20 Questions: The Junior Version

Yesterday I had a first: I listened to my oldest daughter comfortably and clearly explain her families and her heritage, under a barrage of questions that had me uncomfortable. She was across a quiet swimming pool, so I could see (and hear) most of the conversation, but I was not part of it. It began with an acquaintance about her age (6) asking, “So, are you two related or something?” indicating Jaja and Gretel.

“We’re sisters,” Jaja replied. Without even asking Jaja’s name (or Gretel’s), this girl continued. She said that my girls couldn’t be sisters because they aren’t the same color. “We are sisters!” Jaja answered cheerfully. This girl then asked if Jaja was adopted. Jaja said yes, and then I missed a few sentences of their conversation.

The next I heard was Jaja saying proudly, “I’m biracial. One of my birthparents is Black and one is White.”

And then this girl says (more than once, so I know I wasn’t hearing things), “You’re not biracial. If one of your parents is Black, you’re Black.”

“I’m Black and White,” Jaja says, apparently unfazed (at this point, I was getting a little hot under the collar–who does this kid think she is, questioning my daughter like this?)

Then the girl says, “Well, if you’re adopted that means you’re not biracial.” What!?

“Well, I am,” Jaja kept saying, standing her ground without moving an inch. She never said ‘you’re wrong’. Instead, she just kept repeating her own truths. They played together in the pool for a while, and later I heard this girl start up with the color/race/adoption questions again.

At dinner last night, we were talking with all our kids about their favorite parts of the day, and Jaja brought up this girl. “She wanted to talk about skin color a lot,” Jaja said with a sigh.

“Yeah, like brown, tan, mixed,” Gretel chimed in.

“But I liked swimming with her,” Jaja said. She talked a bit more about their initial conversation, and all the questions the girl had asked her.

“You know,” I began, “if someone outside our family asks you a question–about anything–you don’t have to answer it.”

“I know.” Jaja said confidently. “Sometimes it’s good to answer people’s questions, though.”

“Sometimes it is,” I confirmed. “But the questions this girl was asking you were about your personal information. You do not have to share your private information with anyone. You can, if you want to. That is your choice.”

“I know,” Jaja said again.

“If someone asks you a question, you don’t have to tell them the answer–even if you know it. You can say, ‘That’s none of your business’ or ‘I don’t want to talk about that’ or ‘My mom says I don’t have to talk about that if I don’t want to’. If they keep asking you, you can just leave.” I wanted to give her specific things she could say and do.

Jaja nodded. I turned to Rico, “Same goes for you. You don’t have to answer any questions you don’t want to,” I started in.

Rico interrupted me, “I heard everything you said to Jaja. And that’s the same for me, right?”

“It’s the same for you.”

For several hours I was internally focused on my initial shock and annoyance at this child (and her parents). Where did a six year old learn that families/siblings must match? Why is adoption the only connection she can see between brown-skinned Jaja and her tan-skinned sister? And the biggies: Where did this little kid learn that if you have one Black parent and one White parent then you must be Black? And where does she get off telling my child that her racial self-identity is incorrect?

Hours later, after all the kids were in bed, I began to feel really impressed with Jaja. My sometimes shy little girl aswered this litany of invasive questions with confidence and clarity. She knew her facts and did not seem a bit rattled by this other child’s insistence that Jaja was wrong. Jaja knew she was right: she’s biracial; she’s both Black and White; she was adopted, and Gretel is her sister.

My daughter had the facts and the words and the answers at hand when she needed them. And she was so mature in the way she handled the whole situation–she made me proud.

What Are You?

I have heard this question in my life more times than I care to, and I know that for my children–one in particular–this line of questioning has just begun. I have a pocketful of pre-formed answers, responses designed to catch the questioner off guard, to get them to examine their own assumptions, and to (sometimes) get out of answering the question all together. The problem for me–and for many others, I suspect–is that when an adult singles out one of my children and asks me, “What are they?” I know what the questioner means.

I am better–and more practised–at fielding and deflecting such questions from White parents/adults. When the questioner is an adult of color, I slip a little. When the questioner is another parent of color, I’ve already let my guard down a bit. With a Black parent of color standing alongside their young daughter, I have to admit–I am not expecting this question. I am also not going to call out this person I’ve just met, possibly embarrass them or make them look dumb, in front of their child.

When I was introduced to this particular questioner by a mutual acquaintance (that made all three of us adults of color at this event standing together) I was holding Teri. I was grateful I had brushed out, re-parted, and re-styled her hair that morning. The one thing this person said to me about Teri was that I have to ‘get her used to sitting for long periods of time because of her hair texture’ (don’t I already know it). This was not said in a complimentary way about Teri’s beautiful hair, even though this parent’s child has a similar hair texture. Then Jaja arrived, practically wordless, clinging to my legs (as she always does around strangers). My new acquaintance practically glowed in her presence. Thankfully, Jaja quickly skipped off to play near Dad with Gretel and a friend–and that’s when the questions began.

First, the adoption questions. I offered only, “We have two domestic open adoptions. We know and see our children’s birthparents. We were there on the days they were born.” (Yes, I know, to those of you who know our full stories this is a slight exaggeration–Teri was four days old when we met her–but I was going for the short version at this point. I was beginning to see where these questions were going.)

My answers to the adoption questions (which included some version of the ‘where are they from?’ question) did not give the information that was really being sought. Which brought on, “What is she?” There was no mistaking which ’she’ we were talking about; Teri (still on my hip) hadn’t been offered a second glance. Still, I played a little dumb (I do after all have three daughters). I refocused on my children as a group. “All my kids are multiracial,” I answered. “So am I.” I was just about to start in on the ‘We have Black, White, and Cherokee heritage in our family . . .’ when I was stopped.

“What is she?” the questioner repeated, pointing across the grass at Jaja.

I sighed. I knew what this person was asking. They were not asking if my child is human. They were not asking about her gender. They were not asking about her ‘nationality’ (As usual, that one had been covered with the, “Where is she from?”) I caved. “She’s biracial. She’s Black and White.” I said.

“She doesn’t look it,” this Black parent responded.

Do you know any biracial kids? I wanted to ask, but I kept my mouth closed.

With their daughter standing right next to them, this parent went on. “She [Jaja] is so beautiful. She looks like a little doll.” I had pretty much tuned out at this point. I excused myself (with four young children, there’s always an excuse) and walked away. I was disappointed. I had been excited to meet another parent of color in my community.

There are a couple things I want to point out here: (1) I never would have even let this line of questioning begin had any of my three older kids been within 15 feet, (2) Teri and Jaja have almost the same skin tone, also very similar to the skin tone of the questioner’s daughter, and (3) All four of my kids are physically striking–they get complimented on it all the time–in completely different ways (bragging mom here, sorry).

The questions and comments about Jaja–which, unfortunately are not going to stop any time soon–are because few people can racially place her. (Although in cities with large Black and White populations–Philly, St. Louis, D.C., for example–Black/African American moms seem to know that Jaja is multiracial, that she has Black ancestors. The same thing can’t be said for White moms in the same cities. We got the most inane comment ever from a White mom in Philly, who said Jaja looked ‘island-y’. My husband reported this comment back to me. “I wanted to ask, ‘which island?’” he said to me. Perhaps racial segregation–including isolated parents of color in my current community–is a big piece of the story.)

My oldest daughter has medium brown skin. Her smooth dark brown hair gently curls. Her facial features are a complete blend of her birthparents’ faces; she looks so much like both of them. This racially-defining question, and all its accompanying baggage, is something she will likely have to deal with her entire life. Unlike her three younger siblings, she is not easily racially stereotyped/categorized by a combination of visual factors, primarily skin tone and hair texture. Rico, Gretel, and Teri will have a similar experience to mine (in this one way): they will have the option to ‘out’ themselves as multiracial, when and if they choose to. But they are unlikely to be questioned or challenged about their racial ancestry based on their physical appearances.

The comments that really get me are the ones after people ask an inappropriate question about my own or my child’s racial heritage, surprise or weasel me into answering their question, and then say I’m wrong or lying. I want to be able to answer these questions about my family’s racial heritage without feeling that I am violating some sacred trust, without feeling as though I am talking about my sex life or my spiritual beliefs or my children’s birthmarks–with a virtual stranger. I want to normalize the multiracial experience, for multiracial families and multiracial individuals. I want people–this person–to know that multiracial people come in all colors and shapes and forms. That we don’t all look alike (anymore than two people of similar racial heritage look alike). And that saying “You don’t look like what you are,” is one of the most dismissive, condescending things someone could say to a multiracial person.

Why I Do This

I recieved an email from a college student last week. With the author’s permission, I share most of it here with you all:

Subject: thank you–from a confused adult/child : )

Hello, I just stumbled upon your site from racialicious and I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve written here. I’m coming up on my 21st birthday and all I can really seem to think about is: “Is it okay for me to say I’m multi-racial?” I grew up knowing that I was a Black kid. I also grew up knowing that I was descended from slaves–that I was African, Irish, Native American, and Chinese. None of those things seemed at odds with each other until I came to college. Now I think that I can only say I’m “mixed” if my parents identify as two different races. Now I feel like it’s my duty to denounce the “mixed” multi-racial identity…even if it’s something I experience daily from the stares to the “what are you’s?” to the “how is that your last name?”…blech.

So your post about how you became confident in your self-identification as a Person of Color gives me a lot of hope. It didn’t really answer any questions for me (in fact it gave me more!) But now I feel like I have something to look forward to. That, one day, I’ll be able to choose an identity I feel comfortable with. And that I really feel represents who I am.

So again, thank you. What you do with this blog (and in your life) is truly beautiful.

Making Me a Liar

I hear one question from strangers more often than any other: “Are they all yours?” The second most common question goes something like this, “Are some of your children adopted?” Long ago I stopped feeling that these types of questions are innocuous–they are the most common and some of the most intrusive. The first question’s more frequent, and easier to answer (”Yep”) and walk away. The second one is more problematic.

To begin with, it belies the illusion the first question offers, that the questioner is simply curious because of the number of children I have. The second question also lets me know that the asker is focused on the skin-tone variations in my children, because if it were anything else the visual variety between the kids is too mixed to distinguish (3 pairs of brown eyes & 1 pair of hazel; straight hair, wavy hair, wavy hair, & curly hair; black hair, dark brown hair, light brown hair, & dark blonde hair). None of my four children physically resemble in the face, including the two who are biological siblings. Each of the children has their own unique hair, skin, and eye colors; hair texture; face shape; eye, nose and mouth shapes. (Jaja and Rico have the same foot shape (wide), and Gretel and Jaja have very similar body shapes, which makes hand-me-downs a dream at this point.)

But back to my point. Asking if some of my children are adopted tells me the asker already has in their mind which of my children are adopted, and they have made this judgment based on skin-color alone. I have more than enough friends who are currently (or formerly) interracially partnered and have biracial and multiracial children to know this question does not just come to me–it often comes to them as well. The “are they adopted” question comes more often to my White and White-appearing friends; none of us are spared the “are they yours” version.

Here’s where I’ve started to falter with my answer to the adoption-status question. I don’t want my kids to be ashamed of being adopted, to feel it is something to hide–but I also want them to to know it is not everyone’s business. (I never want to say or do anything to dishonor my children’s birthparents or their places in my children’s hearts and lives.) But that question, “Are some of your children adopted?” is just the tip of the iceberg. What most of those questioners are really asking is this, “Are some of your children adopted or is your husband/boyfriend Black?” They’re asking the half of the question that is polite enough to get out of their mouths (so they think) but think again–I hear the rest of the question continuing on in the background.

And this is where we come to the lying. I don’t lie nearly as often as I should, even to just to give myself and my family and friends a little more wiggle room. I rarely lie. Lying is a slippery slope; even a little lie leads to bigger lies to cover the tracks you didn’t think you were leaving. But when those overly-curious busy-bodies start in on the genetic origins of my children, ooh! I want to lie.

I’ve actually done it once, that I can remember, and that was just a little lie of omission. I was in the airport, traveling alone with Jaja and Rico, who were both under two at the time. We were on our layover and they were strapped into the double stroller. As I stood in line at the counter to get a gate-check tag, this 60ish (White) woman leans over my children, looks back and forth at them and then at me. She asked the million dollar question, “Do they have the same father?” I thought for a moment about my husband who was coming to pick us up at the airport in just a few hours.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Aren’t genetics amazing?” she said.

And they are, because there are countless families that look like ours, families where all the children are genetically related.

There are so many scenarios that could create a family picture like ours: interracial marriage, one or two multiracial parents, full biological siblings, half biological siblings, blended family, step siblings, adoption, foster care, mother with her children fathered by four different men out with her new boyfriend, boyfriend and girlfriend out together with their kids from prior relationships . . . why does it matter?

Why does anyone think it is their right, their business, to question somebody else about the origins of their family–usually in front of their family? Have we lost all pretense of courtesy and consideration in this day and age?

Then there is the opposite. The families who announce loudly (and repeatedly) at the beach that this is their Fresh Air child, just visiting from the city. The White adoptive parents who put clothing on their adopted child of color that announces he/she was adopted, that preemptively clarifies the underlying miscegenation question above. (WARNING: I find this blogger insightful and hilarious, but they use some stronger language.) It is becoming more common in the world of transracial adoption to hear this all-too-appropriate comparison: If you wouldn’t marry someone who is Black, Asian, Latino, African American, Haitian, Chinese, or Guatemalan (for example), then you certainly should not adopt a child with that ancestry either.

But back to the lying. The way people ask this question. The different set of assumptions and the treatment and looks our family gets when I am (a) out alone with all of the kids, and (b) out with my husband with the kids. These not-so-hidden guesses and beliefs, and how they affect the environment of my children–and the children of interracially partnered couples across our nation. These are the crazy-making false-notions that almost make me lie. Lie, lie, lie like a rug. Because the simplest answer (which should make it the most likely conclusion) to that second question, “Are some of your children adopted?” is “No”. Except that if I said it, it would be a lie.

I’ve done at least one thing I wanted to do as a parent: my kids automatically think groups of people where the adults appear to be caring for the children in any way (one or more adults, either gender, and any number of kids), my children view this group of people as a family. We’ll be back in the car and they’ll still be trying to puzzle out who the teenage girl was, and where her room in the family house must be (even when it was clear to me she was a babysitter).

If only we could all make our family viewfinder this broad.

Asserting Multiracial Identity

We attended a party over the weekend where I met a few White parents with transracially adopted children. Their children are now teens and young adults, and several of them were also at this party. The kids had all grown up in this community, attended (or are still attending) the high school here in this town. We mothers (and some of their teenage children) ended up standing together and began talking about our families and the local schools. I said something like, “We always intended to move, but now with four multiracial children getting ready to start school, we hope to move in the next year.”

The more outspoken mother said to me, “Do you have five children?”

“No, four,” I replied. (We had already run down each of our family rosters just a few minutes before.)

This mother turned towards my beautiful three-year-old Gretel (who was sitting in a swing with a friend right behind us) and pointed at her. “How is she multiracial?” she said.

I paused. I wanted to say, none of your flipping business, you rude woman. I wanted to grab my child and walk away. It was pouring rain. The party had barely started. There was nowhere to go.

Gretel kept swinging, oblivious to the conversation. I took a deep breath and tried to give half a smile. “I have Cherokee heritage, as do Gretel and my son, Rico.”

“Oh!” she said, clearly surprised. “That’s great!”

The conversation turned back to our family’s dealings with the elementary school this spring. The mothers said when their kids had been in elementary school, there were NO other children of color present. I relayed the administrators’ quotes about there ‘not being enough minority students to have a race problem.’ The outspoken mother agreed with this assessment, and said she thought it was “better” for her children [of color] to have grown up and attended school in an environment with no other people of color because “the latent racism in the local [White] people has not been activated by being exposed to people of color.” Then she turned to her child who had recently graduated from the high school and said, “You never had any race-related problems in school. Did you?”

Her child looked down, looked back up and gave half a smile; shook their head. “I had a really cool group of friends, though.”

That pointed non-question-masquerading-as-a-question made me squirm. I remember being a teen and cringing inside when my mother put me on the spot like that. I’d come up with an answer that wouldn’t contradict her totally incorrect assumptions about me and my life, while still inserting a bit of my truth as well.

The other mother looked to her child (who is still attending the high school), and I said, “How do you find the high school?”

This beautiful, precious child looked up from the floor and replied, “I just try to avoid all the people there.” Their mother sighed. My heart sank. Oh no, not my children, I thought to myself.

One of the reasons we are committed to moving to a community with more populations of color and multiracial families is because I want my children to have choices. I hope I never put my children on the spot by speaking for them about their personal experience, by speaking for them from my paradigm, my expectations, my rationalizations for the choices I made that affected them. I want my children to be knowledgeable about their options, but to be able to make their own choices.

My children will eventually each choose their own racial identity. Walking in these tight spaces in and between racial categories is almost constant work. I understand why multiracial people choose a monoracial identity–it is so much simpler. But I will not choose monoracial identities for my multiracial children. I will respect their choices when they make them (even if their self-chosen racial identity changes repeatedly).

For now, my job is to keep the doors open, to affirm their multiracial identities–along with my own.