I Speak American

Mom, what am I?

Growing up in Minnesota, there was not a lot of Dominicans. In fact, I'm pretty sure my family was the first. You're parents can never prepare you for how the world will react to you, think of you, make you want to believe. My parents are Dominican, my grandpa is Swedish, and I have dark-skinned and light-skinned family members. I never thought of race as something to divide us into different categories, because I saw us as ONE family.
When I went to school in the suburbs (aka rich people town), kids kept asking me "What are you?" I had no idea how to respond. With my silent, confused face, the kids answered for me, "You are a Monster." And like any little kid, I cried. I didn't want to be a monster. I wanted to be anything but that.
So I went to my Mom and asked her the same question. She said, "You are American." Not knowing much about race or anything, I felt like this wasn't the answer the kids in school wanted, so I asked if she was sure I was that. She adamantly nodded and repeated the same phrase.
And... as you can guess, when I told the kids, "I am American." They said, "No, you're not. There's white people and black people, but you're neither. How can you have black hair and not be black." Having been the only one with my physical features, I couldn't deny their truth, so I assumed I was a Monster until I could find another way to respond. I have a terrible memory, but I never forgot those kids and my silence. I waited, and waited, and waited for the day I could find some proof of not being a monster.
And that proof came FOUR years later at my 9th birthday party. My parents became friends with a Cuban family and it was my first time meeting them. The girl was about my age and had those monster like features, black hair with tan skin, not that I called her/us a monster. I tried to become best friends, giving her the first slice of cake, letting her open my biggest present (not sure if that was showing off or not, but the intention was good, because opening gift wrapping paper is honestly pure bliss), and giving her the better party bag (there's always one filled more than the others). When I thought my soft-power diplomacy was at peak, I asked her, "Hey, I know what we are, but wanted to double check with you, but what would you call a person with black hair and tan skin like us?" She curtly replied, "Hispanic" and gave me a bit of a look. However, I already left planet earth and was in complete bliss having found my answer. I didn't know what it means to others or why I needed to be in a category, but now I wasn't a monster. There was a name for people like me and more importantly there were others.

Identity is a very intense topic for lots of people. I've found that many Dominicans, as I'm sure with many immigrants of other nationalities, have plenty of stories to showcase the journey they took from being an unknowing child to an adult comfortable with who they are. I wish my parents explained more to me, rather than just say I'm American, because honestly lots of people don't view me as American. While I do see myself as a born-and-breed Minnesotan, that doesn't mean I should be ignorant of the reasons people might disagree. And having a debate is extremely healthy, even when you are a child, because its through your interactions with others, back and forth discourse, that you finally become COMFORTABLE with yourself.