Racial/Ethnic Identity Statements

Post your racial/ethnic identity statements here. Mr. Trangen's class will be responding next week to your statements.

Racially, I've always considered myself as Northern Europeans. This disregards the fact that many of my ancestors have lived in America for over one hundred years; I do not consider there to be a single American race. Almost all of my ancestry, when traced back far enough, can be traced to somewhere north of the Alps and west of the Ural Mountains. I've never seen myself as "white." I personally think that "white" is far too broad of a term to be used for racial identity.
My first memory of race as a distinct entity was in the aftermath of 9/11. Many news outlets jumped onto the Anti-Islam bandwagon that formed. I began to notice more and more that the "ideal" American was most often portrayed as white. Often, Muslims and people from the Middle East in general were portrayed as different or even alien. I guess that I had never really noticed race before because of the fact that my family was always moving around due to my father's Foreign Service job. By the time I was four, I had visited five countries, each with a different ethnic and racial makeup than the last.
Honestly, I don't think that my race has had much of an effect on my life. Scarily enough, the biggest effect of my race has probably been white privilege, which is something I "use" without consciously thinking about. My race is not something that I think about very often. As a result, when I do think about it, it's hard to put any concrete thoughts into words.

I am white. Caucasian. European. My family comes from Germany, England, Ireland, Scotland, Switzerland, Wales, and France. At least, that's all we know of, and that's really just my great-grandmother on my mother's side. Everyone else is basically just German. There are a few little things around our house and in my life that attest to that heritage – the old German books, the scraps of tartan fabric in boxes, the odd German words we hang on to, the bagpipes at the Scottish Highland Games every year. But my racial and ethnic heritage don't play a huge part in my life. The fact that I am white is not one of the factors that define me. My European ancestry plays only a minor part in who I think I am. When I think of me, I don't think of my race or my ethnicity. I think of the things I'm interested in and what I consider to be my culture.
My earliest memory of race is from preschool. One of my friends was Asian. I was aware of the fact that he looked different from me and that he had different facial features from me and our other friends, but in my four-year-old mind, that didn't matter. I don't think at that point in time I knew that those things mattered to anyone.

I identify with my European ancestry, even more so because I lived there. Though neither of my parents have any Swiss ancestors as far as I can tell, I still consider my ethnicity to be Swiss. I certainly look it, with blonde hair and blue eyes. My physical features compliment my mountainous background. Whatever specific countries my ancestors came from, they are all located in northern Europe.
Despite the fact that my family has been in the United States for decades, I don’t completely identify with an American ethnic identity. I’m not even sure there is one. There are so many things in this country that annoy me, and I can’t help feeling that in certain situations, the Swiss would have done it better. I have a very strong, unreasonable bias.
My earliest memory of race is when I was about 5 years old, and I was being picked up from daycare. There was a black man picking up his children as well. I remember shaking his hand and wondering afterwards why his hand was so dark compared to mine. I had never really thought twice about skin color before.
My racial identity makes me aware of the fact that I am expected to be more privileged than many other people in this country. I am therefore conscientious of seeming spoiled, since I am from an affluent white family and have done nothing to earn all the opportunities and materials in my life. My awareness of my race pushes me to retain my humility.

I am a mutt, but if I had to identify with one race it would be white; that's the color of my skin, and since I have no clear visual attributes that indicate otherwise, that's what other people identify me as too. I am part German and part English in reality, but society simplifies this to white or caucasian, which ever you prefer. I suppose I am lucky because I've never had to make a decision about what to identify myself as, because I just fill in the bubble marked as 'white'. I have always gotten an odd feeling when I fill in this bubble, probably because it is just such a broad generalization of what I really am. White. That's not right, I mean it is, but it's not. I wish they had a bubble that said 'mutt'. In reality that's what most of us are, so why isn't that bubble there?
When I was five or six, I was in the car with my best friend, Emily. We were chatting and both of her parents were in the front seat. I don't remember how it came up, but she began talking about her birth mother. At first I had an image of Mary, the mother of hers that I knew, the one she grew up with, but then she said her birth mother's name, and it wasn't Mary. The image of her mom got fuzzy, and I stopped her story telling. I told her that I thought Mary was her birth mother, and she started chuckling, along with her parents (that I just found out weren't actually her birth parents), and said no. I looked from her to her mother, and for the first time saw that they looked nothing like each other. Emily was short, had a rounder face, black hair, and a much less pronounced nose. Mary was blond, blue eyed, tall, bony. Emily was Chinese, her parents were not. It took me a while to wrap my head around. But of course, Emily isn't only Chinese; she is a mutt, like me.
I think most children probably start off with this color blind view on race, because how could we be born seeing race? We are taught to see race, pick out the differences between us, instead of seeing just another human. Hopefully someday that won't be the case anymore. We can all just be mutts.

I think everyone remembers a time in preschool when we pulled the skin outwards from the corners of our eyes and said “look I’m Chinese!” Or at least that’s what we did at the small Montessori next to View Ridge Elementary.
But what race am I actually? I’m white. I have blonde hair, green eyes; I’m probably one of the palest people in the class. In the summer I use SPF 100 and still get blistering burns. But does my unfortunate inability to tan make me “white?”
In seventh grade every single one of my friends was Asian. Every weekend I would go to their houses and roll sushi. Not so curiously, everybody still regarded me as white.
My mom is half English and half Syrian. My grandpa was born and raised in Blackpool and each of my grandmas parents migrated to Albany from Homs and worked in a mill. To be honest, I just finished drinking my third cup of tea today. I call oatmeal “porridge”, and I’m guessing I’m the only one in class who knows how to make grape leaves, cabbage rolls, and tabouleh.
What’s funny is that my dad is Swedish and German (or something along the lines of that) but I wouldn’t say that has any influence on my culture at all –but it has a HUGE influence on my race. I wouldn’t be fair skinned without that half of my lineage.
I remember being in Bartells one year around the holidays when my mom stormed out, obviously annoyed. My mom is NEVER annoyed. She was angered because someone had looked at her and had assumed that she was Jewish from her physical characteristics. My mom doesn’t have anything against Jews; she was upset because of other people judging her based on her “race”.
At my cousins wedding my sisters and I went up to take communion. Although a familiar at for us, my younger sister (who looks a decent amount more Middle Eastern than I do) got a whole bunch of weird looks. I found it comical that in this day and age, people continue to make stupid assumptions because of the color of someone’s skin. Especially because my mom and little sister aren’t even that dark.
Anyways, I would call myself white. Many others have called me white. I like to think that I am more than just “white”, but am I?

In seventh grade at Eckstein the whole class did a project called REACH: Remembering Ethnic and Cultural Heritage. I utilized my grandfather's extensive research on the Houston family ancestry to learn that we hailed from Scotland, where the Houston's had a castle and oversaw a small town (Houston, Scotland still exists today). The Houstons eventually relocated to Northern Ireland, which was a hotbed of violence between Protestants and Catholics. As Presbyterians, the Houstons relocated to America, where they spread out along the eastern seaboard. On my mother's side, her father was Native American, and was supposedly from the same tribe as Pocahontas. I don't think of myself as Native American, or as really having a specific race at all.
One of my first memories of race is of a huge picture of Jesus that used to hang on the wall in my church library. He was clearly painted to look like a European, and I always wondered why he didn't have darker skin, as someone from the Middle East would.
My race doesn't really play into how I think of myself, except when I watch elite track races. Long distance running is dominated by East Africans, and I often say, half-jokingly, that I wish I had been born in Africa. However, I don't believe that East Africans have an actual genetic advantage over other runners, and it inspires me to work harder to make up for the thousands of miles that many African youths have run before I started training.

Racial identity is kind of a funny thing when you think about it. Not funny ha-ha. But funny, let’s say funny strange. It affects us all everyday. Yet some of us are thinking about it in almost every situation. Some of us hardly give it much thought at all. And most of us probably keep those thoughts about race lurking in the back of our minds. Race, as far as complexion, skin color, physical features, and the part of our DNA that makes us each different, but also similar to our biological family members is not something any of us can really change. We must accept who we are on the outside before we can begin to accept what we feel on the inside. We don’t have to accept who we are on the inside to begin to talk about race. But in order to be honest about how we feel about our “race” we must find a way to come to terms with what our race is on the outside. Maybe for some, what we feel on the inside is the same as what our race says we are on the outside. But for some of us, that’s not the case. For me, it is not the case. I feel as though I am two different races. But I am neither completely. I am neither all Chinese nor all American. But I don’t feel like I am half and half. I feel like I am Chinese on the outside, but American on the inside. Both are things that won’t change. I’ve got to come to terms with the Chinese on the outside. And I must grow from the American on the inside. There are hard questions and there are hard things that I will have to try and work out about both sides. Race is never an easy thing to talk about. I am beginning to be honest with myself, about how I feel, and this allows me to be honest with others.

I am white, I am Scottish, I am German, and I am Italian. Its a curious thought that when you ask somebody about where they are from, they rarely ever say "Oh, I'm American." Unless of course you are in a foreign country. This is because we would like to think we are more than just American, because America is made up of Immigrants-a melting pot. We like to imagine the stories we are told about how our great grandparents barely escaped the country and hitch hiked their way over to America. Or in my case, how my ancestors were sheep shearers in Scotland, hence my last name, then my great grandfather traveled over in the 1920s. Our roots are what we identify ourselves by, even if others may simply label us as "White". I am very proud of my German, Scottish, and Italian roots, even if they do mean that people predetermine me as a person because of the color of skin that mixture makes. I am white, I am blonde, I do have blue eyes, and i am European. But that is the only legitimate thing you can conclude from simply looking at me. The first memory i have with race was when I went to Nicaragua in elementary school. I noticed that none of the people we interacted with looked like the people i knew back home. Looking back on this experience, i realize that i grew up in a very white neighborhood and in order to actually experience diversity i would have to get out of that area a whole lot more.

The search for an identity never ends. It’s very hard to define me or my culture through my race or ethnicity. I come from a very mixed world. My parents were avid travellers, keen on finding out everything about the world. My mother was born in Shanghai, but spent most of her life moving city to city, living in places such as Singapore, Paris, Lisbon, and the United States. No one can say for sure where my father was born, nor can he, but he too remembers moving from one place to another, including spending at least one month working in every state in the United States. Thus, I remember learning about how make tamales and how to arrange crow feathers. I first remember thinking about race when I was about three years old, and someone started speaking to me in some language that I did not understand. She had long hair that wore something that resembled a black robe. I wondered why she acted and behaved in manners that were different and foreign to my own, and why she couldn’t speak English. Since, then, I began to figure that even though all people are equal, they are not the same.

I am white. deal with it........So i am actually Filipino American, surprise. Going even deeper into my Filipino heritage, my family come from the north of our largest island, Luzon. I am not just any Filipino, but i am Ilocano. i do, on occasion tell people this information, because its part of what makes me unique. however i was born here in Seattle. i am the first generation to be born here in the states.
Being Filipino American has never really effected my life. one funny thing is about how I'm identified. here in the state I'm called Mexican, Black, Black Asian and so on. apart from it being funny, i give no thought to those words. in the Philippines I'm often asked "americano ka?" another thing that's funny is when i find a significant other, all my family asks me, "is she white?" and often the answer is yes. says a lot about what kind of people i have been growing up around.
That is not my first memory with race and ethnicity. it was actually was earlier . i was in kindergarten, probably around five. it's the first day, and i find out that i am swimming in a "sea of white." i looked at my skin noticing that it was brown, and not white. growing up i was surrounded by people of different skin. it did not effect anything, but it was a thought i had.
what Filipino American does for me is that, even though, i am surrounded by the American culture, i still have my Filipino heritage. my family speaks both of my native languages, and we have lots of traditions. I'll say words or phrases i know in tagalog or Ilocano. i want to learn about life there, and I'm hoping to go to the Philippines soon. so as my dad says "stay true to your roots." being Filipino and having my skin makes me unique.

For me, racial identity is not at all easy to grasp. Throughout my everyday life I feel that I am constantly wavering from one side of me to the other. Race is a classification given to distinguish people through skin, hair, eyes, and pretty much any other physiological evidence there can be to categorize the human population. This seems pretty easy to comprehend, but too often do people oversimplify cultural groups through race. One pertinent example is the alarming idea that humans can be simply grouped into different colors based on skin pigment. Black. White. Yellow. Red. In our society, most think that just because certain people are placed into one color, they can immediately identify or find a sense of belonging with each other. I can personally testify to this. At the age of six I traveled to China with my family. I distinctly remember, throughout the whole trip, envisioning a type of “Chinese connection” that linked everyone together. With much ignorance, I clearly thought that all Chinese people knew each other and held much respect for their fellow citizens. Even today, this idea has not been completely eradicated. I guess that is the reason why I never felt that I could belong. Racially, I am half Caucasian and half Asian. It has always been difficult for me to fit in with “the crowd” because of my self inhibition to connect with others of a different race. Whenever conflicts arise, I am always very defensive of my ethnic background. Yet I detest others when they do the same. All the while, I am in constant awe as to why this kind of identity is so important to me. Race is not culture, so why must it matter so much?

im white. i mean, sure i get hella tan during the summe but no matter what, im still white. i might be born and raised (mostly) in america but i often identify with my new zealand side. im proud to be a kiwi. i cheer for the all blacks, know the haka and can pronounce all the weird sounding town names perfectly. going back farther though, ive got english, scottish, dutch and even some native maori blood in me.
my first memory of race was when i was in second grade, at a mainly maori and pacific islander primary school in new zealand. a boy who i had never talked to before came up to me and said, "youve got a funny accent and youre way lighter than me, are you from a different planet?" i was really confused at that point because i hadnt ever noticed the difference in skin colour up until then. after that at school there i was always looking for differences between the 'brown' kids and myself, and was seeing if there really was a huge difference in us.

My ethnic identity is easy to identify. I am Irish/ French-Canadian. Most of my extended family is from Ireland and migrated to either Canada or the United states. Although I belong to this ethnic identity, I do not consider myself genuinely American.
I feel it is easy to visibly identify me as Irish. I have very red- hair and white skin. When I tell people I am Irish, they are not surprised. My red hair always gives me away as Irish.
My last name is ‘Compeau’ which is a French- Canadian name. Most of my dad’s family came from Ireland and settled in French Canada. Along with my French Canadian last name, I am also a Canadian citizen. I inherited this citizenship from my mother, who’s parents moved from Ireland to Canada where my mother grew up.
Even though I look Irish, I identify with being American. I don’t participate in Irish culture, and my family is no longer catholic. I don’t know what identifying with American is or means, but I know that’s what I identify with. I am a white Irish male. That is my ethnic identity and I am proud of it.

I am Caucasian that means white. I am white my skin is white my street is white. White not like snow, but white enough to tan with ease. I identify with people I see not by race, but intellectually. I dress not by any code but what I see fits me. I have been accused of being "black" but I am just me. I am raised in a Christian house but choose to be identified by what I do and say and not what I own wear and believe. "I want to believe" is such a grand statement used by so many people and I want to believe that I can be me. I want to be me and not be over analyzed under a microscope by every little thing that I do, what I say in its contexts and the way I say it, and what I read and watch. I am not one who recognizes my skin I prefer to recognize myself by acting out my life. The first racial comment I heard was probably in fifth grade when there was only one child of a minority and a few of the kids were making fun of him.

Racially, I am white. My skin is white, and I identify as being white, but only to an extent. I mean, what "white culture" do I celebrate? What makes me white besides my skin? To both of these questions, I say "not much." I obviously identify as being white when asked what race I belong to, but more often than not, I identify as being Jewish. My great-great-grandfather emigrated with his family from Kishinev, Moldova in The Pale of Settlement to the US around 1904 to escape religious persecution. Now, this isn't a family history project, but for as long as I can trace back, my family has been Jewish. Although race and ethnicity can be two different things, I always identify myself as being Jewish over being white. As more of an ethnicity or culture, I feel like I share more with my Jewish heritage than I do with my white heritage. I share common customs and values with other Jews both now and for generations. The values taught to me as a Jewish youth affect the way I look out upon the world and upon myself more than any other influence. The way Judaism teaches values and customs, it plays a large role in how I think of myself, which lets it become easier to identify with my Jewish heritage as an ethnicity/race.
Going to an all Jewish preschool and elementary school, you don't get to experience all that much diversity; however, once a month, we would all go and volunteer as a class at either the University Food Bank, or at Operation Sack Lunch, feeding people in need. I remember seeing all different types of people and not thinking much about it, but being in a predominantly white, all Jewish school you don't see much diversity. I never thought much about the people we saw, only that some had a different appearance from us. This was my first memorable experience of race.

I am what you might call a “German”. I share the German culture and traditions. I grew up around the culture because I almost spent my entire life in Deutschland. That’s why I also share the language of the “Germans”. I speak the German Muttersprache so to say. I most definitely share their heritage, due to my whole family having a German heritage or roots in that country. I also dress accordingly to the “modern” German culture; despite me never having worn Lederhosen. That was never really my style. My official nationality is classified as “German” and I have an according passport to vouch for that; meaning I most definitely share our history (or Geschichte as we would put it). In my household, we sometimes have a cuisine that may be called “German” cuisine. So that definitely adds to the list. I do what Germans do, I speak what Germans speak, I dress like Germans dress, I eat what Germans eat, and I belong to that one group that like to say ‘schland when they cheer on their soccer team in the world cup. So yeah, my ethnicity is German, and I am proud to share that identity with the world.

If you look at me, I’m white. My skin color is white, the options they offer me on surveys say I’m white; but I’m not just Caucasian. I'm a New Zealander, and my family is Irish, German, Italian, Swedish, Maori, and Dutch. I enjoy playing sports; I like Latin music, and supporting European soccer team. Does this make me white? Somehow over the past years of my life, all these different cultures have been classified into one race, and it makes no sense. I'm white on the outside, but I’m many different things inside. Race doesn't fully represent the background you came from, or the country and culture you belong to.
Because of my skin color, i've been lucky enough to not have had to deal with alot of racial bullying. The first time I realized my race though was when I was playing soccer in California. We were playing a team from Southern California, and every player had dark skin. They spoke Spanish most of the time, so it was hard to make friends with them. Everything was fine, until I accidentally stepped on one of their player’s feet. The girl went crazy, screaming and yelling at me in Spanish. Calling me a "puta" and a "gringa" and other things I had never been called before. At first I had no idea how to respond. Never before had I been insulted based on the color of my skin.
It's really never mattered to me what the color of my skin is, nor is the color of what other people’s skin. I don't go around picking my friends based on that. After all, nobody's personality changes depending on if their skin is white, or black; light or dark. Race isn't significant.

If i were to categorize my race I would say I am white. I come from irish and swedish ethnic backgrounds. The Irish from my mom and the swedish from my dad. my first memories i have about was when i was in elementary school maybe around 3rd grade my teacher made my class watch a movie. this movie was a cartoon version of Martin Luther King JR's life and how our lives would be different if he didn't exist. The movies plot was about two friends, one white and one black and how if Martin Luther King was never born how they wouldn't be friends because racism would still be very strongly alive. This impacts me because i couldn't see myself living without all my friends that are different races than me. Some of my best friends are different races than me. I could not live thinking that i could not be friends with someone because they are a different race than me. Race is purely a way to show that people are different. You can take that in a bad way and say they are not up to your standards. Or you can take it has something thats interesting and that you want to learn about how they were raised. I do not act differently because of my race. yes i know that i am white and i'm suppose to act a certain way. I am reminded I,m white everyday. I go to a very white school,I live in a pretty white neighborhood but only a couple blocks away there is a all black community and they see me and think white. I play basketball very competitively and when i go to tournaments in places like Oakland, Reno, and Las Vegas i am that white kid on the court. It doesn't change how i act though. The only time it changes how i act is when i play basketball. i have to play with a little chip on my shoulder. Besides that if i were any other race i would still be the same guy inside and express it on the outside regardless of my race.

when i was 7 years old my family went on a month long vacation to florida with my moms side of the family. i spent many hours swimmig in the ocean and in the sun. when i returned to seattle i went swimming with some friends and met (a new friend) who asked if i was african american or really tan? i am a white american, who gets very tan. my dad is swedish and norwegian, my mom is mostly german and east indian. living in seattle i am rarely tan so its very easy to classify my skin color as a white. i think race has less to do with the color of your skin and more to do with your heritage.

Ethnic Identity:

I am a Caucasian male. It isn’t very interesting. While doing this assignment, I have talked to my dad about my heritage and learned some new things about it. I never really cared about my heritage because I assumed it wasn’t very interesting. I was partially wrong. My great Grandfather on my dad’s side of the family came to the U.S. as a young Russian boy. My great great Grandfather and my great great Grandmother on my dad’s mom’s side emigrated from Germany. Their cultures do not reflect in my culture now, though. My mom’s side of the family immigrated to the America’s in the 1650’s. They are English, Irish, and German. They lived in Virginia and moved to North Carolina. They did own slaves and fought in the civil war for the south. They were farmers, lawyers, and merchants. My mom’s great Grandfather supervised a cotton mill. Now, I don’t have much family in the states. I do have family scattered across Europe and some in Kenya, but I have yet to meet them, and my dad hardly mentions them. I guess that I am “white privileged”, but I have never consciously thought about how that has effected my life.

The first time race ever effected me was when I watched the summer Olympics in 2004 and I asked my dad why all the black people ran faster than the white people. My dad didn’t know how to answer it so he just said, “that’s how it is”. I look back on it and laugh. It is still an interesting question, though.

As far as I know, I am a fourth Swedish and a fourth Norwegian. All I know about Sweden and Norway is that they are both have extremely cold winters, and I despise the cold. Unfortunately, my skin doesn't endure the suns heat very well. As for my dads ancestors, I have absolutely no idea and I don't think he exactly knows either. His skin is certainly darker than mine, and he has thick dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. When he worked in Southern California in the summers when he was younger, he was frequently asked for his green card.
If you saw the rest of my dads family you would certainly know he is caucasian however. My whole life I've identified simply as a white American, as I don't really know what to identify with. I can't remember a specific moment when I noticed someones skin was a different color than mine and wondered about it. My elementary school, Broadview-Thompson boasted a very diverse student body and I was introduced to many different cultures through my class-mates and their families. I do not have a recollection of ever caring about other peoples races from a young age, I think I just wanted to play state tag with anyone that would play. Obviously you had less chances of getting tagged if there were more targets.

Mark the box caucasian or white? My parents have told me different answers at different points in my life. You look at me and you see white, but my mom is Vietnamese. My dad on the other hand declares himself as white, although there is some European and German mixed in somewhere. That makes my brother and I half Vietnamese and half white, but the question is, what do I see myself as?
My first memory of race would probably have to be just noticing how my life with my mom's side of the family was very different than that of my dad's side. When I was a youngster I spent a lot more time with my mom's side of the family, as all my direct asian family members live in Seattle. My grandparents always took care of us cousins quite a lot while our parents were at work. But the thing was, half of us being raised with both an asian parent and a white parent, learned English as our first language and never learned Vietnamese. I couldn't understand them...I understood the gist of what they told me. I could understand if they were angry, sad, happy, or if they just wanted us to come and eat. But that was when it clearly hit me that I was different than them, and then it clicked why my skin color was different then theirs.
Perhaps the biggest divide between my "white" life and "asian" life is that whenever I was among my asian family, I have to be much more aware of my behavior. I am always expected to be a good child, obeying what they said, dressing how they want me to dress, eating what they tell me to eat. I also have to be very respectful. Each time I arrive at a relatives house, I need to go and bow to every adult member, the same when I leave. This is all very different when I am with my "white" family members, those on my dad's side. Unlike with my asian family, I feel more comfortable and relaxed. Everything is casual and you can talk about whatever you wanted to talk about. It's not as if i like one part of my family more than the other, it's just that it is all very different.
With all of this in mind I do think my racial identity plays a significant part in how I think of myself because it's all part of who I am. It was the way I was brought up, and it's the only way I know.

The hardest thing for me to do is date back when I first saw "race" as something that determines who someone is. Although it is just a word at the end of the day, there is something about it that makes me want to erase it completely from not only my, but everyone's dictionary. I would use the eraser from the same number two pencil I used to fill in the bubble, "white" or "Caucasian". The way that those four letters are arranged have some discriminatory tone that, for some reason, frustrate me until no end. '
Why do tests and exams even need to know what "race" we are? I understand why they need our names, our addresses, our ID numbers, etc., but why our "race"? I have always been tempted to mix things up a bit, and choose a different bubble to fill in with my dull, grey led. Then what would happen? Would whoever is looking at my test really go through the time and effort to see if I was actually lying, would it really matter that much? Would it change my score?
The way I see it, I'm Reide. I come from two people who love each other, that were from different backgrounds and it didn't bother them. Just like it shouldn't bother anyone else. As far as I know, I am Russian, Texan (Southern), German, and Polish. Or that is what my parents say I am. But if I was able to decide for myself, I would be a little bit of everything. Why not? I like to eat Chinese food, I have tanner skin like Italians, I eat like like an American, I was born a typical blue-eyed blonde which was momentarily preferred by Germans, I play soccer so why not be a little bit Spanish too?
I feel like if everyone really took the time to think about it, they would realize that they aren't just one thing. Their parents may be of the same ethnicity, but that doesn't mean that the same ethnicity dates back to their ancestors. I know on the outside I am white, or at least by society I am labeled white. It's something that I was grown-up to accept and broadcast if need-be. But, if I think internally, I am not white. I am not anything, I am just me. And by me, I accept everyone else.

Until recently, I had always hesitated when instructed to fill in the bubble next to
my race or ethnicity. My pencil would hover between Hispanic and white until I would
lose patience and chose one at random. I finally asked my mom one day, exasperated,
which one to fill in. She explained that even though I was born in the U.S., my race was
considered white but my ethnicity Hispanic. Half and half. That’s how I’ve always felt.
When I was younger and visited my family in Argentina, they always asked the same
questions. Where do you like it better, here or there? What do you like better, English or
Spanish? My answer was always the same: “I don’t know, I like them both.”

That was the truth. It’s always been hard for me to choose a side, to identify
myself more with one side than the other. I look white, I speak perfect English, and when
people ask me where I’m from I never hesitate to say the United States. But sometimes
on my trips to Argentina, even walking streets I barely know and spending time with the
people I only see once a year, I feel at home. Hearing everyone around me speaking
fast Spanish as soon as I walk off the plane in Buenos Aires never hesitates to trigger a
familiar rush of joy and familiarity.

I’m a Seattlite. I know my way around, I make daily trips to Starbucks, and I walk
my dog in the rain. Most of my memories revolve around this city, this life, the “white”
part of me. This is where I belong, but there will always be a Hispanic part of me, one
that will never truly feel at home here.