You're Not White!
Being a biracial kid can be hard. Especially when you have a name that screams I’m white, and a face that screams I give manicures. No one ever knows what to do with me, and neither do I for that matter. Deciding my race has always felt like a game of tug of war. Are you more like Mommy or Daddy? It’s the ultimate guilt trip. Attempting to remain neutral, I tend to check “other” when filling out forms, if given the option. However, even that feels strange, because what does “other” even mean? Each of those boxes represents a face. Granted, they’re stereotypes, but at least they’re given a face. When you think “other,” what face comes to mind? All I see is an alien.
The best is when people read my name, see my face and then give me a suspicious look as if I have stolen someone’s identity. Happens more often than you’d think. I handed the man at the liquor store my ID and his reply was, “Berlinski, huh? Your husband Polish?”
“Not married.”
“You don’t look Polish.”
“Well you didn’t strike me as an asshole, but here we are.” Fine, I didn’t say this. Instead, I smiled bitterly and said, “Well, I am.”
Since I figure I look more Asian than white, I feel my difference is broadcasted even louder when I’m with my white family. One can only imagine what people think when they see me. Probably, one of these is not like the other. Like a game of racial duck, duck, goose that goes, blond, blond, blond, CHINKY! From an outsider’s perspective I look adopted, and this was long before Madonna and Angelina Jolie popularized collecting foreign babies.
The only other plausible explanation for my presence is that I look like the daughter of my stepmom, Julie, the other brown person in the family. Growing up, I too considered this a possibility since I looked much more like Julie than my mother. Unlike me, my mother had dark skin, the color of milk chocolate. Her cheekbones were higher, her nose pointier. The only thing my mother and I shared were small Asian eyes. Julie was much more fair-skinned and, like me, had a rounded nose. Essentially, I convinced myself into believing that my mom paid Julie to give me up at birth.
Every child, at one point or another, examines his or her birth certificate hoping to find there’s been a grave mistake. In actuality, they’re heir to a disgusting fortune. I remember sneaking into my mom’s files and examining my birth certificate. To my disappointment, everything checked out. Julie was not my mom nor was I destined to inherit a throne.
Biological or not, Julie is my mom. She’s helped raise me since I was a year old. With both my parents working, my mom hired Julie, then an illegal immigrant from the Philippines, to be my nanny. Sounds cliché, right? The only thing more cliché would be if my father left my mother for my nanny, which did or did not happen, depending on who you ask. As a child, I spent so much time with Julie that I would affectionately refer to her as Mom—until my mom overheard me. Then, it was just “Julie.”
Despite not being blood-related, people will often say that Julie and I look alike. We’ll be out shopping, or I’ll show someone a family photo and get, “You take so much after your mom.” If it’s someone I know, like a boyfriend’s aunt, I’ll gently say, “We’re not actually related.” Suddenly, the air changes; I’ve shamed them somehow by pointing out their presumption. They don’t say anything, but I know they’re quietly expecting an explanation. Interestingly, when I explain my family situation, they forget they’re offended and attempt to comfort me. “It’s okay,” they’ll offer, “I have a friend with a crazy family like yours.” When it comes to strangers, I’ll just smile. It’s not worth the effort of explaining and even though Julie and I aren’t related, we Asians do kind of look the same. Plus, my stepmom is beautiful and I’d much rather look like her than my father, who resembles Bill Murray.
