No, I'm not simply a white girl who gets a kick off borrowing other cultures. I don't travel the world with a backpack, long swishy skirts, matted hair. I don't meditate, burn incense or count peace beads. I don't eat chow mein or wear the little black slippers to make up for the fact that my skin and hair aren't quite as dark as my Chinese roommate's.
This is not my ethnic.
No, I don't feel the roots of my ancestors. I speak not German, French, Swedish. I incorporate not traditions customs cultural symbols. I grew up not with tales of old days old life in the old place. I've never even been there.
This is not my ethnic.
For the longest time I didn't really know what it meant to be white. I didn't really know I was white, at least not actively. It was sort of the "by-default" ethnicity. Not-black. Not-Hispanic. Not-Asian. White. I would never have applied the term "ethnic" to myself. It sounds almost self-righteous in a hippie-world traveler kind of way.
Until I left America. In August of 1999 I landed in the city of Bangkok, Thailand, completely surrounded by a shade of melanin different from my own. Sent to live among them, be one of them, for the first time when asking vital questions of "Who am I?" race and ethnicity played into the picture.
"Who am I?" I ask, as they reached to touch my pale arm, stroke my curly hair. Is white a color, a texture? "Who am I?" I ask, as they ask me to teach them a dance to "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer" because I know Christmas better than any of the Buddhist schoolgirls. Is white a holiday, a custom? "Who am I?" I ask, as they ask me to sing yet another Britney Spears song. Is white music? "Who am I?" I ask, as I introduce them all to Starbucks lattes, mochas, frappa-whattos? Is white food?
I resist such simplifications, but nonetheless cannot define it better. BUT WAIT!!! I cannot say white equals American. I have since come to realize— though subconsciously I hope I knew it all along— that American eclipses any and all who come to join her. We may not be so friendly nor the process so simple as ideals, but the immigrants both darker and lighter than myself can proudly be from USA with a few papers signed. So American culture is not white culture, it is shared culture. Where does that leave me? What can ethnicity mean to a white girl?
Does my whiteness denote McDonalds, corporate America globalization, the world's policeman, freedom-loving independence, fourth of July and a turkey in November? Yes, all this. And so much more. It branded me sometimes; they would accuse me of the wrongs of my people and I'd be so ashamed— even though I personally had no hand in it. I had to pay more at water parks and sidewalk shoe-vendors because I'm white— white people are rich and have a duty to help the poor. And yet my whiteness also made me special. Interviews for TV, cuts in line, free samples, the all-around authority on anything American. I would have to forfeit one to gain the other and yet I know they're hand in hand. The whiteness cuts both ways.
Let me recap this all, recount the shaping of my ethnicity. Education, sexual symbolism, politics, family and even the beloved Stanford . . . nothing left out, I am who I am through all these forces. Forgive my generalizations, stereotypes, unknown prejudice that still remains and let me speak freely. Let me call ethnicity not color or country but background— all that has contributed to where I am, who I am today.
When faced with a uniform-bound, rule-bound, rote memory-bound, ask not challenge not be different not-bound system of schooling demanding utmost respect with zero room for the road less traveled . . . the independent streaked individualist despite my previous goody-two shoe self-image emerged. This is my ethnic.
When surrounded by unashamed gay boys younger than my kid brother; when men flaunted water-balloon boobs, dresses and make-up for a "1katoey fashion show" and fooled my lusting male friends; when the woman receptionist in my building was not a woman after all . . . the "not-homophobic anti gay" but uncomfortably unfamiliar conservative despite my previous liberal love-all self-image emerged. This is my ethnic.
When viewing five re-votes for the same election with fifty candidates to one seat and no run off and rampant distrust anyway that government does any good the crackpots *#$@%&! but it's a part of life so you deal and hope they'll buy your vote with something better than just a bag of rice if they buy it at all but what does it matter since you'll re-vote again next week when the loser gets angry if there's not a military coup first but don't you DARE disrespect the king . . . the general faith in democratic American system yet nothing too sacred to be saved ridicule on Saturday Night Live emerged, despite my previous it's hopelessly corrupt red white and blue bitterness self-image. This is my ethnic.
When I lived in a run-down house owned by an incredibly wealthy woman— because money should be spent on experiences, not things; when the home became a retreat from the outside world and not a place to entertain it; when family didn't gather around the dinner table but the TV; when arguing with mom and dad became simply unacceptable and parents' rules were handed down and carried out without dispute or thought of protest; when older siblings became 2Pee Sow or 3Pee Chai not simply "Hey 4Kik!! What's up?" . . . the engager of spirited discussions, thrower of napkins at my sister during dinner, the fight-and-leave-and-cry-and-hug girl emerged, despite my previous distaste for so much conflict self-image. This is my ethnic.
When I came to this microcosm of the world, ideal little mini-planet and found more students from Korea than my home state; when people began to name the generalizations, shatter those stereotypes, call me on my prejudices; when issues were not shouted but explained so I saw clearly for the first time how name-calling hurt, and not just that it did; when my friends became all shades of skin and it was actually pointed out that it was so . . . the questioning "Who am I?" emerged, despite my previous I know it all already self-image.
This is my ethnic.
I don't know what ethnic is supposed to mean. Maybe it means something else to people who have it more clearly laid out . . . or maybe "clearly laid out" is just my misconception and it's really no easier to answer for one who has a color or a country with narrower definitions. I am not resolving this issue. I am not calling this topic raised and settled, with a neat conclusion. I don't think that's possible, and if it is, it's certainly not healthy. Or interesting. If I have anything to say about it, my ethnicity— white? American?— is still forming itself and will be until I die. The most I can do for now is to continue to ask . . . "Who am I?"