The Great Identity Guessing Game
Apologies for being absent this past week. I was moving into my new flat, starting classes, etc, and consequently quite busy.
Apparently, I’m not actually American. This is not just according to other Americans, but according to other Scots.
Usually, I would explain this as the sort of cultural “reverse chameleon” effect– wherever I am, I always seem a little bit foreign. However, being told by other Scots that I was Scottish and “couldn’t help where I was born” was both gratifying and disconcerting. On one hand, it is wonderful to be accepted with such enthusiasm. And, let’s be honest, it’s good to know that I haven’t drifted too far from my home culture in spite of spending most of my life in the States. On the other hand, I am from the United States, and more to the point, I’m also Native American. (Unlike Americans, however, Scots seem unconcerned with my mixed-ness, which is a nice change.)
There are also the people who have taken random guesses at my nationality: Irish seems to be the usual suspect† for some reason. I honestly don’t mind this, because I work/study in a department with a lot of international students, so the “where are you from” question is pretty reasonable. However, I’ve never failed to get an eyebrow raise when I say I’m from the States.
But overall, whatever my misgivings about having anyone but myself make declarations about my nationality or identity, I’m happy being a foreign-born Scot. These are the people with whom I share my history, my popular culture references, my values…It’s good to be home.
†At some point, I will write a post about how I’m not Irish. No hard feelings, Ireland, y’all are awesome. I just am not going to claim Irish descent when the closest anyone in my family has ever come to that was hiding in Ireland after the ’45.
Hairy Question
I generally object to people petting my hair. This seems like an obvious statement, but a number of people– particularly white Americans– feel free to treat me like a petting zoo rabbit.
However, last night, I let someone pet my hair. And we were not on a date.
The person in question was a sweet young English woman who goes to my university. She is freshly arrived in Scotland and hadn’t really seen Celtic hair before. I was called upon by our companions to demonstrate, and took my hair down. The woman– we’ll call her Maggie– asked if she could touch it, and to my own surprise, I let her.
Like I said, I usually think this sort of thing is creepy– after all, I’m not the aforementioned petting zoo rabbit. On the other hand, me swallowing my dignity for all of 10 seconds created goodwill, while my making a fuss (in a bar, no less), would have probably ruined our otherwise pleasant conversation.
But I still wonder if I screwed up that interaction. Did I perpetrate some old, subconsciously ingrained pattern of entitlement?(Scots– you can pet them! Like guinea pigs!) Did I set a bad precedent for her interactions with other Glaswegians? Or will she remember my general friendliness more than that particular interaction? I hope the last one is the truth, but it’s not mutually exclusive.
On Hiatus
I’m going to be busy moving house (well, room… let’s be honest, I’m a broke student) tomorrow and Wednesday, so no updates until at least mid-week.
Mom FTW
Earlier today, my mom told me about a book I might like. “There’s even an essay on race in [hometown] and how people pretend it’s not a problem, like you always say,” she told me.
It struck me at the moment how well my mom has managed to navigate the challenges of raising a mixed child, especially as the white parent. She is fairly immune to the racial tensions in our hometown (many of which involve the local Native Americans), but at the same time, my father and I are not. Neither are the other multi-racial branches of our family. And she gets that. There was no dodging race (or any other touchy topic, for that matter) in family discussions.
When I was a kid, I took this inclusiveness for granted. The books my parents read featured characters from a variety of races and nationalities. When I studied ancient history†, we covered China and Chile and Australia and the Arctic. There wasn’t any news story or history textbook that my parents weren’t willing to dissect.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I fully appreciated their efforts. Scrounging up those children’s books and history books and packs of crayons with all those different shades of brown must have taken a lot of work. Now, at 22, I think my parents– particularly my mom– are awesome for doing all those things when it would have been so easy to coast.
†I was homeschooled between first and fifth grade for a variety of reasons. It was awesome.
Sweating the Big Stuff
I like to think I’m a reasonable person. Really. I make a great effort to not be offended, or overreact to things. There are, in fact, a great many things I tune out each day which are problematic– for example, I read trashy fashion/ gossip/”women’s” magazines when I come across one for free; these are packed to the gills with cringe-making views (or glaring omissions) on gender, beauty, sexuality, class… pretty much the works.
Often, I feel that life is too short to get worked up over the fact that exactly none of the models in the fashion magazines have bodies remotely like mine (like most Kalinago women, I’m short and muscular, with a big chest– not exactly America’s Next Top Model); honestly, I’m reading the thing to distract myself from the fact I’m stuck in an airport lounge by staring at the pretty clothes I would never actually wear even if I had the money.
Am I an active contributor to these problems by letting stuff slide? Maybe. Silence is often a form of passive approval, if one doesn’t speak out when something isn’t right. Then again, I’ve found that getting equally up in arms about every little irritating detail trivializes the bigger problems. I’ve known people who cried “homophobia” or “racism” or the like about everything– obviously, these things exist and are present to some degree in a lot of areas of mainstream American culture– but after a while, I tuned these people out, because they were as upset about Proposition 8 as they were about being given the “stink eye” by some random stranger while on a date.
So even if you don’t have my level of Zen acceptance complacency about fashion magazines, sometimes it’s worth pausing before ranting to your friend about how that TV show/book/website is OMG so problematic. Personally, I’ve found it’s a lot more productive† to mention it as an example when you’re talking about bigger issues, rather than creating continuous background noise.
†And I’m talking about instances which involve me doing the listening as well as those where I’m doing the talking.
Awkward Question Time
MC2, my friend and ally, started his physics courses yesterday. In particular, a course on teaching physics to undergraduates (he works as a TA).
All was going well until the professor (MC2 now calls him “Professor Racefail”) decided to go around the room and ask about people’s nationality and ethnicity. There were several Chinese students and one Taiwanese student. Predictable animosity ensued, especially since there was an equally predictable argument over whether Taiwan counted as a country. Oh, and Dr. Racefail asked the Chinese students what Chinese ethnicity they were, just to make everything extra awkward– but don’t worry, he didn’t leave other students out of the fun.
Now, even if one (somehow) knows nothing about international politics, race relations, or world history… on what planet was it okay to ask people these highly personal questions in public? Going around and asking people their hometown and favorite movie* as an icebreaker is one thing (and it would have answered the nationality question without raising as much of a fuss). But asking someone to declare their race or ethnicity in front of a group of strangers is totally different.
One might get the impression from my blog (ok, from the fact I have a blog) that I enjoy talking about my heritage. This is totally true. I also don’t mind fielding questions from other Scots or Native Americans, who have a number of reasons to ask. But there are times when I’d rather not be put on the spot, or declare my ethnicity to potentially hostile people. And sometimes I’d just rather not have that be my defining label, because I’d rather have people focus on my research instead of being sidetracked by whether I’m “communing” with my study subjects.
And honestly, it’s just plain rude.
*San Francisco, Stranger Than Fiction
I’m Still Laughing
Several years ago, I was setting up for an event sponsored by my college’s “Multicultral Center”. During this, a Ghanaian student (we’ll call him Addae), who I vaguely knew, came up to me.
Addae: What’s up?
Me: Just helping get the stage ready. You?
Addae: Setting out the food stuff. You performing or anything?
Me: Yeah. I’m doing Scottish fiddle music.
Addae: Ohhhh. I thought you were white.
Me: What!? I am white!
Addae: No. You’re not white. You’re Scottish.
I’m still laughing as I type this*. Addae’s comment totally summed up a whole host of ideas about race, colonialism, “other”ness, and what all the fuss is about.
*Thinking on the conversation from a distance, I realize that had a “white” American said this to me, I would be peeved, not amused.
The Percentage Game
When people ask what I am, I tell them I’m Scottish and Kalinago*. Inevitably, I get asked how much of each. I usually reply that I am 100% Scottish, and 100% Kalinago.
I don’t really understand how people expect me to identify with percentages. How is one even supposed to be “half Scottish”? One theory I have is that it’s an extension of the “mixed race angst” I’m expected to have, a sort of war for supremacy between those two parts of my heritage. Or perhaps it’s a way for people to figure out how to categorize me: many of the followup questions are something to the effect of “so that means you’re white” or “that means you’re Indian”, or “which one do you like better†”.
But I think what actually gets under my skin is that the question assumes I am the sum of pre-packaged component parts**, instead of a unique person. I have a single, integrated identity that makes me ME, not a bunch of disconnected traits.
*If one wanted to get picky, I am 1/4 French Celtic, ~1/2 Scottish Celtic, 1/4 Kalinago, and some small fraction Seneca.
†I swear to Flying Spaghetti Monster I get asked this.
**A la Mr. Potato Head
Fetishizing Ourselves
A friend of mine saw my post on fetishizing other cultures, and the following conversation ensued:
Friend: But people fetishize their own cultures all the time.
Me: Huh. I guess you’re right.
Friend: Well, is that okay? Or is that weird?
Me: Uhhhhhh…
Her comments got me thinking about my behavior, especially in regards to dating. In particular, I tend to be attracted to people who are outwardly displaying some representation of our shared culture– men in kilts, women in Kalinago jewelry…
My friend’s question made me wonder if my attraction is based on seeking someone of my culture, or if it has something to do with the “look” and the expectations built up around that. In college, I wrote a paper about the relationship between gender, sexuality and 19th-century Scottish nationalism† in which I spent a lot of time on discussing kilts as a symbol of the objectification of men*.
Cue me reviewing my intense flirtation with a fellow from my local pub.^ I definitely initiated said flirtation based on the fact he was wearing highland formal dress, even though, logically, this gave me zero information about his personality. Did I manage to internalize all that stuff about men in kilts? Probably yes. I’d actually be surprised if I hadn’t. Is it as questionable as if someone who isn’t Scottish was doing the same thing? Honestly, I have no idea.
†I got school credit for this, I swear. Go liberal arts colleges, go!
*Annnnnd now you’re asleep.
^No. Nothing to see here. Move along.
How Stereotypical
I like to think that I’m good with animals. For example, this morning I rescued a bird which smacked headlong into my window, then went clumsily flailing about and got stuck in a nearby hedge.
But for the record, I’m not good with animals because I have some mysterious connection to the “spirit world” or anything like that. As it is, I have an ecology degree and have worked a lot at zoos and wildlife sanctuaries and the like. So compared to, say, a Great Horned Owl that’s mad because you need to take it to the vet†, a finch is no problem.
No matter how much I enjoy my wildlife-related jobs though, I occasionally cringe when I have to tell someone what I do after they know my heritage*. About half the time, I will get a deluge of awkward questions about how I “commune” with the animals** or if my involvement in various environmental causes stems from my “connection to the earth”. I’m pretty sure that the people asking these questions think they’re being culturally sensitive and attempting to connect with me^. Either that, or they think that the aquarium worker from Free Willy is a representative sample.
Sometimes, I want to say I’m an investment banker or a forensic detective or an interior designer or something, just to confound expectations. On some level, I feel like I’m quietly perpetrating stereotypes, just by doing my job.
†And you thought your cat put up a fight. Psssssh.
*I’ve actually been asked about it more than once while on the job, mostly prefaced with “I have a random acquaintance friend who’s mixed…” or “You just have this…exotic…look. Can I ask…”
**Protip: Most omnivorous or herbivorous mammals and birds enjoy chunky peanut butter. Most carnivores like chicken-flavored cat treats. But seriously. Don’t try to pet random wild animals. Disney lied to you. Tears will definitely ensue.
^Either that, or I am on the list of “things we saw at the zoo today.” But I try to remain optimistic.
