“Are they yours? Are you sure?”
Adam Conner
Washington, DC
My sister and I are both adopted from South Korea. Our parents are white. One of my memories from childhood is being at the grocery store and constantly having people ask my mom “Are they yours?” point to my sister and me. I remember one time someone then adding “Are you sure?” As if my mom was going to look over and realize then that “whoa these kids are asian! thank you stranger in a grocery store for pointing that out to me!”
“My Blood is Red, What’s Yours”
Ralanda King,
Philadelphia, PA.
Born and raised in the city of brotherly love, but I’m full of sisterly affection, I not black but brown and beautiful. the heart can see what our eyes can’t or refuse too. but, don’t charge it to my skin, but to my heart.
“Are they yours? Are you sure?”
Adam Conner
Washington, DC
My sister and I are both adopted from South Korea. Our parents are white. One of my memories from childhood is being at the grocery store and constantly having people ask my mom “Are they yours?” point to my sister and me. I remember one time someone then adding “Are you sure?” As if my mom was going to look over and realize then that “whoa these kids are asian! thank you stranger in a grocery store for pointing that out to me!”
I’ve been called my sister’s nanny.
Mary Carroll,
Columbia, SC.
I am biracial and adopted into a white family. Growing up in a very southern affluent area, people were always asking me if I was paid well to look after the child and if I would work for them. When I would tell them that the child was my sister, generally they would respond with a laugh and “if that’s what you call it” then turn to someone else and say “that nanny calls the child her ‘sista'” assuming I was using a colloquial term rather than defining a familial relationship.
Just because I’m brown, I’m different
Jessica Hernandez,
San Juan Capistrano, CA.
My little sister were born light skinned versus me who was born brown. My parents like to bring that up all the time, saying that because she is light skinned, she’s going to get all the guys. Because she is light skinned, she will be beautiful. So what about me?
Mixed heritage. Feeling strange growing up
Katie Moore
New Echota, GA
I used to hate the way I looked growing up. My mom & brother had fair skin & freckles & I had darker skin & hair. I like the way I look now. I’m proud of my heritage. I am of cherokee, creek, German,& African decent. I stand taller than most women & my hair is almost to my knees & very straight with several shades of auburn & browns. I have a daughter now that took after her father more; wavy hair, fair skin, & blue eyes.
“He’s not your son? Oh good!”
Amber Halverson,
Eugene, OR.
“Oh good! He doesn’t look like he has any white in him at all!”
My first real encounter with my own race that I can remember was when I was in middle school. My white godparents had just adopted a black baby. They “kept his black name”, DiMario, as his middle name and changed his first name to the “biblical” (aka: white) name Joshua.
We were in the store and my godmother took her oldest daughter to the bathroom so I was with the baby waiting outside. An older white woman came up to me and asked if he was my son. I exclaimed, “Oh, no no no. He’s my brother”. In my mind it was a crazy thing to ask because I was obviously too young to have a baby. Her response was “Oh good. Because he doesn’t look like he has any white in him at all!” and then she just walked away like what she said didn’t mean anything.
I was raised in a diverse city with many different races and cultures, but my own race was not acknowledged to me until it was compared to someone else’s.
His was acknowledged right away and was immediately looked down upon, all before he could talk.
I often wonder if his parents have ever talked with him about his race and what it means to him or if they teach him colorblindness.
“My Blood is Red, What’s Yours”
Ralanda King,
Philadelphia, PA.
Born and raised in the city of brotherly love, but I’m full of sisterly affection, I not black but brown and beautiful. the heart can see what our eyes can’t or refuse too. but, don’t charge it to my skin, but to my heart.
“So, what are you?” they ask.
Karen Gephart Altschul,
Vernon Hills, IL.
I was five, the first time I can remember somebody asking me that question. “What are you? Chinese or something?” Huh? Um, what are you talking about? I’ve been asked this question, “what are you”, on the first day at a job. A girl from China asked me if I’m Chinese, too. I was spending a semester in Florence, Italy, and my teacher stopped in the middle of class to ask me that question. I said I was American. I thought maybe, just maybe, that’s what he meant since there were students from many countries. He couldn’t possibly be asking me about race, when there were Korean kids, Mexican kids, all variety of people in this class. “No, no. What ARE you? You know: what are your origins?”. Well, I was born in Iowa….but I knew what he meant. I am a lot of things: daughter, sister, mother, wife, artist, reader, gardener. I am also a lot of things that make up why I look like I do: English, Welsh, Scottish, German, Mexican, Yaqui. “Ooooooooh. So that’s it,” they say. “You’re an Indian. Or a Native American, if you prefer that. That makes sense.” I’m so glad.
Don’t straighten your hair, baby girl.
McKinley Dixon,
Richmond, VA.
In the dominantly caucasian school that my sister used to attend, she would get picked on for her hair being curlier and fuller than the other girls in her school. It got to the point where she would straighten it every morning before we go to school. Damaging her hair, for an unnecessary reason, I told her not to straighten her hair anymore to appeal to those that only knock you down. I told her every morning. I still tell her.
I don’t know Inez’s last name.
Rosemary Brinson Siipola,
Kalama, WA.
Reflecting on growing up in Duplin County, North Carolina, my Grandma Cora was the matriarch of a large family. Inez was her helper, confidant, friend and nurse for decades. My sister and I loved her and we played with her grandchildren. Over 50 years later, I think about Inez and I realize I don’t know her last name. Why is that? I hope her beautiful family is carrying on sharing her caring spirit with their lives. Inez meant the world to Grandma and to me, too.
Not as white as I appear.
Susi Matthews,
Kansas City, MO.
I am 1/4 Navajo plus Cherokee and Mohawk. I am also English, Irish, Scots and German. I LOOK white; my full sister looks Native. I experienced the reactions she got when we were kids on vacation. A small restaurant in Colorado thought she was Native America and refused to serve her…until my parents came in and they realized their mistake. Dad gave them a piece of his mind and we left. I never forgot that.
We all judge by first impressions and make mistaken assumptions. We all need to check our assumptions and see lovely human beings in all variety, shapes, colors and potentials.
I thought your house would be big
Michelle Robillard,
Lake Forest, CA.
I’ve never lived in a “house.” It’s always been an apartment or condo, never had my own room except when I was young and my sister wasn’t born yet. I am white and used to be blonde and people assumed I lived well. Quite the opposite. My parents try their best but we have always ALWAYS struggled with money.
Just found out what I am
Trisha Perry,
Crestwood, KY.
I found my 1/2 sister after 46 years so now I kind of know what I am, at least 1/2 of me.
We’re all human. Act like it.
Blake Frisch,
Blue Springs, MO.
We’re all humans just trying to get through life the best we can. Your brothers and sisters need you in this time of chaos. Life was and always will be difficult. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be.
A study of ethnicity in sisters
Miriam Lennmark
Tampa, FL
If you want to really look at how race affects us, look at sisters. Sisters with the same biological parents, same home, same everything…except the color of their skin, hair, and eyes. Our lives are so different. She looks Caucasian…I look…well, brown. Most people will tell me I look Latin, but that is not a race. The way the world reacts to my sister is so different, yet our parents, the ones that gave us both our genes, are the same. When I take my sweet blonde, blue-eyed niece to the park people assume I’m her nanny. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around that. But one thing that will always be the same for my sister and I is our heritage. We were born in South America and lived most of our childhood there. We’ve been so lucky to be able to take the best of both societies to become who we are today. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
I don’t meet YOUR Mexican expectations.
Veronica,
Woodland, CA.
Don’t look down on me because I don’t speak Spanish. I would love to learn but you shaming me makes me nervous to even try, should I make a mistake. You think I spit on “my language”? Well, you spit on me, your Mexican sister.
