I do not care about pageants much. I mean, I'm certainly not pageant material, and save being psyched that my sister was Mrs. Wichita one year, not my cup of tea.
But man, oh man, was there uproar in my Facebook feed about the new Miss America. Apparently Miss Kansas should have won.
(Don't get me wrong, Miss Kansas is gorgeous and patriotic and I totally dig her.)
More, apparently Miss New York shouldn't have.
...Of Indian descent???????
The woman was born in Ohio. She's brilliant. She's beautiful. She had as much a right to compete in that contest and win as any other woman.
Even Miss Kansas.
So what does she have to do with me?
Turns out, we are of Indian descent also.
Yep, that little sandy blonde boy of mine has more INDIAN in his genetic makeup than any other ethnicity.
I don't hide the fact that my dad is not my biological father. I didn't even know he wasn't until I was twelve (they got married when I was a baby) and admittedly, that was sort of a life-changing thing for a tween to find out. I was ashamed and embarrassed and don't even remember why.
Different. I didn't want to be different.
Short, frizzy-haired and huge glasses...gracious...last thing we needed to add in to that equation was a sperm donor who got my mom pregnant, told her to have an abortion (this was before abortion was legalized, friends...sperm donor was a real prize, no?) and left her high and dry to make my self-esteem just rocket.
Anyhoo...it should be noted—I could not have been given a better father. He was exactly who God chose to raise me and walk me down the aisle and let me tell you something—that sperm donor has missed out on one heckuva daughter and grandsons.
People (rudely) have always asked me "What I was"...basically questioning my ethnicity because of my 'beautiful skin color'. I imagine most meant well and were, in their own ways (?), trying to be complimentary, but all it's done is make me very self-conscious.
For a long, long, LONG time, I'd tell people I was Irish-Italian. Stereo-typically, that would make sense...even John thought I was Mediterranean when he first met me, and I have a personality some could see tying in. Do not ask me what it was about being Italian that I thought was better or more respectable than being Indian, but for whatever reason, I did.
Yep. I was embarrassed to say, "Indian."
On the rare, rare occasion that I would answer the question of 'where I got my beautiful skin,' with, "Indian," I'd get silence and a stare. Then, I'd get asked, "What tribe?"
For the love of sugar and cream!!!
I'd then go on and say, "No, like the country of India. You know, dot on forehead?"
(Again, ashamed, ashamed I'd say something like that.)
Somehow, saying things like, "Dot on forehead, 7-11/gas station owner, etc." INSTANTLY took people to the 'right' type of Indian.
Sad, sad, sad.
Do you know that once I went to meet the sperm donor? Once I wanted to see what he thought—if he was curious—what his medical history was like because John and I were trying to start our family.
He shut the door in my face. Immediately hearing my mother's name made him turn white, literally, and he shut the door in my face.
I wasn't upset.
I mean, truly, I've never wanted for anything growing up and the man who married my mother and committed to raising me as his own flesh and blood in the process was such a better deal for me.
But I just couldn't believe that man's callousness. His arrogance. His cowardice.
Several years ago, my sister met her husband. He was a young, hard-working man who had immigrated to the US with his family from India a few years before.
My sister has a life-threatening disease. Her husband and his family have stood by her and with her for years. They are hard-working and beyond, beyond, BEYOND gracious to my family when we visit. (In fact, John loves to visit because my sister's mother-in-law cooks up a crazy amount of Indian food just for John...)
And you know what? Several years ago I realized that I was being petty and ridiculously ignorant by lying about Indian descent because my brother-in-law's family was just a beautiful picture of what it meant to be hard-working, family-loving AMERICANS.
So, while I don't go around broadcasting my lineage (in fact, this blogpost is probably one of the most revealing things I've ever written), I don't hide it anymore.
But things like I've read today are the exact reason I did...(Excuse the language. It is vulgar and grotesque and makes my heart hurt.)
Ummm....with all DUE respect, I'm just sick over the IGNORANCE.
Those are just a very few of the tweets I found.
This is the kind of mentality my kid will grow up with.
This is the kind of ignorance that has made me ashamed much of my life.
This is the kind of stuff that breaks my heart.
I don't even know what to make of this. My mother was as blonde and blue-eyed as they come. My relatives fought in the Revolutionary War. Most days, no one would think about saying things like that about me because I don't 'look' a certain way. Luke certainly doesn't look like he'd be the victim of racism.
But could he?
By rights, to quote my mother, "I reckon' he could."