"This is My Skin Color."

I want these.

Behold – a super post! Sorry for my absence. Life got hectic. I’ll spare you my excuses. The bottom line is that I’ve written a post to satisfy your Sticks and Stones cravings:

I had some of the most jarring conversations about my ethnicity that I felt compelled to share. Recently, after meeting a person for the very first time, the first thing he said to me was, “You have such a nice tan! I wish I could get that dark.” (Note: I haven’t gotten a tan yet this season, being as I live in Washington. Twilight was filmed here for a reason.)

I replied, “Well, it’s natural. This is my skin color.”

He said, “Oh really?”

I said, “Yes, I’m black, Japanese and white.” End of conversation right? Wrong.

He says, “It’s totally the Japanese that makes you tan.”

I said, “Uh…or the black.”

He said, “Oh yeah, I guess that too.”

Unfortunately, that was the umpteenth time I’ve had that conversation. Most people stop right there and make some stupid comment about me not appearing black, or not “acting like it,” or “wow I never realized.”

What is it that makes people not believe me? And what do all of those comments mean? Why is it so mind-blowing that I’m black? If I appeared to be “more black” would they ask these questions?

And the conversation went on.

“I thought you were Native American,” he opened his mouth again.

“Well, I’m not.” I said.

Even though there are rumors on both sides of my family that we are part Native American, this would have just thrown him for a freaking loop. I don’t tell people this for the same reason I don’t tell people about my Hawaiian heritage.

“You look Native American. Do you get that a lot?” he asked. Oh how rude. How effing rude.

“Yes, I have, but I’m telling you, I’m not.”

“Do you know what kind of black you are?” Uh…what?

“What do you mean by ‘what kind of black?’ I’m African-American…” I’m obviously showing that I’m annoyed at this point.

“So, you don’t know who in you’re family was black?” he asked.

“That’s not what you asked,” I said. “My grandpa was black. My mom is half. I’m a quarter.” Why the hell am I explaining myself to this person? I’m not grilling him on his skin color or demanding a family lineage. Why does this seem like an appropriate conversation to him?

But then he said something that really pissed me off:

“Oh. Well, you don’t have curly hair.” he stated, as though it were proof I was lying about being black. WTF?! Sound the alarms!

I said firmly, “It’s called being mixed.” Seriously. What the fuck.

This concept of being mixed was so foreign to this person. It was blowing his mind in the worst possible way. So he had to assign a completely different ethnicity to comprehend my skin tone. I was trying to be patient answering his questions, but this person just caught me off-guard and I was frankly not in the mood to be all Mother Teresa about it. I just wanted to kick his ass.

I don’t understand why there needs to be some epic explanation for the color of my skin, and why the truth just doesn’t suffice for some. I find it interesting to discuss heritage, ethnicity and nationality, but that was totally the wrong way to go about it. That approach gets me defensive and makes me summon Muhana Ali rather than motivate me to share stories about being mixed. This brings us to our first lesson:

Lesson #1

If you must ask someone about their racial background, please use the phrase, “What ethnicity are you?” or “What is your ethnic background?”

Don’t ask, “What are you?” It sounds like you’re asking about a different species or creature. My response to that question is, “Homosapien. What are you?” And whatever you do, please don’t make remarks about skin tone. At all.

I had similar conversations in Puerto Rico a few months ago, when I traveled there for business. The businessman I was touring with (whom I had never met before) awkwardly blurted out at breakfast, “You’re dark-skinned. Is that natural or do you fake and bake?”

Why do people assume I just tan a lot? I don’t look anything like this:

Holy shit.

To be respectful (even though the question was asked pretty disrespectfully), I had to tour the island with this person for the rest of the week so I tried to respond as politely as possible. “If you’re curious about my ethnicity, I’m Japanese, black and white.”

“Oh.”

And that was the end of it. I tried to frame my response in the way he should have asked it. But I never feel compelled to ask somebody about their skin color. Ever. This just baffles me.

If the conversation seems appropriate, or if I feel comfortable enough with that person, maybe I’ll broach the subject about ethnicity eventually, but, as Lesson #2 reveals…

Lesson #2

I’ve found that everyone has different comfort levels in discussing their race and ethnicity. Tread this water very carefully, if you feel the need to do it at all. I’m sure there are others who would have happily entertained some these questions. I just don’t happen to be one of them. It’s incredibly rude to blurt out something about someone’s skin color to someone you don’t know. Even as a white person, wouldn’t you find it rude if the first thing someone said to you was, “My, you’re pasty!”

Lesson #3

I also want to make this clear, that people of all racial backgrounds have said things that have upset me (not just white people). People of all walks of life have asked all the wrong questions, and made ignorant comments or assumptions. It leads me to believe that as a country, we suck at discussing race.

I’ve had black people question “how black I am” or I’ve had just the opposite response, where I’m suddenly being treated more warmly after someone finds out I’m also black.

On the same business trip, I also had Puerto Ricans assume I was Puerto Rican. One person was speaking very rapidly in Spanish to me, and when it was clear that I had no clue what they had just asked, they said, “Oh what – you don’t speak Spanish?” with a total ‘tude.

I responded in Spanish, in the way that only a “person who learned it college and hasn’t spoken since” could, but there was no conversation about whether or not I was Puerto Rican or Latina – just an assumption that I was a “gringo.”

Lesson #4


I don’t want people to read this post and come away with the conclusion that being mixed is “hard on the kids.” I hate that argument so much it makes me turn into the Incredible Hulk. While you may have to have conversations with ignoramuses every now and then, being mixed is awesome.

I didn’t have an offbeat life because of my racial background or some crazy identity crisis. I’m American. I grew up eating McDonalds, watching Gem, wearing slap bracelets and imitating Steve Urkel like many kids of the 80s. I also have a deep love for sushi, seaweed, miso soup, greens, grits and cheeseburgers. But you don’t have to be a certain ethnicity to love Japanese food, soul food, or American food. These aren’t indicators of ethnicity – just good taste in food.

We all hold biases and preferences – it’s just a matter of knowing how to appropriately identify them and deal with them. I can only speak for myself and my own experience, but being mixed has broken down barriers in a way that has made me appreciate others differences and individual life experiences. It’s my favorite part about writing for a living; I love speaking with people who live lives that are completely different from mine, and finding out what challenges other people face. Being mixed has made me embrace diversity in a way that I hope everyone will someday.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but even the smallest comments can be the most divisive.