On race

Monte broached the subject with me carefully. "I read your blog post," he said to me the other day.

"Yeah? What did you think of it?"

"It was...very interesting."

I tensed slightly.

"I was kind of wondering what you meant by it," he went on.

"What do you mean, what I meant by it?"

"Well, don't you think it could be interpreted as a little divisive?"

We turned to face one another on the couch. "Which part?" I asked.

"It's just, well, it kind of sounded like you were minimizing the feelings of black people."

"I wasn't trying to minimize anybody's feelings," I said.

"Well, you made such a point about the fact that Barack Obama is not a black man, he's a biracial man, and you kind of made it sound like he's more your president than anybody else's."

I exhaled slowly. I don't enjoy having my writing criticized and I absolutely hate to think that I may have offended anybody with something that I wrote. But I had to concede that he had a valid point. I wished he'd read it in the way that I wrote it, but the fact is, everybody has their own interpretation. And he was likely not the only person who saw it that way.

"It was a more a piece about self-definition than anything else," I said. "I was basically awakening to the fact that I'd never really seen myself as having my own race, and so I was unexpectedly shocked when the realization hit that the president is just like me."

"But that's just it," Monte said. "You're saying that the president is more like you than he's like the rest of black Americans. Don't you think that sort of downplays their victory?"

"No," I said. "I'm saying that everybody wants to see a bit of themselves in their leaders. We all want to identify. This is what I see when I look at the man. I'm not trying to take away from what anybody else sees."

Monte shook his head, thinking. "The stuff you wrote about how his ancestors weren't even slaves here..."

"They weren't!" I met his gaze levelly. "His dad was from Kenya."

"Yes, but that makes it sound like he's not even part of the black experience. You talk as though he's not an African-American."

"Oh, he's African-American. His dad was from Africa."

"Yes, but that's just semantics."

"Exactly."

We eyed each other for a moment. Despite my discomfort I couldn't help marveling at the stance that he took, a white man arguing for the black experience. And there I was, a biracial woman, seemingly arguing against it.

"It's more accurate to say that he is an African-American than it is to say that my father is an African-American," I tried to explain. "Because we haven't been able to trace our family's history back that far. We assume we're from Africa. But Barack Obama is only one generation removed, so yes, he's more of an African-American than my dad."

"So you're saying he's more black than your father?" Monte asked, eyebrows raised.

"Nooo," I said. "I can't speak to that. But don't you find it interesting how the public perceives him? Do you think we'd be calling him our first black president if his wife and children were white?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Well, I think it's got a lot to do with it. You don't often hear him talk about his own racial identity. But what do you think it must have been like, growing up with his white mother and grandparents, only to discover as he got older that the world was going to view him differently? I mean, he barely even knew his father - how much do you think he identified with him?

"In that documentary - " I pointed to the TV - "In that documentary we were just watching, one of his oldest friends says basically the same thing: He figured out as he grew up that the world sees him as a black man. But that's how the world sees him; it's not necessarily how he sees himself."

"And you think he sees himself like you see yourself?" Monte asked.

"I don't know. All I know is that I see some of myself in him. And that's powerful to me."

There was a long pause. Monte fiddled with the corner of a couch cushion. "Well, it's good that we can have these discussions on race," he said politely.

"Yes indeed," I responded politely. Then we shook hands and retreated to our separate sleeping quarters.

* * *

Yesterday I spoke to my mother on the phone. We talked about the inauguration and filled each other in on how we'd spent the day.

Then Mom said to me, "Sometimes it bugs me a little, how his other side gets ignored."

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I knew what she meant.

"Well, his mother was white, wasn't she? And nobody talks about that."

I laughed a little bit. "You should read my blog," I said. "Then let's talk."

It's easy to offend when you talk about matters of race. And although it galls me to think that I may have hurt somebody's feelings, I think it's important that we can voice our thoughts on this sensitive topic. A difference of opinion is okay. But it's the discussion that's going to lead to a greater understanding, and ultimately, a strengthening of the ties that bind us.

Even if you have to sit in frosty silence for awhile afterward.

Half black is the new black (bitch)

Some months ago, Tina Fey, while commentating on then-Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton, made this declaration: "Bitch is the new black!" And I laughed.

A few weeks later Tracy Morgan responded with a declaration of his own: "Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch." And I roared.

But then yesterday, while surfing the internet, I came across this statement: Half black is the new black. And I thought: Whoa.

It was a genuine C&C Music Factory moment, truly one of those things that made me go "Hmm".

Yesterday I attended the Martin Luther King festivities down at the Civic Center. The Glide Ensemble sang. After the program was over I hung around outside for a while, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere of the city one day before our new president took office.

Most people were wearing Obama t-shirts, but there was one small girl whose shirt caught my eye. It said: little mixed girl.

She was a beautiful child: biracial with light eyes and a cloud of dark hair. I bent down towards her and smiled. "I like your shirt!" I said, but she just stared at me, hiding behind her mother's legs.

When I got home I went online, looking for that t-shirt. To my surprise I found a range of clothing dedicated to multi-ethnic people. "Are we a market?" I wondered aloud, knowing even as I spoke the words that the answer was yes, that I was foolish not to have realized this. It was while I was searching for t-shirts that I stumbled on the words half black is the new black. Referring, of course, to the president.

Well, that made me think. Black people all over the nation are rejoicing that today, a man who looks like them took up the highest office in the land. We are calling him our first black president.

I feel that joy. I feel that relief, I feel that justice, I feel that hope. I feel it for my dad, a black man, for my grandmother, from whom Alzheimer's has likely robbed the meaning of this day. I feel it for those members of my family who never thought they'd live to see this, and for those who didn't live to see it. That's my responsibility, you know? That's my place in history: I am a witness to this day, to what it means.

But all along I've been looking at this through the lens of my black history. And you know what? I am not a black woman.

I am a biracial woman, both black and white. I have always looked at life from one side or the other, trying to see both sides of every issue. Interestingly, I am also a Libra, constantly striving for balance. I took turns seeing things from each point of view.

I don't think I ever fully realized, until this day, that as a multi-ethnic person, I am a race unto myself. I am more than half my father and half my mother. I suppose most people don't take so long to self-identify, but when your folks look so different and come from such different backgrounds, it's easy to spend your life quantifying which parts of you come from which parent. And I don't think it ever occurred to me that there is something about me that stands alone. I know something about what it means to be white, because my mom taught me that. And I know something about what it means to be black, because my dad taught me that. But they couldn't teach me what it means to be mixed, and I guess I'm still learning it for myself.

A couple of years ago Monte and I were browsing at a street market and I spotted a t-shirt that made me gasp. The design on the shirt was from a page of an old standardized test, the part where you had to fill in the bubble that described your racial identity. Choose one of the following, the shirt said: Black / White / Other. The Other bubble was filled in.

I grabbed Monte by the arm. "Look at this," I whispered.

"Cool," he said.

I shook my head. "That's me," I told him.

"Yeah, it's cool," he said.

And I couldn't explain why there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I couldn't explain why I kept touching the shirt, why I was so reluctant to walk on. I still wish I'd bought it.

I used to fill in the Other bubble on standardized tests. When I took my SATs, I remember my dad asking which bubble I'd chosen. When I told him, he got upset.

"Next time, I want you to choose Black, OK?"

"I'm not going to do that!" I declared. "I'm not going to deny my white side!" My dad closed his eyes in a gesture of frustration. He and I were having trouble communicating in my 17th year.

"It's not about that," he said stiffly.

"But I'm not just black!" I insisted. I looked to my mother for help, hopeful that she would understand. She smiled a little.

"It's about tuition assistance, Errin," she said.

I crossed my arms in a huff. I could understand that, but I was still upset.

It's not as though I've spent my life stewing about this Other bubble. But last night I remembered it. And as I sat there thinking about it I realized that Barack Obama probably filled in that Other bubble too.

You see, we're calling him our nation's first black president. But Barack Obama is a biracial man, raised by a white mother and white grandparents. It's ironic, really: his ancestors weren't even slaves here, and yet we're looking at him as a symbol of racial freedom. How many grandmothers have proclaimed this year that they never thought they'd see this day? And yet President Obama's own grandmother, who died just a short while ago, likely never dwelled on dreams such as those.

When we look to the leaders, we all want to see someone who looks like us, don't we?

Yesterday my father wrote about how the optimism of his children renewed his own sense of hope. "They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?" And I probably have always believed that I would live to see a black person become president.

But it never occurred to me that one of my own would take the office.

Watching him take the oath today, I felt a new sense of definition. I have a race. It's not just the sum of others' parts, it's my own identity.

"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."

My president spoke those words today.

Of course, I am joking when I say that half black is the new black (bitch). I think we can all see a part of ourselves in our new president, and that's what makes it such a sweet victory. We no longer have to Choose (only) one of the following. We no longer have to fill in the Other bubble when nothing else fits. There's room for everybody on this page, in this age, and if you need reminding, just look at our president.

He looks a little like us, doesn't he?