What Does It Even Mean to Be a Person of Color?

It depends, in some measure, on where you come from

The meaning and baggage or race and racism vary a great deal from country to country. In the US, the weight of racism is definitely greater than it was (and hopefully still is) in Venezuela, my country of birth.

This is not to say Venezuelans aren’t racist. People make racist jokes and the legacy of slavery persists. Skin color gets perceptibly lighter the richer the group.

Yes, though it manifests differently than here, racism is alive and well in Venezuela. But it is both more subtle and less institutionalized than in the US.

Blonde and blue-eyed is certainly more exotic, rare and desirable. Even if you have the features of a Halloween witch, as long as you’re blonde, you’ll be seen as beautiful.

At my Catholic school, we used to joke that the nuns always picked the fairest-skinned girls to crown the Virgin Mary on Coronation Day.

Technically, almost half of Venezuela’s population is “white” and the other half “mixed”, with black and indigenous Venezuelans making up less than 4% and 3% of the population, respectively. A common terminology used for black people is “person of color” (“persona de color”), and, for the most part, only people who look to be 100% of black African descent are deemed de color.

I’ve been living in the US long enough to find it hilarious and confusing when someone definitely not de color by Venezuelan standards is considered by others, or by himself, as a person of color here. I know for a fact that some of my Venezuelan friends are white in Venezuela, and of color in the US.

Venezuelans of all races fear for their lives and bodies for many reasons. Race is not one of them.

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that so many people who’d be counted as white by those who keep count consider themselves mixed, while so many counted as mixed think of themselves as white. Or with the fact that we never had Jim Crow type of laws after slavery was abolished.

I’m no expert in race studies, but there are obviously historical, institutional and social components to racism, race and racial terminology. I just finished reading Trevor Noah’s memoir Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood. In South Africa, I learned, a “coloured” person is one of mixed white and black (or Asian) ancestry.

In Venezuela, race is not an issue that’s at the forefront of any national conversation. For most Venezuelans who live in the US, it’s really confusing to be asked to pick a race when they fill out forms. As far as I can remember, we’re never asked to provide this information on any form in Venezuela. Is this one reason, however insignificant, we think about race less?

Though I’ve lived in the US for 25 years, I’m still fascinated by how race, skin color and identity can be viewed so differently from one country to another.

I’ve always considered myself white, knowing that, on my mom’s side of the family, there probably was some indigenous or African ancestry (as recently confirmed through genetic testing). Such is the case in most families of predominantly Spanish ancestry who’ve lived in Venezuela for many generations.

Most Americans see me as white too. Because of my accent, I’m often asked where I’m from. Once in a while, someone will say “Oh, you don’t look Venezuelan.” Hmm, I think, “What does he think Venezuelans look like?” Not white, I guess.

While I get the you-don’t-look-Venezuelan comment occasionally, my sister Rosanna, who’s blond and blue-eyed, tells me that she hears it ALL the time. Sometimes, people actually hear Minnesota when she says Venezuela. Despite her accent, which is far thicker than mine, her looks point to a place like Minnesota, where, I assume, lots of people are blonde?

My son Andres, who arrived with us to the United States when he was 4 years old, told me a few years ago that he identified as a person of color. Given my background, this caught me by surprise. He certainly doesn’t look de color. His skin’s so white it doesn’t even tan. Because my son and I grew up in different environments, we certainly view race differently.

Andres once told me someone had said to him. “You’re lucky you don’t look Hispanic.”

The comment disturbed me. At first, I found it upsetting that someone would say that. Later, though, I recognized the statement as true — which is sadder and more disturbing still. My son’s skin color and look make it possible for him to benefit from White Hispanic immigrant privilege at the expense of those who “look” Hispanic. Such is the case for me too.

Hispanic, mind you, is not technically about race. It’s about identifying as a person of Latin American or Spanish heritage. People of all races and looks can be Hispanic, or for that matter, American.

Our biases, prejudices and perception on race, ethnicity, ancestry, heritage are just incredibly messed up.

If you ever happen to travel to Venezuela, know that, while you’re there, you may temporarily cease to be a person of color. Also, if you don’t look like a member of the original cast of Baywatch, don’t be surprised if someone says you don’t look American.

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