There is a double date happening behind me at Starbucks. Two girls, obviously friends, are laughing at something one of the two guys said. Then, suddenly, a homeless person sits down at the table where I’m settled comfortably and strikes up a conversation.
“It’s the holiday season,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be on a date?”
I laugh. The compliment goes really well with my coffee and I consider an explanation, but just smile instead. The giggling continues behind me and the homeless man looks behind us.
“They look like they’re having a great time, though,” he said. I nod, trying to concentrate on my book. “But you know,” he continues, “You look really different from her. Like, you could be related but you’re probably not. What are you?”
Here it is. A moment I know well. I look up and humor him, “What do you think?”
This topic of conversation always comes up when I meet someone new. Sometimes it’s brought up discreetly, other times –like today– not so much. Regardless, I’ve noticed it’s something that remains very important for someone to know.
The question most people ask when they want to know what my race or ethnicity is isn’t “who are you?” It’s “what are you?” Asking “who” would imply that a person wanted to know my identity. “What” is another story. It must be awkward to blurt out, “What is your race and/or ethnicity?” so they gingerly utter, “Uh, what are you?” Three words, the simplest way to ask. I always know what someone means when I hear that question, but I love to pretend I don’t understand. “What am I? Why, I’m a human, I suppose.”
Perhaps, the desire to categorize everyone is human nature. It’s evolutionary. This is what helps us determine who to befriend, who we share a common culture with, who would be a safe bet to hang out with. On the other hand, is that fair? Basing someone’s actions, likes, dislikes solely on who they are? Could that be an advantage in some situations?
Sometimes, I play a guessing game with interested parties and revel in how hard it is for some people to guess. “Are you Arabic? Hispanic? What about Asian?” They never guess, but are always persistent. It’s like winning some kind of game show. I can imagine Alex Trebek announcing a new Jeopardy columm. All the contestants are standing, buzzers at the ready. The fasted player buzzes in and smiles. “I’ll take Guess The Racially-Ambiguous Girl for $300, Alex,” she says confidently. My face pops up and the guessing begins.
The funniest part is that many of those who want to know guess their own race first. I’ve had everyone from Hispanic to Lebanese people coyly bump into me and begin speaking in their native tongue to me. After I am forced to explain – in English – that I can’t understand what they’re saying, they admit to being “shocked” that I’m not who they thought I was. Once more, I hear the question, “So, what are you?”
I suppose that being able to fit into any demographic could be a blessing as well as a curse. Sure, it’s wonderful that those who assume I am “one of them” automatically accept me. But then again, there are those who harbor racist beliefs about a certain group. These people automatically categorize me –the unknown on their radar– as a part of that group. I’ve had people cross the street, give me looks, and scowl when I tried to smile at them. In certain instances, I would later learn from friends who knew the scowling strangers that they had associated me with their prejudices.
So what is it today? What’s motivating this homeless man’s desire to categorize me? Does he know that I already subconsciously took stock of him? It’s only fair after all.
He lists off different possibilities for “what” I could be but just I look at him and smile, shaking my head at each guess. The double date behind us has since grown quiet. They appear to be listening to our conversation. Perhaps the controversy of race is a better topic of conversation than the latest racist joke.
“Well,” he says, visibly out of options and frustrated. “Did I guess what you are?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I laugh, turning back to my book. “Thanks for playing.”
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