My Brown Children
My love is a beautiful man. He has amazing olive skin and big brown eyes. His eyelashes are super long. He is adorable. When people meet him they often comment how good-looking our children will be. I thank them, flattered by their compliment, yet I can’t help but think what else will they be?
Throw us in a pot and stir.
His mother is from Aruba. With a Scottish/Venezuelan mother and a no-one-knows-from-where black father, she’s quite the island mix. His father is Puerto-Rican.
Everyone assumes I am Irish-Italian because of my fair features and vowel-filled last name. Technically there’s some French and German in there somewhere. Probably a few specs of other European countries too, but who knows at this point.
In society, mixed race children are labeled whatever their features collectively appear as. Whatever stereotypical category they can be segmented into. Obama is white. (Well he is. Technically, he’s as white as he is black.) Who said which side is correct? I can say he’s white and it is as true as he’s black. Mariah Carey is white. Even though she’s technically the same exact “mix” as Obama. Yea, I am going with white for her. She looks more white, right? That’s what it’s race is based on anyway, no? I guess since Obama is darker he can be black. Same goes with Alicia keys.
Since society forgets the other half with the swipe of a census box I fear my children will be written off as one thing or another. I fear their father’s genes will dominate, limiting the manifestation of my own, leaving people surprised to learn I am their mother. And as a mother, I will not get to see myself in their little faces.
Worst of all I fear I’ll be squirming, wanting to be acknowledged. Wanting the world to see that my child is not what you say he is. That he is me too and we both deserve to have the world stop saying he is only one thing.
I hope my children are better than the rest of us and do not care what they are, but who they are. That like me, they grow up inconsequential to the color reflected back at them. That their Italian, Venezuelan, Black, Irish, Scottish, Puerto-Rican, French, and German ancestry makes them nothing but unbelievably cool. That they aren’t concerned what Disney princess looks like them. That they remember they are half of me and him and not what society groups their skin color into.
Maybe by being both of us they’ll teach their friends they are more than meets the eye. That they have a little black or Italian in them too, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at them. Maybe they’ll be the ones to show someone they are wrong for assuming. Maybe that person will decide to give it up with the labels already, because they were wrong. Because after all, someday, after centuries of mixing we’ll all be brown and Asian anyway.
photo by Amsterdamned!
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That’s a great post. I wonder about these issues quite a lot. Not because of my possible children, but like you said – people are ‘mixing’ and everyone’s background is diverse. Even if you are plain ‘white’ you probably have a whole story to tell when it comes to where your ancestors were from. It’s fascinating, and it plays a role in how we look but it isn’t everything. And I do believe you are right in thinking your children aren’t going to care so much for those labels.
May 18th, 2009 at 11:18 amI thought this would have changed by now, but I guess people still need to put labels on people. Maybe, as you say, your children will help it change.
May 18th, 2009 at 3:58 pmHank and I understand your concern. A few years ago, we were off to see an African-American girlfriend of mine (who also happens to be married to a White fella) who I hadn’t seen in some time. She had given birth some years previous, but I had yet to see her daughter.
I decided to give Hank a “warning” about what to expect and explained that the African descent gene pool typically trumps any other gene pool. He just looked at me funny. Finally I said, “You’ll likely have a gorgeous son or daughter that will look nothing like you. ”
He replied simply, “Doesn’t matter.”
I did an inner eye roll and thought, “We’ll just see what you think when you see her daughter.”
As we drove up to the house, an adorable blond, green-eyed girl ran out to greet us. She practically leaped in Hank’s arms. Yep, that was my girlfriend’s “African-descent-gene-pool-trump” daughter. Hank just looked at me and smiled his “what-was-that-trump-card-you-were-talking-about?” smile.
After the visit, Hank told me, “I hope our daughter gets more of her mother’s good looks.”
I haven’t said a word about it since.
May 19th, 2009 at 1:59 pmPenny – I hope they don’t care. That is, if I have anything to do about it!
Vered – I think about that every time I head people say we have our first black president.
Nelia – I have a Dominican friend who said something similar once. I suppose the unpredictability of it will make it more interesting!
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