I just loved this story by Kim Nelson, so I’m reblogging for your enjoyment. Please send comments to the original blog.
My mom was born and raised in the Philippines, and my dad is white (of Irish and Swedish heritage). When I fill out a form and come to the race question, I usually check “Other.” My siblings and I run the gamut of varying shades on the ethnic-looking scale from “white-ish” to “definitely mixed something-or-other, but can’t tell what exactly.” In person, I’ve been mistaken for: Latina, Hawaiian, Native American, Italian, and Inuit. A friend of mine once told me that I should be a model for stock photos on bank brochures–stick me in a wheelchair, and the art director can easily check off 5 different boxes of required representative diversity.
In other words, I’ve always been an “Other.” I’m not saying that I’ve ever been oppressed because of how I look; I recognize the privilege I still have as someone who only looks vaguely something-or-other. I’ve never been…
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