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Being half of one is not enough of either
Mona Murhamer ScotLight Editor-in-Chief I grew up with one foot in two different cultures. In elementary school, I was allAmerican: I pledged my allegiance to the flag, read English chapter books at an accelerated rate, and inhaled grilled cheese sandwiches. But in my Persian-Austrian home, I burned esfand (rue seeds) when someone complimented me, spoke minimal English, and devoured kebab at dinner. And now, I am half and half and not enough of either. Not many people would guess that I am anything but a “basic white girl,” a phrase that has been used to describe me on more than one occasion. Honestly, I don’t blame anyone – I wear traditional white girl garb (Lululemon leggings and Uggs), speak with plenty of “likes” and “hellas” in my sentences, and religiously chug Starbucks peppermint mochas. So to the average passerby, I’m your regular white girl. But there’s more to me than the clothes I wear and the food I eat. I don’t fully identify myself as
white, but I don’t fully identify as being Persian either. When my extended family comes together around a tray of tea after dinner, I bury myself into the couch cushions and keep my mouth shut. I have no way of contributing to the stories about Iran because I’ve never been there. Conversations about politics and history go in one ear and out the other because some of the Persian vocabulary is too advanced for me to understand. Rosie Asmar, a senior, experiences the same disconnect with her Egyptian lineage. “Personally, I’m not really wellversed on Egyptian culture, especially because my dad’s family is all Coptic, and I was raised atheist,” she said. “Religion is a huge part of my family’s culture, so I do feel a bit left out when it comes to things like that.” This feeling, according to NPR, is known as Racial Impostor Syndrome, or “living at the intersection of different identities and cultures,” and it’s not uncommon. According to Pew Research Center, 61 percent of American adults don’t identify as multiracial, even though their backgrounds actually
include two or more races. When asked why they don’t identify as multiracial, 47 percent say it is because they only look like one race. For Asmar, it’s her hair that sets her apart. “A big thing that defines who I am as a person is my hair because my life has been shaped by it,” Asmar said. “I was bullied and left out because of my hair, and now people ask me uncomfortable questions regarding my hair or my racial identity.” I definitely relate. I don’t have the stereotypical thick, dark Persian hair, or the catlike dark brown eyes associated with my heritage, so I’m put into a racially ambiguous, “probably-of-Europeandescent” category. To everyone else, my green eyes and light brown hair don’t exactly scream Middle Eastern. Growing up, I heard, “But you don’t look Persian” more times than I can count, so I started to believe it. I feel uncomfortable trying to relate to problems Middle Eastern people face because, more often than not, I don’t face them. People treat me as though I am 100 percent white and free of discrimination, so I can’t say
that I know what it’s like to be openly regarded as a terrorist in public. But why does it matter? Why do I mumble out that I’m Middle Eastern when asked? Why do I ask myself if I’m “Persian enough” to contribute to #PraisinTheAsian? It’s 2018, and more than half of Americans are multiracial, according to Pew Research Center. Being mixed is the norm, especially in the Bay Area’s diverse community. The problem lies in how comfortable we are accepting our own and each others’ multi-ethnic backgrounds. “I think people see me and get uncomfortable trying to pin a racial category on me,” Asmar said. “People ask me, ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Where is your dad from?’ ‘What are you?’ They mean well, but it can be tiring to answer these questions– especially because I don’t owe them any answers.” I’ve learned that I’m the only person who can categorize my heritage. I am Persian, and I am white, and I am enough to identify with both. So yes, I enjoy Starbucks and Ugg slippers, but there’s nothing like a generous helping of kebab and rice for dinner.
Photo by Isabel Mitchell, Photoillustration by Sophie Lynd