What are you?

I grew up in a small New England town with colonial homes, a few yacht clubs, white churches that no longer have their steeples, a town green and a population that is mostly anglo saxon and cookie cutter. The men wore khaki pants and button down shirts and the women shopped at the local Talbots downtown.

My mother couldn’t have children so they adopted my older brother first. He was a cookie cutter. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. He fit into the puzzle. He completed the picture, made it look better. He gave them their family. Well….and then I came second and I looked like something had gone terribly amiss. Square peg, round hole. You know, misfit, not right, oops, hmmmm, what happened here. Not a cookie cutter.

My birth mother is Scandanavian and English, but my birth father was Black. Yep, you heard me right, Black. When I was young- Black was called Negro. Today, that isn’t politically correct, but a generation before that it was Colored and then that became, ya know, wrong, not done anymore, not OK. If you looked at me -you noticed that I wasn’t too dark, but I certainly wasn’t too light either. I was the double take. You saw me with the white cookie cutter family and then it was the confused second look, sometimes a third, but if you didn’t know better, it was a fourth look, maybe a stare and then sometimes the stupid question. I would get the slow approach and then…… “What are you?” WTF, seriously. No, I got asked that question with some frequency. Truly, I still do on occasion.

Then every once in a while, I would get a response like, “Well, you don’t look Black.” Like that was supposed to be a compliment. Seriously? I am being honest. How do you respond to some shit like that? In my mind I said, “Well, listen, you ignorant fuck, I wouldn’t be able to walk off the plantation. Is that Black enough for you?” Out loud, I would often say, “Excuse me, I don’t understand what you mean.” People say the stupidest things.

“What are you?” I have thought of responses like, a human being. I have considered answering, a psychotherapist, a mother, a sister, a hard worker, and a hiker. When I answer with something like that- people then move on to, “Where were you born?” Seriously, if I am standing in a check out line at the grocery store and you ask me where I was born, I am going to wonder about your sanity and level of education. I simply answer with the truth, “in Wisconsin.” That sometimes befuddles them. I had one man then move onto, “What is your nationality.” I answered with great annoyance, “I am an American.” Then in my mind I said, “you rude fuck.”

If I was a cookie cutter, I would not get asked that question. But I am not, so I do. It is not OK to ask these questions. It is none of your business. I look different from my family. This is true. It is not only nosy, but it is prying and way too forward to ask questions like this of strangers. I can’t imagine walking up to someone and asking such personal questions, but I think some people are unaware of the trauma that often accompanies transracial adoption. This is like rubbing salt on the wound. This is overstepping for a stranger. These are conversations for people that I allow into my inner circle. Not for the common busy body. I am 51 years old and still coming to terms with my adoption. It is deeply personal and quite frankly... it is a wound. It is healing, but it is healing slowly over time and through therapy. What am I? I am a spiritual being having a human experience. I am consciousness experiencing itself. I am me. I feel happy. What are you?