Mixed
I found myself in the Dragon’s Den the other night to catch some hip-hop. For those of you who don’t know, the Dragon’s Den is a little club in the Marigny that used to sit on top of a Thai food place (which has been replaced by Z’otz 3, which is a far cry from the elegant weirdness of the original Z’otz; duplicates and sequels are almost always inferior, but I digress). Regardless, Dragon’s Den is a strange dark space reminiscent of a broke downtown take on an opium den that has a wide assortment of music ranging from hip hop to gutter punk orchestral pieces.
I digress again… this night the music was something between hip hop and soul. Being a consummate honky, I find myself at a loss to describe it further. Music, most things in New Orleans, is subtly but definitively segregated, and I was glad to have yet another opportunity to view this other world without feeling like I was intruding. Besides, the music was good, even if I didn’t get all the musical and cultural references. I had come with my friend Miss Maybe, and we made our way back to sit on the wrought iron porch which is among Dragon’s Den’s best features. Before long we were beset by a number of lost individuals including a self-important Common Grounder. We sat and smoked an enjoyed the light rain despite these distractions.
Before long a couple sat down across from us; a black man and a pretty woman with blond curly hair. As we sat there, the delicate quiet was broken by a question:
“Are you mixed?”
The question was directed at Miss Maybe. She is someone who is fairly obviously of both African and European descent, pale coffee colored skin and facial features that suggest both. I winced- Miss Maybe is quite capable of laying down the law when confronted with someone saying something inappropriate, and questioning ethnicity is a hell of a way of saying Hi.
Miss Maybe took a moment to respond. “Yes, I am.”
The woman did not miss a beat. “Was your mother white?” she asked.
“No”, replied MM, her voice betraying a hairline crack of annoyance. “My father is white.”
“Oh.” Said the girl. There was something doe-like and innocent about her large eyes, which were focused on Miss M. “Do you identify as mixed?” asked the girl, blithely.
This was really too much. Who was this white girl to be asking M. Maybe about the details of her ethnicity? What fucking business was it of hers? Yet she approached with a naiveté that was curious and somewhat unnerving.
“I identify as black”, Miss Maybe stated. “Mixed has no political power.”
In addition to “What the Fuck?” another question was standing outside ringing the doorbell. Who isn’t mixed? I mean, I look damned “white” and despite nearly all my known ancestry arriving from Northern Europe fairly recently, I’ve got Paiute Indian blood five generations back (or so my family thinks). How many Black Americans don’t have some European ancestry after centuries of slavery and rape? How many white people whose families have lived in New Orleans for a few generations don’t have any African blood somewhere in there? How many people successfully “passe blanc”, to create this utterly false and hegemonic idea of “White”.
And if you want to go back further, how many Europeans don’t have an influx of East Asian genetics via the Mongols and the Magyar (Hungarians), or the Finno-Ugric peoples (Finns, Estonians)? Or Turkish blood from the centuries the Turks were in the Balkans? Or African blood in Italians, Spaniards and French via the Moors? Or Semitic blood? What the fuck is “White”, anyway?
My annoyance finally broke through, and I asked the girl- “Are _you_ mixed?”
“Yes”, she replied, and immediately I saw the African features in her face, and the green eyes under the blond hair. And I realized that she was asking these questions as much of herself as of Miss Maybe.
And I shut up.