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I’m Italian, West Asian, North African

Leah Granen,
Santa Clarita, CA

I grew up thinking I was second generation 100% Italian/Sicilian. I realized that my grandfather and great uncles had Americanized their names because they wanted to assimilate. As a fair skinned, freckled red head I was considered to be most likely Irish.

I married a second generation Irish/Ukranian. We adopted a son from South Korea who is 1/2 Korean and 1/2 Hispanic. Then to our surprise we had a biological daughter. That’s when I started hearing “why is your son so brown?” and “people love their biological children better than the adopted ones”. How wrong these people are! And how none of their business it was!

Unfortunately I think all of us who are considered “White” these days still have (hopefully just) remnants of conscious and sub-conscious thoughts that are racist and try to deal with them by learning as much as possible about racism. Your book is a wonderful tool.

And I was delightfully surprised when I took the DNA test from 23 and me and realized I am 80% Italian and 20% West Asian and North African! And, as most of us know now, my ancestors deepest roots are from central Africa!

My daughter is married to a man who has Hispanic and Jewish ancestry. I have a wonderful daughter-in-law who is Pakistani and now a 16 month old grandson who is Korean, Hispanic and West Asian.

My family is an amazing mix of cultures and nationalities. I feel that race is a social construct that really makes no sense but deserves the pursuit of our knowledge in order to shine a light on the dangerous impact and effects of what race has meant to the history and progress of this country.

I’m white! Who am I now?

Dave Albertine,
Portland, OR

I spent my life teaching hundreds of children and working hard to lift these young people up, and celebrate their cultures, experiences and be honest about our history. Now I feel lost. I am exceedingly proud of my American heritage and my Italian lineage, but now I feel reticence to celebrate this, especially as an older white man in a changing culture. My family came through Ellis Island, struggled, worked hard, helped build Chicago, persisted in adversity, lived on very little, yet encouraged us all to contribute to America, become educated and live good and full lives. Now I don’t know if I should be ashamed of the opportunities and privileges that I have received and in many ways worked to achieve. My sons are successful, one serving as a critical care nurse, another a diplomat and one working hard to build his life. What do I tell them?

Too white to be Native American

IMG_20140928_144303Simone,
Chicago, IL.

A lot of people say I look too white to be Native American. It’s tiring that my mom is full Cherokee while my dad was full blown Italian, all my other bothers came out darker than me and had brown eyes, I am the only girl int he family. As far as having light skin, but tan in the summer, dark hair with green eyes. I tell people that i am mixed but seem not to believe based on soley the skin color. To me skin color doesn’t matter on a base of streotyping people, but that’s what you get on people who choose to live inside the box rather than out.

They only see the Asian half.

Katelyn Tsukada
Northampton, MA

My mother is of Irish and Italian heritage; my father of Japanese descent. Both of my parents were born in the United States as were their parents before them. Both consider themselves to be American as documented by their passports, drivers licenses and birth certificates. My mother and father speak English has their first and only language. And the American child they created and raised together? Well she constantly gets asked where she is “really” from because New York State is never the correct answer.

I learned to identify myself as Asian-American because that is how others categorized me. My classmates assumed Asian was the reason I got good grades. Asian was the reason I liked seafood and tanned like an islander. And Asian was the reason my grandmother was made to live in an internment camp directly following the attack on Pearl Harbor. My history. Asian history. The rich Irish-Italian culture of my mother’s family never stood a chance.

Father’s reflection, mother’s renewed hope, transformation

image2 (5)Christina Mayes,
Richmond, CA.

The constant revolving question in my life is, “What are you?” Let’s take care of this question now. My father is Peruvian and my mother is Irish-Italian. My father left when I was three, so for most of my life I felt like he left me with no culture or language. My brown skin did not appear to be a reflection of my mother. As a child I remember questioning her if she truly was my mother. When with her I felt a need to prove I was hers when others looked on. My mother has fair skin and large blue eyes. I envied her characteristics. She tried to assure me that I was beautiful in my own way.

Growing up with the last name “Jimenez” was challenging. Many teachers mispronounced my name and people expected that I spoke Spanish. Whenever I failed to speak Spanish or not meet other expectations such as being Chinese, Japanese, or Filipino because of my small eyes, I always had a sense that people just weren’t really seeing me. I was a constant reflection an reminder of a father who left his child without a clear understanding of what being Peruvian meant.

As it got older I began to appreciate the wonder and thought how amazing that I get to live in a world of blurred lines. My multicultural background is actually a gift. This acceptance of my identity embraced my mothers side of being third generation San Franciscan. Renewing my sense of self in terms of growing up in Berkeley, CA – a true Bay Area native. I felt recharged on life, but also determined to learn more about my fathers side and Peruvian history/culture.

This year my husband and I went on our honeymoon to Peru with my university. On this field biology class trip, I participated as a staff member among the students and faculty. Hidden away was my secret of this being a long overdue heritage trip. My husband held my hand as I cried on the bus through Lima, Peru. I knew that these were the streets that had taken my father two years again in a fatal car accident.

We saw the capital and then traveled the Amazon River. When stopping back in Lima I took a chance and reached out to my younger half brother I had never spoken to or met. You see, my father had a family before me creating a older half sister who is full Peruvian (speaks Spanish, raised in Petaluma, CA) and a younger half brother who is full Peruvian (speaks Spanish, raised in La Molina, Peru). I left a cryptic voice mail in Spanish for my brother who then quickly called me back. His voice was the sound of my father and he spoke excellent English.

We met that day. I had never been so nervous. I didn’t know what to expect and neither did he. When he walked in at. a height of 6’3” – I couldn’t believe it. We hugged, laughed, and cried. I never thought I would meet him in this life. I thought he would be a distant past like my father. I asked if our father was tall and he laughed and said yes. Turns out my 22 year old brother is a college rugby player in his last year of college stud eying international business. As a college advisor for his age group, it seemed oddly kismet as we launched in conversation. I understood exactly where he was in life and he had a greater understanding of where I was.

My brother is older than his years. Our father left him at three as well. We lived parallel lives constantly asking who we were. It’s much more than race.

He share with me that he learned our father was originally from the Amazon. He also shared that he forgave him. I knew as well in my heart that I agreed with this forgiveness and realized it wasn’t the history or culture that I desperately needed, but family. My brothers love is unreal.

All this time I hogue to was in search of myself, but it was actually the connection to another who would fully understand this internal longing of understanding.

As I stood atop Machu Picchu with my husband, I felt so alive and at peace. I thought of my brother and I wished I could be with him. He too is a reflection of our father. I could see clearly the value of what’s so important in life.

My mother has always been my angel in life. I see her as the strongest woman I know. I see her in my face more and more. It’s hard to believe I had once questioned that. Identify and self development can be difficult for those with an unclear family line. When someone asks, “What are you?” I say be bold and true. The conversations that follow are worth the time and educating others.

Sometimes I cry when making pasta.

mustacheMeredith Taggart,
Portland, OR.

I’m Italian and Scottish and otherwise a European mutt. I’m generally considered “white,” and look ambiguously ethnic. For me, the idea of race is all about a longing for a greater connection to my heritage. I never feel more connected than when making pasta. Learning the language, visiting Italy, making/eating Italian food, listening to Italian music, and watching Italian films are the best ways I have to forge that connection. Based on my disposition, I feel very stereotypically Italian, but I wonder how much of that about myself was adopted, subconsciously, in an effort to be more Italian. My mom often speaks about a time when being Italian in this country was difficult, so it seems to me that we have come very far in just one generation for me to be at a point where not only do I not feel that there is negativity associated with my heritage, but rather a lack of sentiment.

Not Just Any Other White Girl

Francesca Magno
Portland, ME

I come from a very large Irish/Italian family. We have traditions and ideals representative of different cultures. Yet, when people identify me I am simply a white girl. People do not view me as a mix of races. I could be any other ugg wearing, latte in hand, textaholic, but I don’t feel I am only what I appear to be. Due to my non-defined characteristics for either of my ethnicities I am only seen as one. Yes, I am white, but my heart is a representation of three flags. Green, white and red. Orange white and green. But most importantly red, white and blue.

White/Hispanic looks/is all white not sorry

labelRuby Marlowe,
Brooklyn, NY.

Italian-Irish mom, Puerto Rican-Mestizo dad, never met dad’s family as his side was pretty bad along with dad who was never around. Me and my little brother look and act “Caucasian” (laughing at the now PC whites who treated us like crap in the 80s and now identify us with people who emigrated from the former Soviet Union because they feel bad) and I changed my name to stop getting harassed by Hispanics and blacks who accused me of being a typical hipster white person that treats race as a fad.

Five race family equals great dinners!!!!

Martin Clarke,
Atlanta, GA

Sushi, fried-chicken and arroz con pollo. I’m African-American, Asian and Native American. My wife is Salvadoran, Mexican and Italian. When you look at the statistical “browning” of America, no one has really analyzed the great culinary benefits of all this mixing: great dinners. At my house, we have taken advantage of all of the racial/ethnic/cultural mixes and laid them out on the dinner table. Different spices and ingredients mix to the great benefit of our palate. Our three daughters have grown up not knowing that their dinners are “blended”, its just dinner to them. I think that the future of America will be the same. People will just take for granted the great benefits of a blended society, it will be just society. Cheerios ads with a mixed family wont spark outrage.

We thought you didn’t speak English.

Gab_color_reducedGabriela Denise Frank,
Seattle, WA.

Despite being a Detroit native who grew up in Arizona, I was mostly surrounded by white kids like me during my childhood. Though my family is Jewish, I never experienced discrimination while living in predominately Christian communities. Even as an adult in Seattle, which is more ethnically diverse, I live in a middle class Caucasian world. It wasn’t until I visited Italy that someone helped me glimpse the other side of the race card.

The two couples were white, and they were from Virginia. They mistakenly assumed that I was an uneducated local maid because my beginning Italian was better than their attempts at the language. In 15 years of owning a home in a tiny hill town, they had never bothered to learn more than a word or two of Italian. When I greeted them with, “Buon giorno,” they smiled nervously and brushed past me. In the garden, they turned their backs to me, closing ranks so that I couldn’t sit with them, so I sat on the ground as they spoke over my head to our host. It took a while for me to realize that none of them met my eyes because, to them, I wasn’t there.

The oven buzzer went off, signaling that their welcome lunch was ready, a meal that I had helped our host cook. “Come on in – lunch is served!” I called. They froze. “Are you… American?” they asked, aghast. “Yes,” I smiled. “I live in Seattle.” One of the wives paled.

“We ignored you because we thought you didn’t speak English,” she admitted, like this excused their slight. The minute of outrage I experienced made me see that I could never know the discrimination that others face for their entire lives. For what it’s worth, I’ll never forget the lesson.

You Italian then? No, I’m Hispanic.

image9 (3)Andrea Lopez,
Sacramento, CA.

When confronted with the question of whether or not I’ve experienced racism in my life, I always remember the first time I felt discriminated against. I was about twelve years old and I was meeting my best friend’s father for the first time. She moved to California from Georgia with her mother and siblings, her father followed later and in the end he did not stay. I always felt welcome by her family and never even thought about discrimination, so when I met her father I was taken aback by his question. “You Italian, then?”, I immediately understood what he was really asking. I answered “No, I’m Hispanic” but quickly felt the need to validate myself so I offered up the fact that I come from Native American ancestry as well. I suppose I felt the need to let him know that my roots were imbedded in US soil unlike his European ancestors that migrated here. It was a rude awakening for a child and it had lasting effects on me. I was now aware that other people were aware of my skin tone and ethnicity. Even being called “blackie” due to my darker summer tan by the overweight red-headed freckle-faced bully in school did not make me think about race. As an adult I see that the boy who bullied me had insecurity issues of his own, bless his heart. So, it took an adult from the Deep South to rain on my parade, he introduced racism to me and I finally understood what it meant to not be white. My friend’s father ended up moving back to Georgia after a domestic dispute became physical between him and her mother. I was glad he was gone because I never felt comfortable around him, I always knew he disapproved of me. From then on I was always aware of my surroundings and I knew that I would not always be accepted and that I would have to learn to be strong and not let other people’s prejudices interfere with my life. As an adult living in California I rarely experience racism, but I do think about it often, especially when I’m thinking of planning a trip to other states. I research the percentage of the Hispanic population to see if I would be accepted as a visitor and I often worry because my boyfriend is white and some people in different states may not be so welcoming of the two of us. It definitely adds a different perspective to life, I may be free to roam about the country, but will I be accepted?

Light skinned, biracial, Jewish, Arab American man.

Arturo Hull,
Anchorage, AK.

My mom is Syrian, Iraqi, Egyptian, Greek, Italian, Swiss-German, Austrian, South German, English, Norwegian and Danish. My dad is English, Scottish, Irish, Swedish, German, Polish, and Russian. I am light-skinned and can easily pass as French or Italian, but I embrace my Arab roots to the fullest and enjoy foods like Falafel, ful medames, and baklava. I also celebrate Arab holidays, such as Syrian Independence Day and Syrian Revolution Day. When I go to synagogue for Shabbat, I try to attend a Sephardic Synagogue and I eat qitnyot on Shabbat.

Is Puerto Rican a separate race?

waist-upDiana Gonzalez,
Franklin Square, NY.

I am an adopted person. I’ve been searching for my past all my life. I’m 60 now.
One of my adopted parents was Austrian and one was Italian. I was raised to think of myself as Italian. In the early 1970’s I searched and found out I was born in Brooklyn and my name at birth was, Female Gonzalez.

I was of Spanish descent. It was a big shock. I continued searching and around 2000 I found out I am 100% Puerto Rican.

I have issues about what race I am. For instance when my adoptive mom was in the nursing home and I was pushing her around in a wheelchair, I always felt people must think I’m her aide. (My adoptive mom, being Austrian, was light skinned and had green eyes.) I am dark skinned, brown eyes, dark hair. You would never pick us out as mother and daughter.

When she and I were out and about when I was growing up I sometimes felt awkward when we were introduced as mother and daughter. The awkwardness came because we were so different. If I was out with my father, it wasn’t an issue because, being Italian, he was dark like me.
I’m trying to figure out if my adoption would be considered a transracial adoption. Not sure.

Apparently, I’m Jesus, or a terrorist.

Race-Card-PHOTOJohn Abraham,
Grand Rapids, MI.

Thanks to my Italian and Lebanese heritage, I am blessed to say I have a fairly full beard and curly brown hair. However, these two attributes have granted me two common nicknames: “Jesus” or “Terrorist”. I suppose I look like many modern-day depictions of Jesus and when I’m referred to as a terrorist, I’m sure people don’t actually intend to offend me. But, sometimes we need to take a step back and truly think about the implications behind our words. Jesus and a terrorist are two very different people…

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