Caught in an Oreo Nightmare: Black and White in America

Can’t catch a break.

What are you?

Have you been asked this before? I have many times. And it’s a gem I’ve fielded ever since I can remember — from the playground to the lunchroom, to the campus, to the conference room, and everywhere in between. When the untethered curiosity of the overly inquisitive takes hold, I am often the target of a cultural investigation, leaving me unable to escape the exchange until I explain my origin story.

Is knowing my ethnicity, at least this is what I surmise is being asked, really of importance? Apparently, for those claiming to want to “better” themselves.

I never saw this question as an innocent gathering of information, but rather, an interrogation prompting inappropriate follow-ups geared to bridge a seemingly tame line of questioning with an intrusive exploration of who I am. Is this an example of a pure thirst for knowledge or for someone’s amusement?

I’ll let you know.

Being “caught in the middle” of acceptability and tolerability is simply a result of the mood or genuineness of whoever is inquiring. The curious nature we all have when faced with something we are not familiar with can provide a myriad of responses. Some retreat from what is uncomfortable and some use their fear as an excuse for a potential aggressive retort.

Believe it or not, some even use an unfamiliar encounter to educate themselves and grow from it. Rare, but it happens.

Growing up in a predominately white town gave me first-hand knowledge of what it was like to be viewed as different. Living your life as you see fit might not parallel with those who have a preconceived narrative for you. I learned early on many people refused to hide their ignorance, sometimes hate, just because someone was not like them.

The outer reaches of logical thought many exercise typically stops short when asking, “what are you?” Such a loaded question, WHAT are you? In their eyes, not being an object but in fact, a darker human, might not register. Should they know? Should I be more understanding, or offended? How would you react when asked this?

Over time, the frequency with which this question was asked ran the risk of making it too easy for me to forget who I was and what I identified as. That can’t be right — letting other’s curiosity define you.

Creamy white filling

Let’s pull back the curtain a bit on the elephant in the room. Sitting front and center is the “obvious,” a little thing called racial discrimination, or now that we’re on the same page… racism. At first, my overall interactions with the white community — especially growing up — would generally go in predictable directions.

There were those who embraced me and those who kept their distance and wanted nothing to do with me. Guess where the skew was?

The negativity was controlled to a point, but the atmosphere did give rise to an inconsistency in acceptance. Sure, throughout my childhood I built close bonds with people that would become lifelong friends. But there were many instances of microaggressions, racial inequality, and whatever display of bias took root in someone’s crusade to create division. This flag would fly periodically if for no other reason than to keep the status quo.

There was no middle ground in a community that lacked diversity. You were either Black or white — no in between. Anything else was unheard of. I was an alien to many who couldn’t wrap their brain around my biracial hue.

Are you Latino? Cambodian? Sicilian? How about Indian? Oh, I know… Polynesian. Never Black. Never white. Never who I truly was — both. On those rare occasions I agreed to peel back the layers of my background, I was usually met with disbelief: You’re Irish? Wait. What? But you’re dark.

The multiracial plane didn’t often land for some, that is until their barrage of unfiltered follow-up questions began to take form. At some point the term “mulatto” found its way into the ether. This label became what some would say to others when referring to me. I don’t recall rubber-stamping this moniker and I sure as hell didn’t give my permission to be called anything other than my name.

Surprisingly, there was this strange phenomenon that did germinate, where for a period of time, I was considered a mascot of sorts — a lone fly in the buttermilk. Protected and often thought of as a trinket, a prize to be left alone and looked at from afar, or a pet to be played with when white guilt was at its zenith. Odd, but in some respect, this behavior kept some of the more intrusive racism at bay — SOME. Protection without inclusion.

I had to stick to a strict code in order to get through each day. Careful not to be “too Black,” for fear some of my white neighbors would view me as threatening.

Can’t make any sudden moves.

Boo!

A pass to continue on without distraction or harassment would occasionally be given.

“He can’t be all that bad. After all, he’s not Black.” “He’s not a criminal.” “I guess he’s ok.” Yes, this is what I was playing with.

Hard chocolate cookie shell

After many failed attempts to cultivate equality with the community I grew up with, I needed something more. I wanted inclusion — to be recognized for who I was. I sought solace in the only group I thought would take me in and embrace my true self — the Black community. A miscalculation to say the least. The very types of ostracism and injustice I sometimes experienced from the white community surfaced in the most unlikely of places. In some cases, the experiences were worse.

Yea, yea, I know… the self-pity bowl is overflowing but consider the feeling of not being accepted by the community you thought would embrace you, especially at a time in your life when you were trying to discover who you are. This overwhelming sense of isolation can have its way with you psychologically.

Being shunned by the people who supposedly would understand your pain, your feelings of not being seen as an equal. A difficult position to be in when you think of the “hate grenades” launched your way just for being you.

The Black experience was a conundrum in that there didn’t seem to be enough room at the table for people who looked like me — a shade reminiscent of a cappuccino. There was a sense that many Black people were suspicious of me, that I was a spy for “the man.” I was not to be trusted — someone waiting for an opportunity to do them dirty.

If I wasn’t dark enough — 100% Black, and didn’t reflect a specific image that suited their needs, I wasn’t down for the cause. I would be the object of their ridicule.

I’ve been through this before, looked at as an outsider.

The attitudes I would receive from many in the Black community rivaled those flung at me by their white doppelgangers. These shots across the bow, however, were puzzling in their authenticity and frankly, difficult to swallow.

Hoping to find a level of relatability and solidarity by the same marginalized group, but ultimately being cast aside… confused the shit out of me.

What I did not fully comprehend was the hesitation to include. It seemed being unified by a common negative experience was a foreign concept. Weren’t they aware the people on the other side of the tracks viewed us ALL the same way? When it came down to it, we were all considered the same — not like them. We’re in this struggle together, or so I thought.

At the end of the day, the experience of not being picked for the team would follow me to the other room and metastasize. Why was I not being invited to the cookout?

To some…

I did not deserve the same respect that was shown to someone who was darker

I couldn’t relate to the struggle

I somehow benefited from more opportunities because of having lighter skin

I was privileged and received special treatment (especially from white people)

I was more accepted by the white community and therefore did not experience the same level of discrimination

I was not “fully” Black

If the color of my skin wasn’t egregious enough, other aspects of who I was were targeted. How I spoke (of course). The music I listened to. The food I ate. The way I dressed. The color of my parents — both white. Mind blown! That was a big one. Anything that would further paint me as someone not worthy of respect — all this because I was perceived as having a little cream in my coffee.

Don’t get it twisted; Black is a fact, not an act. I don’t have to reflect stereotypes to be accepted, nor should I. There is no hiding what I look like nor would I want to. I’m proud of who I am and what I look like and am encouraged to live my life without having to worry about which racial group calls me their kin.

I would argue it’s just a matter of time before most occupants of this planet look like me. Wait, can you hear that… the unhinged uproar of the many racists out there denying this claim. Mazel tov!

Could all this be in my head?

I challenge the notion this has been a self-imposed prophecy in my life. We are spread about a landscape that in recent memory has fostered an extreme “this or that,” “me or you,” “us or them” mindset… this, I suppose, is up to interpretation. What we hopefully can all agree on is that with an increased focus on division in today’s society, ultimately, this mindset will not serve us well in the end.

Restock the shelf

When you hear the word “Oreo,” hopefully the thought of that delicious sandwich cookie consisting of two wafers with a sweet crème filling comes to mind. But there is also another inference used by many as a derogatory term for a Black person who is regarded as having adopted the behavior and attitudes thought to be characteristic of white society, often at the expense of his or her own heritage.

I identify as Black more so than white not because I prefer one culture over the other, not out of shame, but because this is how the world sees me. Can’t hide the cocoa. I am brown and am treated the same as any other minority in this country.

I like to think, who I am and how I carry myself resonates with people — and is how I should be judged — SHOULD be judged. And although their justification might differ, the reality is I have seen discrimination from both the white and Black communities with impunity.

Living in the “in-between” abyss that is the biracial “kids’ table,” is an interesting idea given interactions with both my white and Black brothers and sisters — being looked at as someone who is an interloper and doesn’t have a place to call home.

I prefer to avoid uncomfortable conversations about my ancestry. Going into a deep dive of the many cultures that make up who I am, often perplexes people — you can see it in their face as they try to Rubik’s Cube the answers to match their preconceived ideas.

I just don’t have the time, and honestly, it’s not my job to educate you on what it’s like to be multiracial.

If you want to know me — get to know me. Don’t just ambush me with random, inappropriate questions or assumptions for the sole purpose of satisfying your base desire to be entertained. Let’s spend the time getting to know one another and who we are, not WHAT we are.

I know you are a person — so am I. I know you have a family — I do as well. I know you have feelings — as do I. I know you probably had breakfast this morning — I didn’t, I’m trying to shed a few. I know constant questions about your person can feel like an interrogation. Been there, experienced that.

Waking up in a cold sweat, wondering if you had just wet yourself because the fear located in the back row of your mind is still pulling the strings. We’ve all had nightmares, those aftermarket thoughts that only visit us when we are most exhausted and spent from the day. I’ve had my fair share of otherworldly hallucinations, most I try to forget as they usually involve being naked at a hardware store running full speed down the loose nails aisle on a slippery floor or realizing that Golden Oreos and Chocolate Oreos are the only flavors left on the shelf.

I’ll stick with afternoon power naps.

I know who I am.

Thank you for reading!