Why Am I Still Called “Colored” Here in Africa?

The Intro

When I first visited South Africa, I got into a conversation with one of my newfound friends there. I was asked about my ethnicity/race, to which I replied, “I’m Black.” (Of course with a puzzled look on my face stemming from why she would ask me this) She then with wide-eyes and a dropped jaw gasped and said, “You’re not Black, your colored. I mean what are you mixed with?” I was almost floored. Colored? Colored? This is a term that has not been used in the U.S. since before the days of Martin Luther King Jr. Even he did not refer to Black Americans as “colored” but as (also an outdated term) “negroes.” Today, if you refer to a Black American as “colored” (especially if you are not Black) you will most likely have a serious fight on your hands. I had a stepfather once who would use this term, but he was a World War II veteran born in 1921. The only other time I heard this term spoken in front of me was from an old White bigot who came into the department store I was working in at the time (in Georgia) and asked about the “colored boy, Bernard.” This “boy” (another American racist term used in this context) he asked about, Bernard, was a Black man in his late forties to early fifties who was a pastor that sold men’s clothing there part-time. Because I wanted to keep my job and my mother brought me up to respect elderly people—no matter what, I calmed myself and simply replied, “He is not working here today sir.” But believe me, I wanted to punch him in his toothless mouth so hard, that his little grandchildren would cry from it.

Anyway, I answered her. I am a child of a Mexican-American father and a Black American mother. In California, people like me are jokingly referred to as “blaxican.” On the west coast as opposed to the east coast, there is a huge gap between the Hispanic and Black communities. Most Hispanics in California and the western U.S. in general gain their heritage from Mexican (or what was formally the property of Mexico until America “gained” it) descent. However, on the east coast, the Hispanic community is mainly comprised of both Hispanic and African contributions because these people come from nations that imported sizable amounts of African slaves (i.e. Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, etc.). Thus, the cultural and relational gap is much narrower. Also in the western part of the U.S., many in the Hispanic community refer to themselves as “Mexican” even if they are American citizens--born and raised as such. This is more of a regional cultural identification rather than a rejection of their true nationality. Hence it is an accepted and understood term in this part of America.

Back to the conversation in South Africa… I explained to her that we don’t use such terms in America and that they are actually quite offensive. But she in turn explained to me that being labeled “colored” in South Africa simply meant that a person was of mixed racial descent (of course by mixed racial descent, it is understood to mean that one or more of one’s ancestry had to be of Black African origin). Thus, to be “mixed” most likely refers to being “Black” and something else (as opposed to a mixture of two or more non-Black groups). As far as that goes, it is pretty much the same here in the U.S. However, even though my father is of Mexican-American descent and my mother is Black, I am considered and referred to as simply “Black.” When someone may venture out and ask what else I am “mixed with”, it is not a question of racial identification—because no matter what, as long as one of my parents is Black, I am Black—it is simply an inquiry intended to yield further clarification regarding my ethnicity and other cultural make-up. Stated differently, in America, Blackness has nothing to do with paternity or maternity by themselves as in other cultures, but it has to do with whether or not any of your parents have within them genetic material contributed by a progenitor from Black Africa. America currently operates on what is commonly known as the “one-drop rule,” meaning that if a person has but “one drop” of “black blood” in them, they are to be considered and categorized as Black. And here it was for all these years, that I thought we all had “red” blood. Such a policy is also referred to scientifically as the “hypo-descent rule.” This rule stipulates that racially mixed people are to be assigned or designated the status of the “subordinate” or “inferior” group. Historically, wherever Whites and Blacks dwelled together, Blacks were usually put into such roles through slavery, systematic discrimination, social customs, and/or by force. But it was not always this way.

The Background

In America during the days of slavery and for a brief period following its “legal” abolishment, a person’s race was dictated by the ordinance in whatever state that person was in. For example some states considered a person white if they only had up to ¼ of Black parentage (the equivalent of a grandparent) while others restricted it to 1/8 (a great grandparent). Such policies gave rise to terms like quadroon (1/4 Black) and octoroon (1/8 Black). This issue became significant in nature because in a land where a person’s race determined the class of their citizenship and thus their access to certain types of employment, legal rights within the civil and criminal judiciary system, marriage, etc. how one was categorized racially determined so much of their life and potentially what was available to them in quality as well as quantity (education, healthcare, land, etc.). Therefore, even though a person may have had “black blood” in them, it was so much more advantageous to minimize this presence of such blood and maximize the legitimacy of one’s Whiteness—or life would be so much tougher otherwise. As for those that were half and half, well, they were of course classified as Black. In fact, it was not uncommon for slave-owners or their sons to sire children from their female slaves and then sell (what was in all actuality their own offspring) these children into slaver y. In instances like these, the slave-owner would act as his own “stud” to create livestock—of course for profit. Take a moment and let that sink in…

However, this form of racial classification changed drastically at the dawn of the 20^th century mainly through the efforts of racist Democrat politicians in the Southern American states like Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and so on. To gain a stronger grip on political power, assert White social, economic, and political supremacy, and to reinforce the aforementioned by further disenfranchising Black America, new laws were passed to classify people racially. No longer was a person considered White if they could prove that the majority of their ancestry was, now if a person had “any known” Black African ancestry they were deemed Black. In certain states that wanted to mathematically clarify this, the Black to White ratios went from ¼ and 1/8 to 1/16 (a great, great grandparent) and even 1/32 (a great, great, great grandparent).  This in a way made Blackness into a sort of “racial contaminant.” In other words, once Blackness is introduced into a racial mixture, it deems the product unfit to be classified as anything other than that which contaminated it—Blackness. Yes, we get our definition about Blackness in today’s America from a rather racist ideal. In addition, this did a few other things; it further restricted the political and thus economic and social standing of Blacks, it also created a sort of binary view of race in America (you were either Black and disenfranchised or White and privileged), and finally (probably not intentionally) it solidified and galvanized the Black and bi-racial community socially because in a sense they were all in the same (proverbial) boat. It is still the same today. No matter what you are “mixed” with, in the U.S. you are accepted as Black within the Black community if you have some type of black parentage.

In South Africa things were a bit different. I went to another friend of mine from South Africa for clarity regarding this issue. He told me that there, when one deals with pure to mixed race individuals (I use the term “pure” very lightly) there were (and to an extent still are) three main branches: Black, White, and Colored. During the Apartheid era, both Black and Colored individuals were discriminated against and suffered under harsh exclusionary policies rooted in racist and White supremacist ideology. But, according to him, people classified as “Colored” enjoyed a little bit better treatment than their Black brothers and sisters. I would guess that this could have been used to divide these two disenfranchised communities—which of course would serve the Whites interest. One thing that the White racist colonists have taught the world in regards to dealing with Black people—Do not give them something to fight for, but leave just enough for them to fight over. Because I grew up partially in the Reagan and Bush Sr. era, we got very little information about South Africa. These president’s policies towards this nation steeped in racist violence against its majority Black citizenry was one of neutrality and silence. To me then, our politicians silence made them complicit in the abuse and inhumanity. Therefore, as a child and teen-ager all I can recall about South Africa was Apartheid and Nelson Mandela.

Not only have I faced this issue in South Africa, but in other places and with other acquaintances of mine from various parts of Africa. I live and work in Northeast Africa so I am mistaken for being an Arab all the time (especially when I am wearing a beard). I don’t have to tell you how much this sucks in certain airports. But in this part of Africa, if you say you’re Black (or Arab for that matter) they’ll take your word for it. Other times, my Swahili speaking Kenyan friends have asked about my ethnicity. Amazingly, one of them wondered and asked if I was White or not. I could not understand this one because I have full lips, a rounded nose, very curly hair, and caramel colored skin. Nonetheless, this person said that if I were to arrive at her village, I would be called “Mzungu” (a common Swahili term usually employed to describe White people but also not so often used to label any foreign outsider). But the worst name I have heard came from a very good friend of mine from Rwanda. I asked this person how I would be classified in Rwanda, and I was told as a “half-caste.” When I heard this term I was immediately appalled. The term caste is usually associated with the social system of extreme discrimination practiced in India. So, to me this term spoke less of my racial identification than it did of my social value. However, when I realized this came from a Rwandese person I better understood. You see, Rwanda, probably more than most other African nations, has always had serious issues in regards to societal classification in terms of race, ethnicity, tribe, clan, etc. They are one of the few African nations that have had these deep seeded issues before, during, and even after colonialism. My Rwandese friend also told me that some in Rwanda would refer to me as a “point five.” This was not as offensive as the other name, but if someone calls me a “point five” they will not get the same pass as the old man in the department store.

My Take

As a kid growing up in Northern California, I had no question about my racial classification. I was Black. Nothing in the U.S. awakens you to this truth more than hearing a White person refer to you as a nigger. Yes, in the 1980’s and 1990’s I heard this word almost every day of my life when my mother married my now diseased stepfather and we moved to a very rural area where there were no more than 10-15 Black kids at the elementary, middle, and high schools I went to. Not until I was able to move in with my father (at age 16), who lived in a decent sized city, was I not forced to endure such ignorance. This ignorance was not only displayed by the students, but also by adults. I once remember a teacher of mine in high school telling me (of course the only Black student in that particular Math class) that if I didn’t make it in life I could always be a “doorman.” Anyway, although my father is Mexican-American, the large amount of Hispanic kids still referred to me as “mayate” (the Mexican-American equivalent of calling a Black person a “nigger”). Put simply, the fact that my father shared the same ethnicity as they did meant nothing--I was judged by my mother’s Blackness. But being the attention junkie that I am, this really did not bother me. I knew what I was. I knew I was Black--with a Mexican father. The racial slurs and jokes did not make me bitter against Whites or other non-Blacks. I did not (as many of them did) judge the whole because of the ignorance of a few.  In fact the constant teasing only sharpened my verbal skills and thus, I became more quick-witted. I could and can still take a joke—but be ready for my comebacks. If one of those White or Hispanic kids had the guts to call me out, in the end he would be the one being laughed at and teased. I decided early that I could not fight everyone who called me nigger. That would become and waste of my time. The best thing to do with the ignorance within someone is to expose it. So, I may have been a nigger, but I was a smart one. I got better grades than them, was more creative than them, and when my hormones started kicking in, I was taking their girls from them. When I made the honor roll, won art and writing contests, and collected the phone numbers of young White and Hispanic girls at school, it was my way of gaining vindication. Besides, I had so many non-Black friends who weren’t at all bothered by my color that in the scheme of things, I knew that there was nothing wrong with me--but with them. I am so thankful that I did not develop the proverbial chip on my shoulder and harbor hate towards White people.

Nonetheless, this semi-exclusion of sorts actually compelled me to further embrace my Blackness. I can remember all of this converged with the strong emergence of rap music—particularly rap music that focused on Black pride and issues affecting Black America. I would listen endlessly to groups and rappers like Public Enemy, KRS-One, Gangstarr, Paris, Eric B. & Rakim, N.W.A., Ice Cube, Ice T, etc. These guys would teach me about America’s systematic racism and their efforts to hide their evil, violent, and racist past as a nation. I would hear them rap about inner-city racism practiced by police, educational systems, the judicial system, and public service employees. These rappers let me know that even though the civil rights movement may have ended, being Black in America still set me up to deal with discrimination and the prejudgment of many of its citizens. I even began to wear one of those old-school black leather medallions with a cut out of the continent of Africa painted red, green, and yellow on it. It was also about this time that I read the Autobiography of Malcolm X (a book that still to this day shapes my thinking). I peppered my speech with more slang and would use the word “nigga” frequently. I was also into Spike Lee and John Singleton movies. Of course all these suburban White kids were getting into this stuff too. Furthermore, my father’s marriage after my mother was to another Black woman. We went to a predominantly Black church. My dad, being heavily involved in church, had mostly Black friends. So my environment, both far and near was predominantly Black. I didn’t grow up in a bilingual household like my Hispanic friends. The music my father and stepmother listened to was mainly Black Gospel music, while my mother mostly listened to R&B. We all watched shows like The Cosby Show, A Different World, Different Strokes, 227, Sanford and Son, Goodtimes, and In Living Color. All these factors fed into and reinforced my sense of Blackness.

 I was not consciously denying my Hispanic heritage, but the fact is, I was never allowed to experience it in the first place. Before I could delve into it, I was prevented from doing so from the very people who shared my father’s racial/ethnic identification. I was not prevented from doing so by my father’s side of the family.  I didn’t see them that much because they lived in Southern California while we lived up north (ask any true Californian and they will tell you that Northern and Southern California are like two different states). Besides, they always showed my brothers and me nothing but love. But this was perpetuated by the Hispanic kids I dealt with at school. To be honest though, I was so used to being “Black” that the desire to be anything else never really materialized. However, I knew that there was more to being “Mexican-American” than piñatas at birthday parties, speaking Spanglish (an American form of a linguistic hybrid of English and Spanish), mariachi music, low-riders, tattoos of the Virgin Mary, and mobile taco trucks. Ironically, my father never brought this up. He understood my racial classification in America and never did anything to discourage me from exploring and living it.

My mother and father taught me—ingrained in me even, not to judge people according to things such as race and/or skin color. My mother, father, and stepmother never treated any of my friends different--no matter what race/color they were. As I write this, I must admit that I feel a bit teary eyed thinking about how I would bring White, Hispanic, Black, Asian, and mix-raced friends to my house and none of my parents would ever treat them funny or later try to put any racist garbage in my mind. It feels good to be able to deal with ignorance head-on as a kid at school and then to come home and see my parents show me the true meaning of color-blind love. Out of my six younger brothers (I have no sisters), five are married. One married a Mexican-American woman, one married a woman who is mixed with Filipino and Black, two married White women, and one married a Black woman. My mother of course married my father who is Hispanic, then remarried my first stepfather who was Black, and after he passed away, she married a man who is both Japanese and Italian American. More than any other family I have ever encountered, my family has shown that true love and family transcends such trivial things as race and skin color. Not only my immediate family but my aunts and uncles have done likewise. My stepmother who is Black has three brothers and one sister. Of these, I have gained one black aunt, two white aunts, and an uncle from Nigeria through marriage. On my father’s side I have gained a White aunt and two White uncles through marriage. Yes, I have a cousin who has dark hair and tan brown skin (like most Latinas) and at the same time I have one with blonde hair and blue eyes. When I am with them, they are my first cousins and I am proud to be so.

So What Should I Be Called?

                Still today, I feel the same way. I am Black. Technically, one can call me “mixed”, “bi-racial”, or maybe any of the other creative monikers I have been labeled with while in Africa. But at the end of the day, as an American, I am Black. There are a few reasons why I cling to this. None of which is any desire for me to reduce or deny my Hispanic heritage. No, not at all. Like I said before, I appreciate it, but in the Mexican-American world of the time and place I grew up in, I was not shown a seat at their cultural/ethnic table. It was for all intents and purposes closed to me and others of my “kind.” No, reason number one is because if I were to have grown up in the days of slavery or America’s enforcement of Jim Crow laws, I would have had to eat, drink, and even relieve myself in facilities intended for “colored people.” I would have gone to “colored” schools, attended a “colored” church, and slept in “colored” motels. In America, there were no “half-breed” accommodations that were better than the colored ones but not quite as nice as the White ones. You were either Black or White. Moreover, in the days of slavery, there were no plantations for “mixed-breeds” as myself. I would be picking the same cotton, getting the same whipping, and suffering from the same lack of rights and privileges as slaves with two Black parents. Another reason is that when racists look at me, no matter what color they are, I am still a nigger, coon, darkie, shine, monkey-ape-baboon, spade, spear-chucker, eggplant, porch monkey, or whatever derogatory term they use to describe me. I would suffer the same fate and abuse as someone with two Black parents—and I actually have. Never in my life was I treated better than a person with two Black parents because I only have one. Finally, I would be classified as Black by most other people regardless of their racial attitudes. How is my president, Barak Obama classified? Black--but he has a White mother. How is Bob Marley classified? Black--but he had a White British Father. How is musical genius, Quincy Jones classified? Black--but his mother was ethnically Jewish. So, why not be consistent? Besides, I love being me. Always have and I hope that I always will. I love my Blackness and am very proud of it—even more so since I have lived here in the land from which it originated—no matter if they recognize it or not!

After speaking with a person about this entry and contemplating further about this issue, I have decided to share a little bit more. I guess in some sense what I feel is that people like me who have a Black parent and a parent of another race/ethnicity who grew up in American society may at times feel forced to embrace our Blackness and only that--whether we want to or not. I have never met any other by-racial person like myself that has a Black parent claim to be anything other than Black. They may mention what they are "mixed" with simply as a side-bar or asterisk of sorts. It's always, "I am Black mixed with______" never "I am ______ mixed with Black." In America, the Blackness seems to become the racial dominator by "societal default." I remember hearing in Biology class that dark skin, brown eyes, and curly hair are all expressions of dominant genes. I guess that has in some way been translated into racial expression in terms of society's way of categorizing you. I chose this partially because in a way it chose me. Like I said earlier, I was not given a chance to explore my Hispanic side. Upon further reflection, I feel that there may be some feelings in me of being deprived. Maybe this system of almost forcing people like me to choose one side--or better stated, have one side chosen and forced upon them, is extremely unfair. Who knows? As a man in his mid-thirties, I see I have so much more to learn about myself. It hurts to feel that the Hispanic side of me in terms of exploring it and at times being it was killed before it had a chance to grow. But who do I blame? I could not force those others to accept me? Should I have gone it alone? Should I have just said, "I am Mexican." and denied my Blackness while my skin tone, hair, and lips told a different story? I remember knowing a person who is mixed like me having an Indian girlfriend. Her parents allowed her to date outside her race but forbade her to date anyone Black. Since this guy was half Black, he would still be considered Black by her parents. Well, he eventually met them, but because he didn't want to cause trouble, he told them he was Turkish. I also remember working as a substitute teacher. In a particular class there was a significant number of Southeast Asians. This was a 3rd or 4th grade class. I remember at one moment turning my back and one of these children yelled out, "Nigger!" I don't know if he was trying to be mean or funny. I was an educated professional. I was for that day his teacher. But to him, a minority himself, I was just a nigger. Also during this time in a conversation with some children of the same age, I was told by another Southeast Asian boy that his parents told he and his siblings that they should marry within their ethnicity. But if they wanted they could marry a White person. However, they were told never to bring a Black person home. For some reason, so much of the world has been told that Blacks are at the bottom rung on the ladder of racial hierarchy. I remember as a child my father once sat me down and told me, "Son you have two strikes against you--you're Black and you're Mexican." I didn't really understand him then, but I understand him now more than he knows. No one chooses their parents and thus their racial/ethnic category. But as humanity in the 21st century, when will we get past the color (or lack thereof) of a person's skin and pick something less trivial to misjudge him or her by?