions. This is ok though. I am not pitching a fit. My birth order has saved me from being the experiment. Kate, as the first, was always the experiment. What went wrong with her was mildly adjusted and tried again on me. I do not mind my placement in the family. I am just stating the facts.
***
I am also in the unique place where I am sort of all the birth orders at once. I am a middle child, because I am. But, the age difference between me and my younger sister makes me the baby of my "set." (My family, being two sets of two.) However, personality-wise, it has been a long running joke that I am Kate's "big sister" because I am generally more organized, responsible, and I emotionally coached her through N*icky, J*ke, P*rker, D*an, Ch*rlie, and all the rest.
Thusly, at times I play all roles. This makes it even more complicated and turns me into a MEGA-middle-child because now I am "all things to all people." Or something like that. According to an article I just read on the internet from a website I don't recall, middle children are more flexible than oldests and youngests. We fulfill our duties. We bend to our older siblings and bow to the younger. The internet calls this "Middle Child Syndrome." I don't really know what that means, but it sounds cool.
***
But back to "I love you." I love quickly and easily. I fall in love with everyone. If I don't love you, you might be my nemesis. I'm not in the habit of just sort of feeling ehhhh about someone. If I know you, I probably care about you, worry about you, have hopes for your future, and generally just wish you health and prosperity. In my personal experience, the middle child is often the most ready and desperate for love. (Not that we always show it. We also have the toughest skins of any birth-order. We cry on the inside, dammit.)
I think middle children seek that affirmation. (Maybe that's just me. I didn't do a survey.) We want to be liked, because our older siblings were cooler than us. We want to be indulged, because our younger siblings stole our thunder. The internet studies I read that I'm not citing all said that people keep their birth-order personalities, even when grown and miles away from their family. I believe this too.
So, if you're not a middle child, love the middle children in your life. They probably got way less for Christmas ortheir first birthday than their older sister did. They probably didn't get their first A framed. Someone probably forgot to throw them a graduation party once. They ate their big sister's leftover toast and stole their baby brother's bottle. They bore the brunt of the handmedowns. And maybe, their first swim meet or whatever was overshadowed by the birth of that ominous baby brother. I'm not asking you to randomly hug all the middle children you know. They might not all like being hugged. But ask them some questions. Show affection. Even if you've never met their family and they haven't seen their siblings in years, somewhere deep inside that person is a middle child whose second-rate exploits were being ignored at age seven. Make that kid feel loved.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
A Short History of a Greek Diner
(This is very off-prompt. But it is about being alone. It's just too weird not to blog about.)
As you might have noticed by now, I am an affectionate and emotionally needy person. I would also consider myself an extrovert. I need good conversation and distraction. Yet I still appreciate being alone. A little less so now, because my life and schedule is such that I am alone all day. Often I don't have a conversation with an adult till I get home. (This is why I tweet like it's going out of style- I need to share my thoughts somehow.) Even now though, with all this alone time, after a party or an event I relish the quiet subway ride home to digest my day. Even now I'll sit in a restaurant alone, reading a book. Sometimes I just sit there and think.
***
But let's backtrack. You all need more stories of my traumatic childhood. I liked being alone as a child because I have (had) an overactive imagination. Real life and real people could harsh that buzz. Growing up one of four, then one of three, then one of four again, I didn't have a lot of time alone. I used to lock myself in the bathroom to just be by myself. I entertained myself as a child with something I called "headgaming." My imagination was so strong that I would pick a character (fictional or historical) to be, and just live in their body all day. It made the boring part of life much more interesting. Instead of doing school, I would imagine I was in a one-room school house in 1860's Wisconson. While washing dishes or cleaning, I would imagine myself to be a servant in a Downton Abbey style house. I usually had four or five scenarios at any given time, and would pick one depending on what was going on at that time. Naturally, too much outside interference would ruin the whole thing. Which is why I'd lock myself in the bathroom and sit on the floor and have incredibly detailed conversations with people who didn't exist. Because of this, sometimes I wonder if I would be a good actor, given the opportunity to try. I can cry on demand and scream bloody murder to nothing very well.
Headgaming persisted into middle school. I would seek out alone time to cultivate these games, and then, while entering back into reality, would let them sort of simmer in the back of my mind while also engaging in whatever was at hand. Of course, if I was really having fun, I forgot all about the games. They existed mainly for when I was home, bored, and alone.
It wasn't until I was 14 that I learned the art of being alone while out. It was a whole new type of freedom. It was summer and I was taking classes at FIT for what I then thought would be my future career in graphic design. I had a decent lunch budget from my dad. Despite the fact I could have found girls in class to have lunch with, I decided to eat alone for the most part. I chose a diner, Greek Corner (ironically, the same diner currently around the corner from my church). I sat at a little table alone, at 14, and ate a burger at a Greek diner. It was quiet. I had my imagination.
Suddenly I had a whole new option. I could adjust my physical reality to fit with the game. I'd spent the last ten years of my life railing against my age. I wanted to be 35. I wanted to be married. Move on. Run an immaculate household and hold business lunches and buy babyfood on the way home from the office, while toting my briefcase. I've wanted to be a harried working mother since I was a kid. So, instead of being at home, pretending I was out living an interesting life, I could actually be out! It was an incredible realization. Especially considering by 14 my imagination was dying down.
***
I wonder now how much of this was natural weird-ass kid behavior and how much was some sort of extreme escapism. During the most intense years of headgaming, life was a little messy. My best friends had moved to Florida, Pennsylvania, New Mexico and up near Orange County NY. My sister Kate and I spent a lot of time slapping each other and sitting on each other. My brother had died.
But I don't want whoever is reading this to think I was a depressed child. I was very happy, though perhaps happy for the wrong reasons. But that is beside the point, I guess.
***
So then I'm a teenager. I'm working at Moretti Bakery and having lunch at Oasis Diner, four days a week. These hours of solitude kept the headgaming alive. If you're working at a bakery, essentially by yourself apart from your bosses, from 6-9am, you need to keep yourself entertained. So of course, whoever I pretended to be worked at a bakery, but it wasn't me. It was just... someone else. And then I sat in Oasis and stared at my Fancy Man (owner of diner, early thirties at the time, love of my life) and pretended I was someone else.
During these years I had lots of friends. These friends tore me away from my imaginings. The games didn't follow my around anymore- they sat in little pockets. If I was playing Monopoly with six people on my bedroom floor, I didn't have to pretend I was not me playing Monopoly. I just was. This state of "just being" was rather pleasant. But back to the whole case of me railing against my age. When I was with my friends, I was very definitely 16. And though I liked my friends, I hated being 16. And sometimes I just wanted to forget I was 16 and pretend to be "adult" again. So I'd go and hang out and be alone. I wouldn't have to engage in some sort of crazy imaginings- just being by myself without anything bothering me or defining me was enough.
***
If you're tracking with this, you might see that eventually this whole game was going to catch up with itself and implode. It did a long time ago. Now, if I'm sitting in Veselka with a cup of borcht, reading on my Kindle, waiting to meet someone... I'm me. I am now that adult person my little eight year old self longed to be. (Minus the children, the high-pressure job. But I think you understand.) I don't really have anything left to pretend.
I still eat at diners because that's how my life is structured and because I really like two fried eggs with toast and homefries and coffee for $6. But it has also become slightly depressing sometimes. Sometimes I get lonely now, and wish someone I knew would randomly walk in. (This, though sounding ridiculous, has happened before. So I keep hoping.) Real people are better than imaginary people, and my life is finally full. I don't need all those games, and obviously, I am no longer capable of playing them. I don't have access to that imagination anymore, it died a long time ago. I still need down-time. Most people do. But I have lost the whole reason I liked being alone as a child. It's a good thing because my reasons for wanting to be alone were a little strange. I always knew I would outlive the desire to "headgame."
I still hold on to a bit of that imagination. As someone who has artistic tendencies (despite lacking an actual outlet) I think my imagination is still better than the average person's. I write angry/passionate letters to people that will never be seen. I imagine scenes before they happen, and occasionally, have been dissapointed at how they played out in comparison to reality. (I know other people do this because of that scene in 500 Days of Summer.)
Memory is important to me. It's why I kept/keep a diary. It's why I instagram. I want to document my life. In a way, headgaming brought my childhood into technicolor, and has given so much more to remember. I was never just me, I remember all the people I pretended I was too. I believe very strongly into holding on to memories. So I do.
As you might have noticed by now, I am an affectionate and emotionally needy person. I would also consider myself an extrovert. I need good conversation and distraction. Yet I still appreciate being alone. A little less so now, because my life and schedule is such that I am alone all day. Often I don't have a conversation with an adult till I get home. (This is why I tweet like it's going out of style- I need to share my thoughts somehow.) Even now though, with all this alone time, after a party or an event I relish the quiet subway ride home to digest my day. Even now I'll sit in a restaurant alone, reading a book. Sometimes I just sit there and think.
***
But let's backtrack. You all need more stories of my traumatic childhood. I liked being alone as a child because I have (had) an overactive imagination. Real life and real people could harsh that buzz. Growing up one of four, then one of three, then one of four again, I didn't have a lot of time alone. I used to lock myself in the bathroom to just be by myself. I entertained myself as a child with something I called "headgaming." My imagination was so strong that I would pick a character (fictional or historical) to be, and just live in their body all day. It made the boring part of life much more interesting. Instead of doing school, I would imagine I was in a one-room school house in 1860's Wisconson. While washing dishes or cleaning, I would imagine myself to be a servant in a Downton Abbey style house. I usually had four or five scenarios at any given time, and would pick one depending on what was going on at that time. Naturally, too much outside interference would ruin the whole thing. Which is why I'd lock myself in the bathroom and sit on the floor and have incredibly detailed conversations with people who didn't exist. Because of this, sometimes I wonder if I would be a good actor, given the opportunity to try. I can cry on demand and scream bloody murder to nothing very well.
Headgaming persisted into middle school. I would seek out alone time to cultivate these games, and then, while entering back into reality, would let them sort of simmer in the back of my mind while also engaging in whatever was at hand. Of course, if I was really having fun, I forgot all about the games. They existed mainly for when I was home, bored, and alone.
It wasn't until I was 14 that I learned the art of being alone while out. It was a whole new type of freedom. It was summer and I was taking classes at FIT for what I then thought would be my future career in graphic design. I had a decent lunch budget from my dad. Despite the fact I could have found girls in class to have lunch with, I decided to eat alone for the most part. I chose a diner, Greek Corner (ironically, the same diner currently around the corner from my church). I sat at a little table alone, at 14, and ate a burger at a Greek diner. It was quiet. I had my imagination.
Suddenly I had a whole new option. I could adjust my physical reality to fit with the game. I'd spent the last ten years of my life railing against my age. I wanted to be 35. I wanted to be married. Move on. Run an immaculate household and hold business lunches and buy babyfood on the way home from the office, while toting my briefcase. I've wanted to be a harried working mother since I was a kid. So, instead of being at home, pretending I was out living an interesting life, I could actually be out! It was an incredible realization. Especially considering by 14 my imagination was dying down.
***
I wonder now how much of this was natural weird-ass kid behavior and how much was some sort of extreme escapism. During the most intense years of headgaming, life was a little messy. My best friends had moved to Florida, Pennsylvania, New Mexico and up near Orange County NY. My sister Kate and I spent a lot of time slapping each other and sitting on each other. My brother had died.
But I don't want whoever is reading this to think I was a depressed child. I was very happy, though perhaps happy for the wrong reasons. But that is beside the point, I guess.
***
So then I'm a teenager. I'm working at Moretti Bakery and having lunch at Oasis Diner, four days a week. These hours of solitude kept the headgaming alive. If you're working at a bakery, essentially by yourself apart from your bosses, from 6-9am, you need to keep yourself entertained. So of course, whoever I pretended to be worked at a bakery, but it wasn't me. It was just... someone else. And then I sat in Oasis and stared at my Fancy Man (owner of diner, early thirties at the time, love of my life) and pretended I was someone else.
During these years I had lots of friends. These friends tore me away from my imaginings. The games didn't follow my around anymore- they sat in little pockets. If I was playing Monopoly with six people on my bedroom floor, I didn't have to pretend I was not me playing Monopoly. I just was. This state of "just being" was rather pleasant. But back to the whole case of me railing against my age. When I was with my friends, I was very definitely 16. And though I liked my friends, I hated being 16. And sometimes I just wanted to forget I was 16 and pretend to be "adult" again. So I'd go and hang out and be alone. I wouldn't have to engage in some sort of crazy imaginings- just being by myself without anything bothering me or defining me was enough.
***
If you're tracking with this, you might see that eventually this whole game was going to catch up with itself and implode. It did a long time ago. Now, if I'm sitting in Veselka with a cup of borcht, reading on my Kindle, waiting to meet someone... I'm me. I am now that adult person my little eight year old self longed to be. (Minus the children, the high-pressure job. But I think you understand.) I don't really have anything left to pretend.
I still eat at diners because that's how my life is structured and because I really like two fried eggs with toast and homefries and coffee for $6. But it has also become slightly depressing sometimes. Sometimes I get lonely now, and wish someone I knew would randomly walk in. (This, though sounding ridiculous, has happened before. So I keep hoping.) Real people are better than imaginary people, and my life is finally full. I don't need all those games, and obviously, I am no longer capable of playing them. I don't have access to that imagination anymore, it died a long time ago. I still need down-time. Most people do. But I have lost the whole reason I liked being alone as a child. It's a good thing because my reasons for wanting to be alone were a little strange. I always knew I would outlive the desire to "headgame."
I still hold on to a bit of that imagination. As someone who has artistic tendencies (despite lacking an actual outlet) I think my imagination is still better than the average person's. I write angry/passionate letters to people that will never be seen. I imagine scenes before they happen, and occasionally, have been dissapointed at how they played out in comparison to reality. (I know other people do this because of that scene in 500 Days of Summer.)
Memory is important to me. It's why I kept/keep a diary. It's why I instagram. I want to document my life. In a way, headgaming brought my childhood into technicolor, and has given so much more to remember. I was never just me, I remember all the people I pretended I was too. I believe very strongly into holding on to memories. So I do.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
You're Not Puerto Rican
"You're not Puerto Rican."
I've been told that. Over and over. "You're not Puerto Rican." Alright, so maybe they have a point. I'm kinda blonde. I have pale (albeit grayish-olive) skin. I don't listen to Marc Anthony. I've actually never been to Puerto Rico. And, although I definitely know how to eat pasteles, I wouldn't have the first clue when it comes to making them.
None of that really matters though. My mother is Puerto Rican, born of two Puerto Ricans. Her father, my grandfather, immigrated to Hell's Kitchen in the 60's. My family history is basically West Side Story. I am my mother's daughter. I am half Puerto Rican.
If you take a step back, family is very diverse. My mother is one of four. She married a German guy (my dad). Her three siblings married another Puerto Rican, a Cuban, and an African-American, respectively. All thirteen of the first cousins in my family have their own unique combinations of skin, hair, and features. But we do all share the same big brown eyes. If you look further we have even more going on, including a completely different branch of German via my Titi's husband, and Italian via their daughter-in-law. I have some redhead Puerto Rican cousins in Ohio. Naturally redhead. Full Hispanic.
Due to the diversity within my family, I've never thought of myself as particularly white or Hispanic. I'm part of a bigger whole. I don't look at myself in the mirror and say "I am Puerto Rican." But when someone tells me I'm not I get defensive. Because however you want to slice it, I still am.
***
So who am I? Despite the diversity that my family married themselves into, the core of my family is Puerto Rican. My dad has very little family, and even less that he is close to. It was Nana, Pop-pop, and my Titis and Uncles that defined my family life growing up. In the back of the car on a shopping trip, I'd listen to my grandparents chattering on in Spanish. If they started speaking Spanish, it was because I wasn't allowed to know what was going on. I remember standing in my Nana's kitchen, watching her fry platanos. I ate too many and threw up, and then stopped eating them for about ten years. Pernil and virgin pina coladas, arroz con pollo or arroz con gandules, and pasteles were all part of a normal diet. My mom always despaired that she couldn't cook what she so subtly called "white people food." The big family, the roudy parties, the bossy older Titis. Lots of kissing. "Ay que lindo!" I guess those are things that could be found in a Greek or Iranian family. It's a lifestyle that, even if just in little ways, clings to something of the life that was enjoyed back home. Where ever that it. It's immigrant life.
I'm not an immigrant. But I can trace both my Puerto Rican and German ancestors back to their old countries without hitting 1800s. Nana grew up in Hispanic Williamsburg. You know, before the hipsters moved in. Jacob and Katherine Diehl came over from Germany through Ellis Island. I like knowing where I came from. I think of myself as Puerto Rican because I see elements of the cultures in my life. I might not be the most Puerto Rican multiethnic person who ever lived, but I am also no stranger to my culture.
On the German side, I had almost no culture in my life. My mother would try to make sure we got a little exposure to that other side of us, so we created events to celebrate the Germanness. And she learned how to make an incredible sauerbraten. When I was in high school I started studying German as a foreign language. I fell in love with it and turned into a German Language major. I've found ways to identify with both sides of me.
***
I've never had some sort of massive ethnic identity crisis. I know what I am and where I came from. I'm proud of it, and mostly don't think on it. The problem lies in how other people see me. "You're not Puerto Rican.
Being mixed-race, but looking mostly white, I have a unique look perspective. I've had the... privilege to hear some pretty off-color things from white people about other ethnicities and races. I guess they assume I'm "one of them." I've had Hispanic people tell me I looked "too white" and therefore was "not Hispanic." I've seen how my hair color defines how someone thinks of me. Me and my cousins were all raised similarly. Educated, bright, Christian households, outer-borough New York, very American. Yet I know that to some people, I look smarter, or more upperclass. My little black-hispanic first cousin has hold me she hates her hair and wishes she looked more like me. Somehow, she already knows how it works. I don't know how to fight it.
I've had a unique perspective growing up. Everyone wants to tell you what you are. Strangers always want to tell me what I am. They'll ask me if I'm Swedish or Italian and then stare at me in disbelief when I tell them what I am. I've been told, "no, no, you're totally Jewish." I'm totally not. It's so odd that we live in a world where a stranger can just look at you and start assuming your culture and prescribe a lifestyle to you. Total strangers. Just last week a Dominican classmate told me, "you look smart, probably because you're white." I guess I'm white to her. Should I argue? At other times Puerto Ricans have asked me out of nowhere, "are you part Puerto Rican." If they see it in me, is it there?
***
It's easy to say ethnicity, race, culture, color.... that it all shouldn't matter. Everyone is the same inside! But ethnic identity does matter, on a personal level. Your food, your culture, your family, language. That's personal. What we should say instead is that it shouldn't matter to anyone else. I'm a little tired of justifying my ethnicity. Why is it so important to you? Will you have to think of me differently if I prove I am "actually Puerto Rican?"
I think it has been a great privilege, growing up mixed, whatever that means. I hope I can give my kids what I was given, in some way. I can't say I've faced challenges, being mixed, but I have observed challenges. I think in general the world would be a better, happier, smoother, more loving place if everyone came from two places.
But back to me. I like who I am and where I came from. I've never fought it. And I'm thankful for that.
I've been told that. Over and over. "You're not Puerto Rican." Alright, so maybe they have a point. I'm kinda blonde. I have pale (albeit grayish-olive) skin. I don't listen to Marc Anthony. I've actually never been to Puerto Rico. And, although I definitely know how to eat pasteles, I wouldn't have the first clue when it comes to making them.
None of that really matters though. My mother is Puerto Rican, born of two Puerto Ricans. Her father, my grandfather, immigrated to Hell's Kitchen in the 60's. My family history is basically West Side Story. I am my mother's daughter. I am half Puerto Rican.
If you take a step back, family is very diverse. My mother is one of four. She married a German guy (my dad). Her three siblings married another Puerto Rican, a Cuban, and an African-American, respectively. All thirteen of the first cousins in my family have their own unique combinations of skin, hair, and features. But we do all share the same big brown eyes. If you look further we have even more going on, including a completely different branch of German via my Titi's husband, and Italian via their daughter-in-law. I have some redhead Puerto Rican cousins in Ohio. Naturally redhead. Full Hispanic.
Due to the diversity within my family, I've never thought of myself as particularly white or Hispanic. I'm part of a bigger whole. I don't look at myself in the mirror and say "I am Puerto Rican." But when someone tells me I'm not I get defensive. Because however you want to slice it, I still am.
***
So who am I? Despite the diversity that my family married themselves into, the core of my family is Puerto Rican. My dad has very little family, and even less that he is close to. It was Nana, Pop-pop, and my Titis and Uncles that defined my family life growing up. In the back of the car on a shopping trip, I'd listen to my grandparents chattering on in Spanish. If they started speaking Spanish, it was because I wasn't allowed to know what was going on. I remember standing in my Nana's kitchen, watching her fry platanos. I ate too many and threw up, and then stopped eating them for about ten years. Pernil and virgin pina coladas, arroz con pollo or arroz con gandules, and pasteles were all part of a normal diet. My mom always despaired that she couldn't cook what she so subtly called "white people food." The big family, the roudy parties, the bossy older Titis. Lots of kissing. "Ay que lindo!" I guess those are things that could be found in a Greek or Iranian family. It's a lifestyle that, even if just in little ways, clings to something of the life that was enjoyed back home. Where ever that it. It's immigrant life.
I'm not an immigrant. But I can trace both my Puerto Rican and German ancestors back to their old countries without hitting 1800s. Nana grew up in Hispanic Williamsburg. You know, before the hipsters moved in. Jacob and Katherine Diehl came over from Germany through Ellis Island. I like knowing where I came from. I think of myself as Puerto Rican because I see elements of the cultures in my life. I might not be the most Puerto Rican multiethnic person who ever lived, but I am also no stranger to my culture.
On the German side, I had almost no culture in my life. My mother would try to make sure we got a little exposure to that other side of us, so we created events to celebrate the Germanness. And she learned how to make an incredible sauerbraten. When I was in high school I started studying German as a foreign language. I fell in love with it and turned into a German Language major. I've found ways to identify with both sides of me.
***
I've never had some sort of massive ethnic identity crisis. I know what I am and where I came from. I'm proud of it, and mostly don't think on it. The problem lies in how other people see me. "You're not Puerto Rican.
Being mixed-race, but looking mostly white, I have a unique look perspective. I've had the... privilege to hear some pretty off-color things from white people about other ethnicities and races. I guess they assume I'm "one of them." I've had Hispanic people tell me I looked "too white" and therefore was "not Hispanic." I've seen how my hair color defines how someone thinks of me. Me and my cousins were all raised similarly. Educated, bright, Christian households, outer-borough New York, very American. Yet I know that to some people, I look smarter, or more upperclass. My little black-hispanic first cousin has hold me she hates her hair and wishes she looked more like me. Somehow, she already knows how it works. I don't know how to fight it.
I've had a unique perspective growing up. Everyone wants to tell you what you are. Strangers always want to tell me what I am. They'll ask me if I'm Swedish or Italian and then stare at me in disbelief when I tell them what I am. I've been told, "no, no, you're totally Jewish." I'm totally not. It's so odd that we live in a world where a stranger can just look at you and start assuming your culture and prescribe a lifestyle to you. Total strangers. Just last week a Dominican classmate told me, "you look smart, probably because you're white." I guess I'm white to her. Should I argue? At other times Puerto Ricans have asked me out of nowhere, "are you part Puerto Rican." If they see it in me, is it there?
***
It's easy to say ethnicity, race, culture, color.... that it all shouldn't matter. Everyone is the same inside! But ethnic identity does matter, on a personal level. Your food, your culture, your family, language. That's personal. What we should say instead is that it shouldn't matter to anyone else. I'm a little tired of justifying my ethnicity. Why is it so important to you? Will you have to think of me differently if I prove I am "actually Puerto Rican?"
I think it has been a great privilege, growing up mixed, whatever that means. I hope I can give my kids what I was given, in some way. I can't say I've faced challenges, being mixed, but I have observed challenges. I think in general the world would be a better, happier, smoother, more loving place if everyone came from two places.
But back to me. I like who I am and where I came from. I've never fought it. And I'm thankful for that.
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