Dad... What Am I?

Mulatto… Quadroon… Octoroon… Metisse… Biracial… Interracial… Half-Breed… Mestizo… Zambo…

The other day, CNN did a story on a group of people in America who have been slightly overlooked. There exists a whole race of people who are square pegs being forced into the round hole of census. Those people whose parents don’t look alike and don’t share the same ethnic or cultural background. The people who are the direct descendants of integration, cross-culturalism, diversity and tolerance.

As a black man in America I have quite a few racial identities. I have gone from the hardened attitude of the hip-hop culture to the artistic and self-aware mindset of the Harlem Renaissance. I have identified with Ralph Ellison’s invisible man and the militant identity crisis of Malcolm X. I have also chosen to refuse to be characterized by my skin color altogether. The latter of which is completely impossible. The direction a man chooses to take with regards to identity is a personal choice influenced by the events in his life. There are times that being a black man is the crowning jewel of my identity. There are other times that I feel a sense of embarrassment that I am associated with the black race. Though I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, I have not always been the loudest voice in the room with regards to race. The reality is that regardless of my feelings, my outward appearance speaks volumes as to anyone who chooses to see me.

But what of the person who can’t be so easily identified or classified? I have three children and my family is as diverse as they come. So diverse, that I have actually found myself in a situation while walking in the mall with my blonde haired, blue-eyed daughter being questioned whether or not she “belonged to me.” Once, a woman boldly and brazenly approached my daughter and asked her if she was “okay.” My sons are both multi-racial or bi-racial. Both have questioned their identity while staring into a mirror. They notice their full lips and wide noses but are confused by straight, silky hair and light colored eyes. Their skin resembles varying preferences of café au lait, one a slight more milk than the other. When asked, “Dad, what am I?’ I must admit I have taken the easy route and replied, “Son, you are black.”

As they get older, this reply doesn’t suit them. They understand the concept that a child is the result of both mother and father and question how their race can have only one contributor. The truth is that my sons are absolutely correct and I owe it to them to be honest… even if the truth scares me.

I wanted them to identify with the culture that the world would see them as. I believed that society would take one look at my sons and shuffled them into the “African- American category.” The truth is that the categories are getting smaller and harder to define. Even if they are sitting amongst the race that they closely resemble, I imagine that my boys would grow increasingly uncomfortable.

The truth is that being black is only one side of boys’ identities. They each have a very distinct and well defined other half. My oldest (who has a different mother than my youngest) shares African-American with Norwegian and German roots. This is significant because his mother’s family is very proud of their heritage and chooses to pass on the staples of their background to every generation, much like my family has done. For instance, every New Year’s Eve since I was a child my family has served chitterlings, collard greens, and black-eyed peas during the holiday meal. This traditional meal, as explained to me as a child, was served out of necessity because it was all the slaves and sharecroppers could afford. Their descendants have embraced the meal and have given it meaning throughout the generation. Much like a jumping the broom, it was born out of lack and celebrated in a time of abundance.

My son’s mother’s family is no different. During our marriage, my ex-wife’s mother would serve lutefisk and lefsa bread on Christmas. I have heard stories that spoiled fish tainted with lye was fed to the Norse Vikings by the Irish to kill them off. The Vikings, being men of strong will and stomachs enjoyed the dish and declared lutefisk a delicacy. The story and the meal are all now a strong part of my son’s heritage. Who am I to deny him this?

My current wife has German and Pennsylvania Dutch roots that are well guarded amongst her family. The infamous whoopee pies that her mother bakes are fabled to make Amish farmer’s shout “Whoopee!” when they are found in the farmer’s lunchboxes. My son deserves to know his heritage and not be forced under the umbrella of the most prevalent side.

My fear is that both sides of their heritage will deny both boys. As I look around, I see that diversity is not so much an issue in this country as it once was. I see more and more interracial couples and their children. I see that the lines of race have been blurred by leaps and bounds. It still bothers me when I speak to a man whose mother is white and father is black and he tells horror stories of his treatment by both races. I want my sons to embrace who they are, all of who they are.

I try my best to not inject my own feelings of race into them. It is important to me that each child is able to embrace the part of himself that make him feel good. I would love for them to identify with being a soccer player or scientist. Race shouldn’t be an issue… of course that’s easy for me to say… everyone knows I’m black.