Carmin Wong & Hadia Sheerazi: CHAPTERS Reading, April 19 2013

Carmin and I spent some time talking about race and identity, and how we feel about the way the “world” around us tries to categorize us with different labels. We wrote our pieces separately and then merged them into a hybrid between a memoir and a reflective monologue.

Who Am I?

Hadia: Black. White. Asian. South Asian. Native American. Hispanic. One or more. Other.

I have to check a box. “Please check one or more of the following groups in which you consider yourself to be a member:” But I don’t belong in a box. I never have. Before I was just me. Female. Daughter. Sister. Best friend. Artist. Writer. Dreamer. Teenager. Sometimes rebel. Mostly Girl-in-Progress. I was NOT a color. Not till I came here. Brown. That’s what the boy in the café called me. What did he call me??! “That pretty brown girl with the long black hair.” Brown? I looked down at my hands. I just saw my hands. He saw a color. I was a color.

Carmin: I somehow managed to look “Indian” all my life. I didn’t try too hard, it just happened. But I’ve never considered myself Indian. Why should I? I’m Guyanese. My mother is what “they” call a “coolie” and my father, well he’s black. But they’re both Guyanese. They just look different. And me, I came out like her. I look different. My aunts, they see it. Sometimes they even say it. I hate that! But what do I tell them? That I’ve always wanted afros like theirs, the kind that can be braided easily. Or had their light skin. That I wouldn’t mind the large breasts, or full behind… If that meant I could fit in. With my own family. Just for a day.

Hadia: Everyone was a color. White. Black. Brown. Yellow. Red. I thought I was in the melting pot. I guess all the colors hadn’t melted. Like the crayons I forgot in the backseat of my dad’s car when I was eight. They all melted into a big rainbow-colored puddle. That’s what I thought New York would look like. Eighteen year old me saw a different world. Exotic. That’s what my new hairdresser said. Why did she say that? “Guys love exotic looking women.” Exotic? I looked at my face in the mirror. I just saw my own reflection. She saw exotic. I was exotic.

Carmin: I get to school and I am now an “Arab.” Sure. Isn’t Arabia on the other side of the world? I don’t get it. 9/11 occurs. Now I’m a “terrorist.” I better stay away from airports, the government has it out for me. Kids in elementary school are mean. I cry. I’d rather stand on their side, pick on someone else who doesn’t deserve it, point a finger or two, before I become their target. I promise to be good. I’ll let you copy my tests and do your homework. If that means that I could fit in. Just for a day.

Hadia: Oreo. Twinkie. Bounty Bar. Coconut. That’s what the Indian woman in the grocery store called me. Because I didn’t know what she said to me in Hindi. So I was a furry fruit. Brown on the outside, white on the inside. I was just a girl buying groceries. She saw a “coconut.” I was a coconut.

Carmin: In high school “they” refer to me as “exotic.” I used to think that was a compliment. I know better now. It’s just a secret language hidden between the lies, disguising the one word we all hate to face. Different. I am different from everyone else around me. I used to go to a school where it didn’t matter. But I was always “the Indian girl hangin’ with the black kids.” The Indian Girl. The term I’ve been used to all my life. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’d rather be that than nothing. If it means I could fit in. Just for a day.

Hadia: The Queen’s English. Spanglish. Ebonics. Pinglish. “From your emails, you sounded …” White. That’s what the professor wanted to say. But couldn’t. Not “politically correct” I suppose. I write like I’m white. What does that even mean? My words, my thoughts, my ideas are my own. Original, dynamic, forceful, and as far as I know, NOT of color. He said I sounded white. I was white.

Carmin: I have to check a box. They want to know who I am. I think… I think I’m black. “They” see my last name, “they” think otherwise. Wong. “She’s definitely Asian, we want her.” Or Carmin? “Hm, that’s gotta be Spanish, right?” Right. “Ma’am may I see some I.D.?” It’s like having a substitute teacher doing the attendance all over again. “Oh I’m sorry ma’ am… so what side of your family is Chinese?” Now I’m Chinese. An Indian-toned, Arab-looking, exotic Chinese child. Born in South America. Raised in Queens. I still haven’t checked a box. Maybe I’ll never fit in. Not even for a day…

Other

Hadia: Black. White. Asian. South Asian. Native American. Hispanic. One or more. Other.

The options are still staring at me expectantly. Identify yourself. Pick a category. A group, a history, a laundry list of stereotypes and statistics. Asian? Maybe. South Asian? Maybe. White? Next to “Caucasian” is the qualification: “including Middle Eastern.” Now that’s interesting. I never thought of myself as white. “There’s no such thing as Persia.” That’s what the guy in my class said. No Persia? I look at my last name. “Sheerazi.” Meaning: From Shĩrāz. The oldest province of Ancient Persia. Capital of Persian art, culture and literature. He said I’m not Persian. I was not Persian.

“Please check one or more of the following groups in which you consider yourself to be a member:”

I’m not this, or not that. I’m not “One of.” I am not “Other.” I’m just me. I am:

None of the Above