Almost a Quarter

Dear World,

How must I define myself? Is there a label for me, short of my name and full identity? Not for my ethnicity. Apparently. In a world of absolutes, there is no room for the girl who’s ‘almost a quarter’ Tongan. There certainly isn’t in the tags for these short stories. If I chose to write a story about Otai, it would inevitably be lost in the sea of other tales. At this point, I’m okay with that. I don’t need to stand out.

All I need, for the moment, is an outlet. A way to express myself. A way to put myself out there. A way to clear my head. To vanquish the loud silence that seems to threaten every waking moment. To have a voice that isn’t silenced. And for a while, as I write, I do.

Then, I choose not to submit a story. What is the title? Otai. Why? Because in the midst of the great descriptors we use, the way these stories are organized, there is nothing to describe it, other than “fiction”. And that didn’t feel quite right.

If my cousin were here, seeing me struggle to choose a tag for this, he would probably tell me to, ‘just choose black’. That’s funny to me, in an odd sort of way.

How we seem to scramble to label all people of color into the same two boxes, “Hispanic” and “Black”. At least, that’s what we do where I’m from. Funnily enough, I’m neither.

I’m not Hispanic. That’s simple enough to say. Sure, both of my parents speak Spanish, but I only know a little. I guess that’s one way I’ve failed in life. I cannot begin to tell you the amount of times my mom was mistaken for Hispanic. In store lines. In hospitals. On walks. Specifically, she was mistaken for Mexican. Which was funny, because she didn’t speak Mexican Spanish. She spoke Peruvian Spanish.

My mom isn’t even Hispanic, she just served a mission in Peru. I remember times when she was asked for help speaking to people who only spoke Spanish, and, being her, she would help. Then, she would call up my aunt, and they would vent together.

I’m not black either. Neither are my cousins. Even though sometimes they pretend to be. If I were to speak of anything here, I would speak of Blackbirding, but that deserves it’s own place. So, with not much more to say on the matter, I’m not black.

But can I really be called Tongan?

I’m only a little bit less than a quarter Tongan. I almost feel sick saying that. The "only" tastes wrong in my mouth. It goes against everything I've tried to stand for. Everything I've ever failed to stand for. I think I was in fourth, maybe fifth grade when I first decided that I wouldn’t “divide my blood.” Why? Because I read a book, and for once, read the author’s afterword. She taught me that blood isn’t the be all end all for cultural identity. I’m grateful for that.

Thing is, I’ve never been to Tonga. Not once. I was born and raised in The United States of America, where I currently reside. I’ve hardly eaten the food. I haven’t been to many Tongan parties, except for a wedding and my cousin’s mission farewell. I don’t know how to dance. I don’t even know the language. In fact, one of the only words I know is “palangi”.

Maybe that’s what I am. In the end. Just some white girl. I know that’s what I look like. I certainly don’t look Tongan, unless I’m standing beside my mom. I remember freshman year of high school, going to check out the POP club, and being told, “You don’t have to be Poly to join.” I got that a lot.

My brother looks more Tongan than I do. Darker. Taller. No one knew we were siblings until I told them. Once, in class, I mentioned him to a mutual friend of ours, and he asked me how I knew him. When I told him he was my brother, he was surprised. Everyone always was. He said we didn’t look alike. I asked him to elaborate. Then, he said, hesitantly “He’s, like, black.” He didn’t mean literally, but I knew what he meant.

Meanwhile, I was white as a ghost. Except in comparison to most of my friends, in which case, I was pretty brown. Once, a couple of my friends were comparing summer tans, and sharing tales of sunburns, and I walked up to them, holding out my arm. One of them rolled their eyes and said, “Yours is genetic.” I walked away.

Honestly, I might have brought that on myself, in a way. I’ve done that so much in my life. Not speaking up when something isn’t quite right. Once, a friend of mine told me to, “Go back to my home country.” she said I “wasn’t a real American.” It was a joke. I knew that. If I’d told her to stop, she would’ve. I knew that. But for too long, I didn’t. I didn’t ask her to stop until she noticed how uncomfortable I was. In fact, she was the one who asked me if I wanted her to stop. I said yes. She stopped. Never said anything like that again. I love her for that. We’re still friends.

I could speak on those jokes and their kind more. So much more. But they deserve their own place.

I have to admit that I’ve been lucky. Throughout my life, I haven’t had as much contact with racism and exclusion as I could’ve. Not looking Tongan helps with that. I haven’t been turned away from my dad’s hospital room because of how I looked. I mean, technically I was the one turned away, but that wasn’t specific to me. Most of the schist I’ve had to either deal with or walk away from hasn’t been specifically for me. It’s never as much my business as someone else’s.

So, as it is not my business, I silence myself. In a world where voices are systematically silenced, I silence myself. Why? Because I can’t seem to fit myself into the boxes the world gives me. Because none of the tags are adequate. Because there isn't room anywhere for the "Tongan White Girl". And that doesn’t feel quite right. So, I ask you again:

Dear World, how must I define myself?