Benjamin Bean
Glen Mills, PA
I wouldn’t say that growing up as a red-head (or “ginger,” though I didn’t hear that term until a few years ago) was extremely difficult. A few kids called me “carrot-top” and some other names, but it never amounted to bullying. But I didn’t know too many people with the same hair color, and I have been told that we comprise the smallest minority on earth (whatever that means). Many people see my hair color as a sign of my Irish ancestry, and although this is true, it underlines the experience of many white children in America: we may have ancestors from several different places around the world, but to answer any questions about our own ethnicity is difficult. I can’t label myself with any of the ethnic identities that many of my friends have, and this bothered me for much of my youth. As an anthropologist, I refuse to embrace the concept of race, so I only identify as “white” in terms of phenotype. I went through a phase in my teens when I explored my Irish heritage, and there is certainly much to learn and enjoy from Irish culture; however, this is no more “my” culture than any of my French, English, Swiss-German, Swedish, and German roots about which I know almost nothing at all. I just happen to look more Irish than anything else, because of that one phenotype that stands out from the rest. It took me some time to realize it, but while it may be nice to have several generations of ethnic traditions handed down to celebrate, I’m not missing anything by being less connected to my Irish roots than I look like I should be. I can make my own culture, I can appreciate others, and I can celebrate the fact that my family comes from a long line of people who overcame their own unique circumstances and learned to love people from other cultures in the process.
