For a Pessimist, I am Pretty Optimistic

I enjoy being what I like to call a “mutt”. I’m one quarter Puerto Rican, one quarter Cuban, one quarter Black, and one quarter Indian. That’s right, my grandparents liked to mix things up!

My mother worried that I would have a hard time fitting in due to prejudices about my background, but I never had as bad of a time as she anticipated. My small circle of friends at school were of all nationalities and we never judged each other (about race at least). I even used the dreaded “Ethnicity: Select one box only” section on college applications to my advantage. I would change my selection depending on what type of program or scholarship I was applying for.

When faced racism, I try to shrug it off as best as I can. Despite our so-called modern times, people can sometimes act really backwards. Getting upset and concentrating on it all the time won’t do me any good, especially when the complaint is just ridiculous. How can I not find it a tad amusing when someone dislikes me for only one of my nationalities? For instance, I had an ex-boyfriend’s father say to me “I don’t mind that you have Cuban, Black, and Indian in you, but I still don’t want you to date my son. I hate Puerto Ricans.”

Nursery school was the first real encounter with racism that I can remember. For months, Marcus and I had as devoted of a relationship as you can when you’re that age. We were inseparable until a new girl joined our class. The next day Marcus wouldn’t even talk to me. During lunch I approached him and asked what was wrong.

“I can’t go out with you anymore.”

“Says who?”

“Jewel. She says I have to be her boyfriend now. Your skin is too light so we’re not allowed to be boyfriend and girlfriend. She says that’s what the rules are.” He shrugged and walked over to the art table.

I looked down at my hands, which were the shade of a light and sweet frappe. There was no way that I could think of to turn my skin as dark as his. Oh well, if those were the rules then what could I do?

In junior high school, I was a walking target for all sorts of ridicule. I had giant glasses, a frizzy mop on my head, and always walked through the hallways while reading a book. To make matters worse, I was a complete fashion victim, one day dressing in Seattle flannel and jeans, the next wearing thigh highs and platform shoes a la Clueless. Yet somehow I was mercifully ignored during my first year.

The next year when I started to experiment with different hairstyles, I was suddenly noticed by two cliques: the Latina girls and the Black girls. According to them, I was a wannabe and a traitor to my race. One term I sported Brandy style braids. The Latina girls were furious; how dare I wear a Black hairstyle when I was obviously Latina. The Black girls were furious; how dare I even try to fool myself and be like them!

The next term, I had my hair relaxed for the first time. The Latina girls balked at the sight of my straight and thick locks and jeered that I was a stupid Black girl. The Black girls cornered me in the gym calling me a wannabe spic. I just couldn’t get a break.

Midway through college was when I was hit with a taste of the “real world’. I was exposed to pre-judging from classmates, teachers, employers, co-workers, etc. As annoyed as I would get, at least those were people whom I could stop myself from interacting with after a certain point. Yet I can’t avoid my mother-in-law.

Our first meeting had started off un-eventful. Though she had prepared a traditional Eastern European dinner, she kindly offered to make me chicken cutlets. I refused, but she insisted on making them anyway. As she grilled me with questions about my family, job, and interests, she seemed easy-going and made me feel relaxed.

She set up some tea for the two of us while my husband went to fix something on her computer. A silence fell over the table as we waited for our tea to cool.

“Now that it’s just us two women,” she said “Let me ask you…are you currently taking medication for your condition?”

“Excuse me?” I asked even though I was afraid of her elaboration.

“Your…condition.” I stared at her quizzically. “Oh please,” she said with a smirk. “All black people have syphilis. And I can tell you’re a carrier.”

I could do nothing but continue to stare at her. Seriously, what do you do when someone says something as ludicrous as that?

Taking my silence as disbelief of her “diagnosis”, she continued. “It’s this part here that’s the tell-tale sign,” she said while reaching over and tapping at my hairline. It had started to rain when we left the house earlier and the curly hair that I meticulously flat ironed had frizzed a bit. “Infected people can’t hide it, that’s why your hair is trying to show its afroness.”

 That was just too inane for me. “Oh, well then maybe it would be best if I left? I wouldn’t want to get you infected,” I said and stood up to get my husband to have him take me home.

Years later, I try to act like the bigger person whenever I have to interact with her. Just like Marcus and those stupid girls, she was being absolutely ridiculous. Even though he disagrees with her, my husband tries to be a loyal son and sticks up for her every now and then.

“You have to understand the type of culture she was brought up in. Even though she’s surrounded by a different lifestyle now, it’s hard for her to break out of that way of thinking,” he’d say. I guess in a way I can understand?

Still, I always wear my hair big and curly when I visit. And I try to make sure that she “catches” me vigorously scratching my head from time to time. If I’m going to have to deal with her ignorance for the rest of my life, I might as well have some fun.

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