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Over the last few months of writing a weekly column about my mixed background, I’ve realized how proud I am to be biracial in spite of the occasional sense of exclusion. I’ve talked about what racial categories mean to me, discussed the feeling of being excluded from my Algerian side
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Maybe the problem is that people are concerned with finding out which specific racial category I fall under. In reality, there’s not necessarily one right answer.
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For once I just wanted to feel like someone, or some group, understood my experience on a deeper level because it resonated with their own.
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After being in this environment for so long and having countless discussions about diversity and inclusion, I began to question my definition of diversity. I wondered if, when I was looking for diverse campuses, I was really just looking for the most multicultural ones.
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The late-night talks, the restaurant outings, and the student orgs all strengthened my understanding of all other identities at this university but my own.
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I noticed that the similarities between all of those perfect American families were not always present in my own. The differences that distinguished me would occasionally show up in side conversations at school, in silent judgment from friends or even in my own head at home.
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As we stood there, in the museum, I thought about my grandparents, who went to high school while living in barracks on the other side of a barbed wire fence.
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And while my dad couldn’t control the balance of my facial features, he did give me the one concrete thing he could — his mother’s name, Hafsa, and his family name, Tatah. He gave them to me so I was always aware of the family I was a part of and had something to show for it.
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I feel an obligation to engage in Japanese culture, and regardless of how others see me, I tell myself I belong within it.
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When people stare, I’m reminded that no matter how desperately I want to be a part of this culture, I will always be a mixed-race American.
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