Your soul

Jumping on the Bandwagon: Race, race, race, and oh yeah, race.

By February 10, 2016 1

Since all anyone can talk about anymore is race, and the only reason any celebrity, public figure, or random person ever does anything anymore is because she/he was racially motivated to do so, I figured I’d join the masses and indulge in a little racial profiling myself.

I’m white. That probably means I went to college. It probably means I get my hair cut, colored, and blow-dried every 3 months. It must mean my daddy is rich. Probably means I grew up in the affluent part of an affluent town. I bet my parents pay for everything I have. I bet I’m privileged and only got into college because my uncle donated a library. I was an all-star on my softball team. I’m probably blonde with blue eyes and enjoy tanning. I vacation in Cabo and Saint Lucia every chance I get. I’ve been to France twice. I have dental care and braces so my teeth are pearly and straight. I hardly ever have to work to get anywhere, and any social scandal I may become involved with is easily swept under the rug with one flash of my kind, approachable, forgiving smile. I can speak un poquito Spanish, like, to order Chiptole with guacamole.

You’re black. I bet your brother was shot. Your dad’s probably in jail. Who does your weave? If you went to college, it’s only because you could actually spell your name and oh, yeah, color in that bubble next to race that said, “African American.” You’re probably sick at basketball. You’ve held a gun before. Your favorite thing to wear is a baggy, black hoodie. Can I buy some weed from you? From your sister? From your mom? Presidential candidates know that if they win you over, they win the election. I’m going to hug my purse a little closer to me when you’re behind me in the store. How many minimum-wage jobs do you work to pay for your iPhone? You hate white people, too, and blame them for something stupid their ancestors did that isn’t even, like, relevant any more.

You’re Latino. Your siblings all have different dads. Your grandma probably isn’t legal but she makes a mean tortilla so who’s complaining. You can get into literally any college, anywhere, ever, with little more than a decent attendance record in high school. You knew what pot was before you’d even seen an episode of Sesame Street. You’re obsessed with soccer and it’s all you live for on the weekends. You leave the U.S. every year for like a month to go stay with your aunt and twelve cousins in a shack somewhere in Colombia. You’re a landscaping genius. If you’re a chick, you’re snappy, loud, and have a big ass. If you’re a dude, you’re equal parts intimidating and sketchy. Your kids never do their homework because you’re all out at McDonald’s way past their bedtime. They’ll still get into college, though, if they can complete the application on time.

You’re Asian. You loathe and love your parents at the same time. Three generations of your family all live in your house. You take care of everyone older and younger than you. Rice is your best friend. You probably make a mean sushi roll. You purposely speak your native language in public so you can talk shit about all the white, black, and Latino people you walk by. You can do nails really well, obvi. You were born already in a college, with a chosen career path dutifully laid before you. You celebrate Christmas, for some weird reason. Your fashion sense is on point, even if it’s not. You’ve got a thing for Hello Kitty. If you’re not a genius you’re probably on crazy amounts of drugs. You can never be enough for your parents and family; you’re constantly trying to make them proud.

You’re Indian. Yeah, like, real Indian, not fake Indian, like that moron Columbus called the Native Americans. You only live here for 9 months out of the year because for whatever reason you spent the other 3 months in the dusty, polluted, crowded, poverty-stricken city your parents escaped from. Your dad is an engineer, your mom is a doctor, and you’re going to be a nuclear physicist. You’re super modest. You hit the books like there’s no tomorrow. You don’t fall in love; someone chooses who you marry the day after you’re born. You have maybe one other sibling. You live in the city like it’s no big deal. We try really hard to ignore the smell of what your mom cooked last night when you walk in the room. Your grandma has that red dot in her forehead. If you do a sport, it’s track or tennis. You’re either brilliant, kind, and trustworthy, or extremely shifty and desolate. I could pull the 7-11 card here, but, ya know, I try not to “be like that.”

Do I sound stupid?

Guess what America: So. Do. You.

Socially. Constructed. Norm.

Look it up. It literally means, “figment of your fucking imagination.”

Say it with me, everyone: “I am more than my race. She is more than her race. He is more than his race.”

We are people. We are human. Blood bleeds red, hearts pump, limbs move, brain synapses fire, spirits live, spirits die, in exactly the same beautifully rhythmic scientific miracle in each and every one of us.

I am more than my race. Are you?