by Paul Beatty
They brought it up for me, and I listened, my skin tingling slightly, my stomach twisting in anger, as they revealed their true feelings about colored folks. Then I would spring it on them, tell them who I really was, and watch, in a kind of pained glee, as their faces went from eggshell white, to rose pink, to hot mama crimson, to The Color Purple. Afterward, I would report back to headquarters, where my friends would laugh and holler about how I was an undercover Negro.
There had been moments in my life when I had not asserted my black identity. I hadn't "passed" in the traditional sense of the word, but in a more subtle way, by simply mumbling that I was mixed. Then the white people in my midst seemed to forget whom they were talking to, and countless times I was a silent witness to their candid racism. When I would remind them that my father was black, they would laugh and say, "But you're different." That was somewhere I never wanted to return. There was danger in this muddy middle stance. A danger of disappearing. Of being swallowed whole by the great white whale. I had seen the arctic belly of the beast and didn't plan on returning.
One year, while working as an investigative journalist in Hollywood, I even made up a list, evidence I've long since burned. These days such a thing would mean sure career death—luckily, it was never published. It was an expose of who is passing in Hollywood. I called it "And You Thought It Was Just a Tan?" There were three categories:
Needless to say, my list wouldn't have gone over too well with the M.N. posse. But I put decent research into the article and was proud of my results. It was nearly published in a local news weekly, but the editors balked at the last minute, for fear of lawsuits. I bet they're thanking their lucky stars now that they didn't print it. Essentialism is out. In this age of fluidity, it doesn't pay to be blacker than thou.
Just the other night, I was taken in for questioning by some M.N.officials. They wanted to question me about my "dark past." I tried to explain to them in as clear terms as possible why I had done it: denied my multiculti heritage for this negritudinal madness. I tried to explain to them that in Boston in the 1970s, racism was pervasive, blatant, dangerous, palpable. The choice of multiracial was simply not an adequate response to racism. In my mind, there were only two choices—black or white. Those choices were not simply abstractions. They had real consequences and meaning in my everyday world.
But the M.N. officials didn't buy it. They kept me at the station all night, in a small white room with a bright light. In the corner, there was a video monitor showing Grover and a gang of toddlers singing that old Sesame Street song over and over again: "One of these things is not like the other / one of these things isn't the same . . . " One of the agents, a big guy with a blond Afro and orange-tinted glasses, kept shouting at me, his spittle spraying across my face, "But why black? I mean, why didn't you identify as white if you were gonna identify as only one thing? Isn't that reverse racism?" I told him that multiculturalism should be about confronting racism and power, not about plates of ethnic food.
The Grover gang was beginning to have its desired effect. I was beginning to sing along, despite myself. " 'One of these things is not like the other . . .' " But I clenched my eyes shut and tried my best to explain to the man. I told him that all this celebration of mixture felt to me like a smoke screen, really, obscuring the fundamental issue of racism, and for that matter, class divisions. It seemed to me we spent so much time talking about kimchee and grits, we forgot to talk about power.
But the agent only whispered to me (his breath smelled of falafel), "Class analysis isn't quite as sexy as a grinning mulatto on a golf course." He even admitted to me that multiracialism was a terrific marketing tool, the best way to sell to as many types of people as possible. "It's ingenious!"he shouted, grinning, carried away by his own ideas. "This will change the face of marketing forever!"
But my experience, I told him, feeling broken now with exhaustion, could never be reduced to cute food analogies (Wasp cooking, I've come to realize over the years, can go well with almost anything because it has no flavor). My mulatto experience, I argued, was difficult not because things were confusing, but rather because things were so painfully clear.Racism, as well as the absurdity of race, were obvious to me in ways that they perhaps weren't to those whose racial classification was a given. Racism, I told him, is a slippery devil. Like Madonna, it changes its image every couple of years. Today, sans burning crosses and blatant epithets, racism is harder to put one's finger on. But I know it when I feel it. In all this mulatto fever, people seem to have forgotten that racism exists with or without miscegenation. Instead of celebrating a "new race," I told the agent, can't we take a look at the "new racism"?
When I was finished with my monologue, he just laughed. He told me I was imagining things. He told me there was no such thing as "new racism." He told me that if I couldn't show him a burning cross, he didn't want to hear about it. Then he was gone, locking the door behind him.The room was completely empty except for a video display monitor in one corner and a camera pointed at me in the other. At some point during that long, agonizing night, the video monitor switched from Grover and the gang to something far more sinister. It was a montage of Gary Coleman, Michael Jackson, Julie Andrews, and Sinbad, their faces flashing across the screen quicker and quicker until they seemed to blur into the smiling face of Juan Epstein. Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep and had a nightmare that I was buried under forty feet of snow.
But their tactics must have worked. I'm no longer a black girl. At least according to my new driver's license and birth certificate. The "black" has been smudged out and the word "quadroon" scribbled in. I told the woman at the DMV—auburn cornrows, vaguely Asiatic features—that I wasn't comfortable with that term "quadroon." I told her, as politely as I could, that it reminded me of slave days, when they used to separate the slaves by caste.She just laughed and told me to be happy I got "quadroon." "You don't know how lucky you are, babe," she said, puffing on a Marlboro and flipping through her latest issue of Vibe magazine. "They're being picky who they let use that term. Everybody's trying to claim something special in their background—a Scottish grandfather, a Native American grandmother. But the M.N. is trying to keep it to first-generation mixtures, you know.Otherwise things would get far too confusing." Then she had me sign some form, which I barely read, still reeling from my night before the video monitor. It said something about allowing my image to be used to promote racial harmony. I left the DMV in a daze.
These days, there are M.N. folks in Congress and the White House.They've got their own category on the census. It says "Multiracial." But even that is inadequate for the more extremist wing of the Mulatto Nation. They want to take it a step further. I guess they have a point. I mean, why lump us all together as multiracial? Eskimos, they say, have forty different words for snow. In South Africa, during apartheid, they had fourteen different types of coloreds. But we've decided on this one word, "multiracial," to describe, in effect, a whole nation of diverse people who have absolutely no relation, cultural or otherwise, to one another. In light of this deficiency, I would like to propose the following coinages. Perhaps the Census Bureau should give them a try.
Variations on a Theme of a Mulatto
Standard Mulatto: white mother, black father. Half-nappy hair, skin that is described as "pasty yellow" in the winter, but turns a caramel tan in the summer. Germanic-Afro features. Often raised in isolation from others of its kind. Does not discover his or her "black identity" till college. At this point, there is usually some physical change in hair or clothing, and often speech, so much so that the parents don't recognize their child when he or she arrives home for Christmas vacation. (E.g., "Honey, there's some black kid at the door.")
African American: The most common form of mulatto in North America, this breed is not often described as mixed, but is nevertheless a combination of African, European, and Native American. May come in any skin tone, and of any cultural background. Often believe themselves to be "pure" due to historical distance f
rom the original mixture, which was most often achieved through rape.
fewlatto: The second most prevalent form of mulatto in the North American continent, this breed is made in the commingling of Jews and blacks who met while registering voters down South during Freedom Summer or at a COfLE meeting. Jewlattos will often, though not necessarily, have a white father and a black mother (as opposed to the more common case, a black father and a white mother). Will also be more likely to be raised in a diverse setting, around others of his or her kind, such as New York City (Greenwich Village) or Northern California (Berkeley).Have strong pride in their mixed background. Will often feel that their dual cultures are not so dual at all, considering the shared history of oppression. Jewlattos are most easily spotted amid the flora and fauna of Brown University. Famous Jewlattos: Lenny Kravitz and Lisa Bonet (and we can't forget Zoe, their love child).
Mestizo: A more complicated mixture, where either the black or white parent claims a third race in their background (e.g., Native American or Latino) and therefore confuses the child more. The mestizo is likely to be mistaken for some other, totally distinct ethnicity (Italian, Arab, Mexican, Jewish, East Indian, Native American, Puerto Rican) and in fact will be touted by strangers as a perfect representative of that totally new race.(E.g., "Your face brings me right back to Calcutta.") The mestizo mulatto is more prevalent than commonly believed, since they often "disappear"into the fabric of American society, wittingly or unwittingly passing as that third, "pure," totally distinct race. It takes an expert to spot one in a crowd.
Gelatto: A mixture of Italian American and African American, this breed often lives in either a strictly Italian neighborhood if the father is white (e.g., Bensonhurst) or in a black neighborhood if the father is black (e.g., Flatbush). Usually identifies strongly with one side of the family over the other, but sometimes with marked discomfort becomes aware of the similarities between the two sides of his cultures, and at this point, often "flies the coop" and begins to practice Asian religions.
Cultural Mulatto: Any American born post-1967. See Wiggers.
Blulatto: A highly rare breed of "blue-blood" mulatto who can trace their lineage back to the Mayflower. If female, is legally entitled to membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution. Blulattos have been spotted in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Berkeley, California, but should not be confused with the Jewlatto. The Blulatto's mother is almost always the white one and is either a poet or a painter who disdains her Wasp heritage. The father of the Blulatto is almost always the black one, is highly educated, and disdains his black heritage. Unlike the Jewlatto, the parents of the Blulatto are most likely divorced or separated, although the black father almost always remarries another blue-blood woman much like the first. Beware: The Blulatto may seem calm and even civilized, but can be dangerous when angry. Show caution when approaching.
Negratto: May be any of the above mixtures, but is raised to identify as black. Negrattos often have a white mother who assimilated into black culture before they were born, and raised them to understand "the trouble with whitey." They will tend to be removed from the white side of their family and to suppress the cultural aspects of themselves that are considered white. Will tend to be more militant than their darker brothers and sisters and to talk in a slang most resembling ebonies circa 1974. Has great disgust for the "so-called mulatto movement" and grows acutely uncomfortable in the presence of other mulattos. Despite all of this posturing, there is a good chance that they have a white lover hidden somewhere in their past, present, or future.
Cablinasian: A rare exotic breed found mostly in California. This is the mother of all mixtures, and when caught may be displayed for large sums of money. The Cablinasian is a mixture of Asian, American Indian, Black, and Caucasian (thus the strange name). A show mulatto, with great performance skills, the Cablinasian will be whoever the crowd wants him to be, and can switch at the drop of a dime. Does not, however, answer to the name Black. A cousin to other rare exotic mixes found only California (Filipino and Black; Samoan and Irish; Mexican and Korean).Note: If you spot a Cablinasian, please contact the Benetton Promotions Bureau.
Tomatto: A mixed or black person who behaves in an "Uncle Tom-ish"fashion. The Tomatto may be found in positions of power, being touted as a symbol of diversity in otherwise all-white settings. Even if the Tomatto has two black parents, his skin is light and his features are mixed. If we are ever to see a first black president, he will most likely be a Tomatto.
Fauxlatto: A person impersonating a mulatto. Can be of white, black, or other heritage, but for inexplicable reasons claims to be of mixed heritage.See famiroquai.
Ho-latto: A female of mixed racial heritage who exploits and is exploited sexually. See any of Prince's Girlfriends.
The categories could go on and on, and perhaps, indeed, they will. And where do I fit into them? That's the strange thing. I fit into none and all of the above. I have been each of the above, or at least mistaken for each of them, at different moments in my life. But somehow, none of them feel right. Maybe that makes me a Postlatto.
There are plans next week to paint the White House rainbow colored.And just last month, two established magazines, both bastions of liberal thought, had cover stories predicting "the end of blackness." Not too long ago, Newsweek officially declared it "hip" to be multiracial. Race relations have been boiled down to a game of semantics—as if all that matters is which box one checks on the census.
And me? I've learned to flaunt my mixedness at dinner parties, where the guests (most of them white) ooh and aaah about my flavorful background. I've found it's not so bad being a festishized object, an exotic bird soaring above the racial landscape. And when they start talking about black people, pure breeds, in that way that used to make me squirm before the millennium, I let them know that I'm neutral, nothing to be afraid of. Sometimes I feel it, that remnant of my old self (the angry black girl with the big mouth) creeping out, but most of the time I don't feel anything at all. Most of the time, I just serve up the asparagus, chimichangas, and fried chicken with a bright, white smile.
JOHN RODRIGUEZ
how to be a street poet
1999
If you're going to be a street poet
make sure you have lots of friends
who drink fight steal or sell drugs.
They will always have problems
with the law, and you can write
poems about them.
Make sure one of them is a crackhead
cokehead dope fiend, they are sure to
take a really bad hit or a really good
hit and die, and then you can write
a poem about it.
Get a quiet, light-skinned girl from Yonkers
or Long Island to fall in love with you. Ask
her, occasionally, for her opinion on your
friends and your poetry. She will probably
say something naive. That's how you'll know
you're on the right track.
Meanwhile get a loud, brown girl
from 'round the way to have your
baby, and then break up with her.
She will quite possibly stress you
whenever she can. Should the street
muse ever fail to keep its appointment
with you, you can call your baby
mama and ask her why she hasn't
let you see your child. She will
immediately go into single strong
independent brown mother woman
mode and GO OFF on that ass. This
will make you regret calling her, but
then you can write a poem about it.
Your child will grow up hating
you for being a part time dad—
good for happy meals and maybe
next times twenty-six weekends
a year—instead of being a
live-in dad like the ones on tv.
You will forget her/his birthday
and som
etimes her/his age, and
otherwise break her/his heart.
You'll be able to write poems
about that, too.
Keep odd hours, making sure to walk
into your parents' home menacingly
Sunday mornings, until you find sudden
travel bags filled with your underwear.
This will allow you to spend more time
at friends' houses on rooftops park benches
subways and in shelters where you can
further develop your street poet resume
and, of course, write more street poems.
But that's okay because you can tell
your friends about all your street issues
as you sit in front of the corner store
with an almost-like-mom's dinner from
the caridad playing dominoes with your
friends who are still drinking fighting
stealing selling drugs unless they're in
jail, in which case they're still drinking
fighting stealing selling drugs, or dead.
When the store closes, ending the game,
you will make a final trip to the liquor
store next door to the corner store to buy
rum from an island you've never known
in order to feel like you belong there and
drag yourself to your solitary apartment
to pass out to wake up the next day with
a hangover and still another street poem.
DARIUS JAMES
from froggie chocolates'
christmas eve
2003
