Thoughts on Identity
What is difference?
What is similarity?
Are there definitions for these words or are am I asking some philosophical question?
I sat in my school’s meeting house as my mind raced with questions. The facilitator had asked the group us to divide into “white” and “of color.” My thick fingers gripped the black denim covering my – even thicker – thighs. My feet tapped back and forth, playing their part in the colonial room’s deafening symphony. My peer’s breaths escaped in and out of their mouths with no silent battle. Their breath tapped each tooth like some orthodontic xylophone; their gum smacking from cheek like soft cymbals. Knuckles and joints cracked setting a rhythm only offset by the corner air conditioning unit. The sputtering conditioner pushed the white shutters out in its short bursts of wind before pulling it back in as it gasped for air. My drumming feet were almost as confused by the rhythm, as my mind by the task.
My mother was adopted from Belgium, and brought to the United States by her aunt. My father was born in El Salvador, and escaped civil war as a teenager. They both left families and traditions behind and created new traditions here. Tokens of these countries surround me. Since birth, I have been surrounded by pupusas and tartines, tio’s and tante’s. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was sometimes the only white cousin in a photo, or that language barriers had defined my familial relationships for as long as I could remember.
Now, this prompt to choose between “white” and “of color” shook me. I felt that I belonged with the group “of color”, but I could not understand why. What right did I have to claim the other part of myself, when I knew I had white skin? I felt like an imposter who for my whole life identified as something I should not, and as a result was a part of the prejudice I so despised.
With a wet lip, I remained seated. I chose to be in the group “of color.” I stared at the colonial carpet to avoid the stares of my peers. The activity coordinators sought to alleviate some tension from the room, and began to explain what being “of color” meant to them. They pointed out experiences I could relate to, to a point where a hesitant laugh escaped at the mention of lunchtime in the cafeteria. As children, we had all experienced teasing or nose-wrinkling from other children about how ethnic or exotic our lunch box food was. My smelly tamales would make me salivate while my neighbors would squirm. They would want to touch my food, poke it with their forks. “It looks like a worm,” they’d say.
Following this, however, came the discussion of “white privilege” and “ignorance.” All my fear returned; I felt small once again. I was aware that the color of my skin precluded me from the hateful and unfair hardships faced by my family members and peers, and once again felt I did not belong. With this, the boa constrictor around my throat took control once again.
That night when I was sitting at home crying to my family at the dinner table, I began to understand “different." Different is what I am, and different is what my family has always been. Different is my sister being told she looks “exotic” and being asked: “where are you really from?” Different is my own name, Camille Aguilar, a hybrid of my two different sides.
This realization helped me recognize that I have two parts of myself, inseparable from each other. I am “white” and I am “of color.” I have quesadillas and gaufres, salvadoreños and des Belges. There are many experiences that shape who I am, but both of these sides contribute equally to my character. While parts of myself might be different, they make me “me” – an identity not to be negated by biethnicity.
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Why must identity be drawn like an elementary game of four square? What hand holds the chalk which paints these lines onto the hot asphalt?
The bullies at lunch were not an individual experience, rather an example of the societal issue of looking and laughing at difference. By seeking to learn what makes others different, we separate ourselves from schoolyard bullies, who lack the experience to realize the importance of appreciating the contents of an individual’s lunchbox.
