What Are You...

I sat across the desk from this woman who held my fate in her hands and I wasn’t in the best mood. I felt stressed from work and I was tired of all the back and forth this company had given me about my house. She read and thumbed my paperwork. Licking her fingers to turn the pages which completely grossed me out. I could feel her negative energy barking at me like a chained dog. She was surprised when I walked in her office. I wanted to believe it was only because I look so young but I felt her friendliness retreat at the sight of me. I held my breath, checked the time on my phone, shuffled through my purse and even tried to rub out a small dirt spot on her carpet while I waited for her response. “You checked too many boxes on this form. Let me help you. Sometimes you people have a hard time figuring this out.” I pretended I didn’t hear the “you” before the people. I pretend in many situations because it’s just easier to get done with the moment. I hate to be put on the spot, especially when I’m trying to play nice. It made me feel stupid. I always wonder if people hear the things coming out of their mouth’s.

“Im sorry.” My tone clearly relaying what should’ve been a warning or rhetorical question to her. “You’ve marked too many boxes on our demographic questionnaire.” Obviously my tone didn’t work. I knew exactly what form she was talking about. It clearly said, mark all that apply, and that’s what I did. I marked my boxes. She stared at my face, deciding which route to take. I clearly looked agitated. And she clearly looked like she was ready to have a reason to throw me out of her office. I don’t think she was racist. I just think she was angry. She looked angry. Her mouth and lips were curled in as if she hadn’t smiled in years. I checked Caucasian because my mother is an Italian Jew. I marked Black, because my father is black, or, African American depending on what organization is asking. And I marked Native American because my father is half Native American. I didn’t mark “of Latin or Hispanic descent” because I’m not that. At least I don’t think I am. I think she thought I was that. I think people try to assume what I am the moment they meet me. My skin color throws people off, my green eyes give them a run for their money, my big nose can go either way, and my thick, curly hair, if I’m not wearing it straight confuses many. I didn’t really care to get into a conversation today with this woman about where I’d come from or what my background was. I just wanted her to sign the fucking forms, stamp them and move on to the next unsuspecting non-descript person sitting in the waiting room. My mother probably would’ve used this opportunity to bore a hole through this woman’s skull and introduce her to the “way things are now”. I usually run from these types of arguments. I feel they are petty and draining and who the hell really cares if I’m black, white or yellow or green with horns. But this woman, she cared and she wanted a fight. She wanted an answer as to why I checked all these boxes.

“What are you?” Just the tone of the question made my skin itch. I wanted to scream but I just died a little on the inside because out of all the forms in her hand why the fuck did this one matter so much. “I’m human. Does that help?” She sucked in her breath, preparing her rebuttal to my question. I lifted my hands to surrender before she let loose an arsenal on me. Here I go pretending again. I was dying to say as I had died so many times before, what gives you the right to ask me such a personal question. I clearly marked my answers on the paper and truthfully they required no other discussion that that. I’ve been tortured by that question my whole life. That question led to insecurities in myself and my sisters because no one ever asked “who are you” first, they always led with “what are you”. Like that was some grand fucking way to start an interesting conversation. Who I am is Me and I’m all of the information on those forms right there. I’m not a fucking piece of art or a statue in some sanctuary or a lazy susan in your kitchen or a bottle of wine. I didn’t come from somewhere. I just appeared magically after a long night of never mind. I’m not a fucking what. I just want to buy some stuff for my fucking house, that I bought on my own, with my own green money, you asshole. But I didn’t say any of those things. I just smiled and answered “I’m white and black. Do you want me to change the form?” I didn’t take this opportunity, and I hadn’t ever taken any other to stand up for the ridiculousness of this question. I never expressed how torn I felt when I was forced to choose. I never allowed myself a chance to feel the pain of not being recognized for who I was first versus what I was. I wasn’t my skin color, or my green eyes, or my jewish Italian mom, or my black and indian father. I was just me. Satisfied with my answer the woman signed off on my paperwork and feverously shook my hand congratulating me on my approval.

“I do have to say, you have such an exotic look”. She just couldn’t help it. I cringed as I turned to leave. I opened the door before turning and asking her what she was. Sensing the sarcasm in my voice, she folded her arms across her chest before answering singularly. I smiled before I responded, elongating each word as they left my mouth “Oh it must be so easy when you’re basic.” I exacted my pansy ass revenge but it felt great nonetheless. Her body tensed. I watched her standing there frustrated that she had no response and no power left since I already had her signature and stamp. That night I hung that form on my wall in a frame to remind myself that it was merely a form, not me.