Our Name - Who We Are - Religion - Interviews - Sexuality - Leaders - Queer Feminism - Seeding Activists - Health - Violence - Race - The Writing on the (Bathroom) Wall - Forum- Chat Room

All Mixed Up
By Melissa Felix

My father is a Mexican. My mother is white. Therefore, I am half Mexican, half white. I sometimes call myself a halfie—this allows me to be a member of both races without indicating a racial preference. I wish.

No matter what people say about melting pots, people in the United States are racially divided because everyone, from the government to the average citizen, forces each other to “identify” with a chosen race. I cannot count how many times I have been asked to complete a form in which I must indicate my race by blackening one (and only one!) bubble. Usually, the choices look something like this: “White (Not of Hispanic Origin)” and “Hispanic (Not of White Origin).” So I’m left scratching my head, thinking which part of me am I more willing to abandon for the sake of this form? And each time I make a different decision. According to my college, I’m Hispanic. According to my voter registration card, I’m white.

According to myself, I’m stumped. As a result, I hate hate hate it when people ask me about my race. You know the question: “So what are you?” I never say American because that seems to be a cop-out answer (I’m sure I just offended some people right there. But face it: unless you’re introducing yourself in a foreign country, no one in the United States takes American as an answer). I suppose I could be white because, with my pale, pinkish skin, I look white. I also sound white: I speak articulate English with a perfect American accent, and not a lick of Spanish. In high school, I placed into the “smart” classes, where, frankly, most of the students were white. These white students rarely knew me as a Mexican, Latina, or a Chicana. They accepted me as one of them. However, when white people are free of Mexicans, they tend to talk smack. I cannot count how many times an acquaintance of mine would say something racist about Mexicans right in front of me. I would say, “You know, my father is Mexican, therefore I am Mexican.” Usually the response was either “No way!” or “Well, at least you’re half white.” Surely I cannot be one of these people.

Then maybe I am Mexican. After all, my grandparents are undeniably Mexican. My grandmother was born in Mexico, crossed the border in the 1920s, and married a Mexican-American man. Both spoke perfect Spanish, but chose not to teach the language to their children because of discrimination. All my Mexican relatives have light skin, but many speak more Spanish than English. I inherited my last name—Felix--.from the Mexican side of my family. But Mexican people usually do not see that side of me; I am a little white girl with parents who can afford to send me to college. I went to the “rich” high school in town. My life is not hard like it is for many Chicanas. Thus, I cannot call myself a Latina, a Chicana, or a Mexican.

Why must I call myself anything? Why must I choose which side of me if more important than the other? Why must I even choose between two categories when really my background is Italian, German-Jewish, Scottish, Spanish and even more?

I would be lying if I attempted to conclude this essay by saying that I shall call myself none of these, or one of these, or whatever. I have no idea. All I know is that I wish people (and government forms) would quit asking me to align myself with one and only one race.