Exploring my modest racial ambiguity

It's like they've been filming my entire life.


As far as the family tree that I was forced to make (en francais! for some reason) in seventh grade would have me believe, I am 100 percent pure-bred European-American. Experience tells me differently. Surely, I'm not trying to back out of my presumably Caucasian heritage; being white has its advantages, after all:

• I've never been arrested, even on the occasions when I have been blind-drunk (c.f. Sunday morning around 3:45 a.m.) or stealing something (c.f. the "No Ballplaying Allowed" sign that used to be across the street from Keyser and my old apartment, and now hangs in a friend's campus office). It goes without saying that I've never had drugs planted on me either.
• I have no problem obtaining credit.
  
• People don't feel the need to do something fancy when they shake my hand, like grab closer to my wrist or just the fingertips or that little spin-move that Reggie Miller used to do before Pacers games.
• Much smaller chance of having sickle-cell anemia.

But there have been a number of occasions when I have had to call into question whether there isn't more to my ancestry. Occasions like these:

• Summer 1999 - Gerald, my fellow bank teller and a native of Ghana, continuously calls me "my brother" throughout our time working together. Granted, if criticisms of Barack Obama are to be believed, Africa-Africans like Gerald cannot be considered "black," but it was still nice to be added to The Struggle.
• Fall 2001 - I'm at a tailgate, talking to this friend of a friend, an Asian-American in his mid-20's. On the other side of the grill, another friend's mother asks her son, "That guy that [Rollo] is talking to, is that [Rollo]'s brother?"
• Winter 2002 - A dozen or so of us go on a Caribbean cruise, including Cartola's future girlfriend and Keyser and his then-girlfriend-now-wife. We're all on the lido deck getting the security debriefing and practicing our loading of the lifeboats. Each of us is supposed to have a life vest, with a whistle and a little light to help rescuers find you in the dark. My life vest lacks those two features. The only other person whose life vest lacks those features? Our token black friend. It's a conspiracy, we decide.
• Spring 2005 - While walking down the street in Ann Arbor, an older black gentleman ambles towards me, spots me, smiles, and says, "How's it hangin', my brotha?"
• Yesterday (and my inspiration for this post) - Again, walking down the street in Ann Arbor, though a different street and a different older black gentleman. This time, my greeting is, "My soul brotha!"

Could it be that for all this time I've been mislabeled? Perhaps my father's very thick, barber-scissor-breaking hair that I've inherited is not just knotty but nappy. Perhaps my smallish eyes and ability to do hours of pointless algebra is due to my Asian heritage. Perhaps my odor is... nah, I think I'll stop there.

But still, I'm concerned that my self-image has been somewhat different than reality. Could I have been checking one of those boxes on my many college applications? Could I have had more confidence in my ability to dance and less in my ability to drive? Is there a meeting I'm supposed to be attending with other racially-ambiguous people like thespian Vin Diesel and former major leaguer Davey Lopes? Does it even matter? Should it? I hate to throw one of those big questions out there, but... well, I guess I just did.

All I know is that I've never been mistaken for Latino. But my sister has.

Oh, so that's what a Cape Verdean is!