Edit Desk: For the racially ambiguous

Sixth grade. Health class. The setting of many an adolescent discovery. 

We were filling out a questionnaire regarding a topic I can no longer recall, quickly and absentmindedly coloring circles in an effort for early dismissal. I was plugging along with the rest until one question had me falter, unsure.

Mark your race, it said.

After a minute’s hesitation, I colored in the “white” circle. A couple seconds later, I penciled in a set of parentheses, and between them, the word “tan.”

It was the best that a 12-year-old me could do in way of understanding something that would challenge me persistently for years to come. It does especially today.

Whether it’s the pervasive instances of black lives lost, the seemingly increasing displays of prejudice that plague our nation’s universities, or even the debate nights that see our politicians arguing amongst themselves over issues of immigration or refugee opportunity — race has unarguably come to the forefront of our national conversation.

All the while, I observe this through the lens of someone who doesn’t quite know to which side of the back-and-forth she belongs. I’m Latina, but with each instance I share the fact, I’m compelled to follow up with, “Well, technically.”

And that is because nobody else thinks I am.

Growing up in Westchester, New York, where my small town’s population is 90 percent white residents, I certainly didn’t understand the context of my own diversity. I could pick up on little things: other kids didn’t call their family members tio or tia, Spanish Rs didn’t roll off their tongues like they did mine and I was always praised for my olive skin, the kind of tan you couldn’t get from a day at the beach.

I was that much different from everybody else, but I reveled in it.

I was in touch with my own culture in a way that none of my classmates were, and the gratification of sharing and exploring it was something I knew I wanted to pursue. So in the following years of organization offerings and high school clubs, I did.

I’ve traveled the country for minority student-focused leadership conferences, have spoken before boards of education about equal opportunity and conducted statistical research that examines the influence of racial stereotyping on standardized test scores.

So you might imagine my surprise when people suggest I checked the Hispanic box just so I could get into college.

It seems as though a Hispanic identity is reserved for those who have triumphed through adversity, faced personal prejudice or directly understood the plight of the misrepresented minority. Ironically enough, a stigma persists where the very individuals who contribute to our nation’s diversity are, among themselves, all the same. I’ll be frank — I don’t know those kind of experiences, and the ones I do know don’t match the common perception of a student of color.

But to assume that I should have to be a first-generation college student, only speak Spanish at home or not belong to a sorority to fit into that mold is nothing short of counter-progressive.

My parents went to medical school. We speak English, peppered with Spanish phrases and my mother’s attempts at teaching us French. I always felt as though I belonged in my Greek organization. I’ve never had a racially prejudiced comment or action directed at me, and I don’t know what it feels like to be discriminated against simply because of who I am or where I come from.

Of course, I’m not ignorant to my own privilege. But what I don’t understand is why my experience somehow lessens my status as a minority and renders me “white girl” in the eyes of others.

A few weeks ago, a group I belong to was referred to as “all white.” I didn’t make the correction, because I didn’t feel as though it was entirely wrong.

I’ve come to accept the notion of being culturally white. I struggled to continue identifying as Hispanic with knowledge that only I saw myself as such. It felt as though I were doing an entire group a great injustice — bestowing a label upon myself without really deserving it, or knowing the struggle behind it that so many others do.

Yet, a sense of racial ambiguity is a unique challenge in itself. It’s an easy question that I can’t muster up an answer to. If I say white, I’m lying. If I say Hispanic, I’m misrepresenting myself.

And so the difficulty to find my position in the grand scope of the conversation on race is only magnified. I don’t know if my life experience is white privilege, or if my perspective gives me any right to comment on racism issues that persist in this country.  
So, often, I keep quiet in the conversation. I’m left out because my diversity doesn’t look the same as everybody else’s. But my experience is every bit as rich and important as that of another Hispanic person.

Even if my survey answers don’t say it is.