I find race and ethnicity curious constructions.
Two quick stories from just this past week.
Gabby and I were out walking on the local trail system. We were chatting away when this white guy comes up from behind us and starts yelling at us about speaking English.
“You’re in Canada learn to speak English or go back where you came from.”
Gabby in flawless English says, “We were speaking French. My family came to Canada in 1635 from France. I was born in Saskatchewan.
“My husband’s family has been here even longer. He was born in B.C. How long has your family been here?”
It is worth noting she said this kindly and politely. And it worked. Particularly when she said we only speak French when we are alone because we don’t want other people to feel left out of the conversation. Classic deescalation.
We ended up having a perfectly pleasant conversation. In English.
The second story happened in Millwoods in Edmonton. I was playing with my great granddaughter while her Mom shopped. This white woman comes up and starts calling me a race traitor. Apparently she thought Lulu was my daughter, obviously she was not a good judge of age. Or race, though I have to admit most people think I’m white.
”Ma’am”, I said, “I’m a Black Indian. My daughter is a Black Indian. How exactly am I a race traitor.”
She was still working on some sort of comeback when I realized my granddaughter (who is very obviously indigenous) had come out of the store. Ziggy picks Lulu up from where she is standing holding my leg.
”My husband is an albino,” Ziggy said and we walked away leaving the poor woman standing their cursing and muttering.
I am multiracial. In descending order I am First Nations, African American, Northern European, East Asian and Denisovan. Most days I self-identify as First Nations (the Canadian equivalent of Native American). But with a large number of grandchildren who identify as Black Indians and now a great granddaughter who will probably join them I am trying very hard to learn about and embrace my African-American heritage.
Despite my very mixed heritage my skin is white, sort of anyway. And I am happy in the skin I’m in. But I am not white. And white people have always been a bit of an enigma to me.
For example, I don’t understand why white people are so scared. Because both these people were clearly scared. The man was scared people might speak a language he doesn’t understand. The woman was scared white men might start producing black babies.
I think learning new languages is tremendous fun. And I love that my children and grandchildren are all darker than me. So I am confused by all the fear. And I am seeing it more and more often. Terrified white people suddenly seem to be everywhere.
Perhaps my white readers can explain it to me.
Update:
I have added Some to the title. A reader pointed out the original title might upset people. It also didn’t reflect the diary accurately. My apologies to anyone I offended.