Even though I don't look black, I still feel black. I get upset because
I'm like, can't you see that I'm who I am? This black part of me that I feel so
strongly identified with, people... they they can't see it to the point where
like, sometimes even think I'm white. Chances are many of us have
inadvertently passed for something that we're not. Based on our appearance,
perceived to be a different race, gender, sexuality. But what's it mean when those
assumptions mean you pass for the wrong identity?
I was living in Oakland, California. This guy got on the train and he wanted
to like, squeeze into my seat with me and I was like, "Ugh!" And I got up and I moved.
He turned and he was like, "You white b****!" And I was like, "Dude, I'm not white." I took
umbrage at him not calling me a "b****," I was mad because he called me white.
My father is black from West Virginia and my mother was white and from New Jersey.
People typically think that I am Latina. Partially because people always think
that I'm Latina, I just learned to speak Spanish.
But at the end of the day, I'm not Latina. I'm black. That feeling of not
being fully seen isn't exclusive to racial passing. My dad, bless his heart,
has had his own journey to come to understand what my identities are.
We always had a rule growing up: if you were dating someone, you'd have to sleep in
separate rooms. I was dating a woman and my mom, in a very well-intended way, said,
"Well I think he thinks of her more as your best friend, so I think you could
probably get away with it." And I was pissed. That invalidates the legitimacy
of my relationship with her. The assumptive heterosexuality is that we
just think of it as a friendship in your mind. As a straight passing bisexual
woman, Emily attributes her ability to pass more to her gender than her
sexuality. Society super-likes to conflate the two. "Oh I've got my gaydar,"
right? Whatever that means. And so people can clock folks within the queer
community. Wrong. I think that I'm a pretty good example a lot of that
erasure can happen of that identity that means a ton to me. Because Emily and
Rebekah are not passing on purpose, their experience is a departure from what
passing has meant historically. There are countless stories of fair-skinned
African-Americans and mixed-race people who actively passed as white, making the
decision to leave their old lives behind and start new as white versions of
themselves in order to gain access to security,
mobility, equality, and any number of things that were off-limits to black
folks. Many have made the case that the concept of passing hinges on the
one-drop rule, an early 20th century social and legal principle that says, if
a person has even just a drop of black blood, they're to be classified as black.
Though surreptitious in nature, passing was a subject of literature by writers
like Langston Hughes, and central to the 1950s film, "Imitation of Life,"
featuring a black housekeeper and her white-passing daughter. "She can't help
her color, but I can."
One of the challenges that I experience is that
need to continuously come out—and maybe not even need all the time, but want to
come out. I want to wear my rainbow bracelet, I want to tell people about my
partner, I want to share experiences so that I am valid. What can be most hurtful
is actually the times when I don't show up for myself. I think that there are
times maybe when I could come out, but I don't, or that maybe it's more
advantageous to just fly under the radar.
Because I'm mixed-race and because people think I'm not black, I get access
sometimes to places, and also white people feel more comfortable talking to me.
My husband is Jamaican, Scandinavian, and
Ashkenazi Jew. He looks like a white person with curly hair.
My son has very pale skin, and bright blue eyes, and blond hair.
He's like clearly white and no one would ever think that like, my father is his
grandfather. People don't even think I'm his mother.
People think I'm the nanny. We named him Kingston so that when people ask him,
"Oh, Kingston, what kind of name is that?" he can say, "My grandfather was born in Kingston,
Jamaica." I know his life will be easier because
he's white. I don't want him to feel like how I feel, where I feel like I have to
like, go that like, extra mile, or I have to talk a certain way so that people know.
For those involuntarily passing, the feeling of invisibility often follows
questions like, "What are you?" I work at the pride Resource Center. I had a
student just tell me a week ago that for the first few months that I was in the
position, that they thought that I was an ally. I'm always questioning if I'm
enough, if I'm showing up for people enough, if I'm queer enough, if I'm woman
enough. And I think that there's a certain script about how to be queer
enough—and a lot of times I don't fit that. I feel like I have to
extra work to show that I am like, down for the cause. To identify myself
differently than strangers expect me to identify. This film project I'm working
on called "All Mixed Up: Our Changing Racial Identities," a lot of it came from
when my son was born, I was like, what is race mean and like, how is he gonna be
identifying as black? So I wanted to talk to other people about that. Within our
society, we constantly paint pictures of these dichotomies. You're either man or woman, you
are black or white, you are gay or straight. The responsibility that I have,
as someone who is passing, to not take the easy route, to always actively work
against all forms of oppression. In many ways, Rebekah and Emily only underscore
what we know to be true: our perceptions of race and gender are subjective, and
their experiences show how we act on our perceptions carry real consequences.
Thanks for watching! For more Left Field videos, check out our Tag series. Here's
one about Stella—a former pastor turned drag queen who now preaches
self-acceptance.