Friday, January 29, 1999
Ethnicity doesn’t always imply allegiance
PERCEPTIONS: Lumping
people into groups root of racial tension in U.S.
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.Alicia Roca
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