“So, what are you?” I don’t know how many times people have asked me that. “Are you Puerto Rican? Dominican? Indian or something? You must be mixed.” My stock answer has rarely changed: “My mom is from Jamaica but grew up in New York, and my father was from North Carolina but grew up in Boston. Both black.”
My family has lived with “the question” for as long as I can remember. We’re “exotics,” all cursed with “good hair” and strange accents–we don’t sound like we from da Souf or the Norwth, and don’t have that West Coast-by-way-of-Texas Calabama thang going on. The only one with the real West Indian singsong vibe is my grandmother, who looks even more East Indian than my sisters. Whatever Jamaican patois my mom possessed was pummeled out of her by cruel preteens who never had sensitivity seminars in diversity. The result for us was a nondescript way of talking, walking, and being that made us not black enough, not white enough–just a bunch of not-quite-nappy-headed enigmas.
My mother never fit the “black momma” media image. A beautiful, demure, light brown woman, she didn’t drink, smoke, curse, or say things like “Lawd Jesus” or “hallelujah,” nor did she cook chitlins or gumbo. A vegetarian, she played the harmonium (a foot-pumped miniature organ), spoke softly with textbook diction, meditated, followed the teachings of Paramahansa Yogananda, and had wild hair like Chaka Khan. She burned incense in our tiny Harlem apartment, sometimes walked the streets barefoot, and, when she could afford it, cooked foods from the East.
To this day, my big sister gets misidentified for Pakistani or Bengali or Ethiopian. (Of course, changing her name from Sheral Anne Kelley to Makani Themba has not helped.) Not long ago, an Oakland cab driver, apparently a Sikh who had immigrated from India, treated my sister like dirt until he discovered that she was not a “scoundrel from Sri Lanka,” but a common black American. Talk about ironic: How often are black women spared indignities because they are African American?
“What are you?” dogged my little brother more than any of us. He came out looking just like his father, who was white. In the black communities of Los Angeles and Pasadena, my baby bro’ had to fight his way into blackness, usually winning only when he invited his friends to the house. When he got tired of this, he became what people thought he was–a cool white boy. Today he lives in Tokyo, speaks fluent Japanese, and is happily married to a Japanese woman (who is actually Korean passing as Japanese!). He stands as the perfect example of our mulattoness: a black boy trapped in a white body who speaks English with a slight Japanese accent and has a son who will spend his life confronting “the question.”
Although folk had trouble naming us, we were never blanks or aliens in a “black world.” We were and are “polycultural,” and I’m talking about all peoples in the Western world. It is not skin, hair, walk, or talk that renders black people so diverse. Rather, it is the fact that most of them are products of different “cultures”–living cultures, not dead ones. These cultures live in and through us every day, with almost no self-consciousness about hierarchy or meaning. “Polycultural” works better than “multicultural,” which implies that cultures are fixed, discrete entities that exist side by side–a kind of zoological approach to culture. Such a view obscures power relations, but often reifies race and gender differences.
Black people were polycultural from the get-go. Most of our ancestors came to these shores not as Africans, but as Ibo, Yoruba, Hausa, Kongo, Bambara, Mende, Mandingo, and so on. Some of our ancestors came as Spanish, Portuguese, French, Dutch, Irish, English, Italian. And more than a few of us, in North America as well as in the Caribbean and Latin America, have Asian and Native American roots.
Our lines of biological descent are about as pure as O.J.’s blood sample, and our cultural lines of descent are about as mixed up as a pot of gumbo. What we know as “black culture” has always been fluid and hybrid. In Harlem in the late 1960s and 1970s, Nehru suits were as popular–and as “black”–as dashikis, and martial arts films placed Bruce Lee among a pantheon of black heroes that included Walt Frazier of the New York Knicks and Richard Rountree, who played John Shaft in blaxploitation cinema. How do we understand the zoot suit–or the conk–without the pachuco culture of Mexican American youth, or low riders in black communities without Chicanos? How can we discuss black visual artists in the interwar years without reference to the Mexican muralists, or the radical graphics tradition dating back to the late 19th century, or the Latin American artists influenced by surrealism?
Vague notions of “Eastern” religion and philosophy, as well as a variety of Orientalist assumptions, were far more important to the formation of the Lost-Found Nation of Islam than anything coming out of Africa. And Rastafarians drew many of their ideas from South Asians, from vegetarianism to marijuana, which was introduced into Jamaica by Indians. Major black movements like Garveyism and the African Blood Brotherhood are also the products of global developments. We won’t understand these movements until we see them as part of a dialogue with Irish nationalists from the Easter Rebellion, Russian and Jewish émigrés from the 1905 and 1917 revolutions, and Asian socialists like India’s M.N. Roy and Japan’s Sen Katayama.
Indeed, I’m not sure we can even limit ourselves to Earth. How do we make sense of musicians Sun Ra, George Clinton, and Lee “Scratch” Perry or, for that matter, the Nation of Islam, when we consider the fact that space travel and notions of intergalactic exchange constitute a key source of their ideas?
So-called “mixed race” children are not the only ones with a claim to multiple heritages. All of us are inheritors of European, African, Native American, and Asian pasts, even if we can’t exactly trace our bloodlines to these continents.
To some people that’s a dangerous concept. Too many Europeans don’t want to acknowledge that Africans helped create so-called Western civilization, that they are both indebted to and descendants of those they enslaved. They don’t want to see the world as One–a tiny little globe where people and cultures are always on the move, where nothing stays still no matter how many times we name it. To acknowledge our polycultural heritage and cultural dynamism is not to give up our black identity. It does mean expanding our definition of blackness, taking our history more seriously, and looking at the rich diversity within us with new eyes.
So next time you see me, don’t ask where I’m from or what I am, unless you’re ready to sit through a long-ass lecture. As singer/songwriter Abbey Lincoln once put it, “I’ve got some people in me.”
From ColorLines (Winter 1999). Subscriptions: $15 for 6 issues from Dept. A-1, Box 3000, Denville, NJ 07834-9206.