Life As A Minority: 500 Words a Day – Day 3

Not sure if you guys heard, but I’m a minority.

When I ordered a DNA kit from 23andme.com last year I was hoping to dig up the usual information – family affairs, adoptions, the mailman was my father, and finally proving my sense of inner blackness with a 3% stake in African ethnicity.

But none of that came true. I’m 99.8% European. As white as you can be. Except for the 4% Italian and 2% Spanish there were no real surprises in there. I’m a classic European mut that was brought over here as the seed of a seed of a seed of a seed’s thought generations ago by Pilgrim type people that became politicians, lawyers, textile manufacturers, and philosophers.

I spent a few days accepting the fact that there was nothing ethnic about me, other than the fact that I change how I talk when I’m around black people, “Yeah that’s tight,” and I have been blessed with some decent rhythm (is that ethnic or just racist?).

After the sulking had reached its peak, I got an email from the American Ethnic Association with the most recent demographics in California. #1 – Latinos. Which means, I’m a fucking minority, people!

And it finally makes sense.

I’ve always felt like I really belonged more with the minority people and now I know why. Being a minority myself I understand the struggles that we have to go through just to survive. Every night at 5:45pm I hear the woman yelling, “TAMALES!!!” as loud as she can and the first couple nights I thought she was the usual crack head broad yelling at a bee but when I saw her rolling cart and her chubby son I knew she was just one of the local people hustling to make a living. And that’s what we do as minorities, we hustle to make a living.

Being as inspired as I was by her cultural authenticity and her work ethic, I drove to the NEAREST Whole Foods and bought some organic tamales to celebrate a real Latin night.

It’s not every day that dreams are realized and sometimes they come without warning.

But what’s worse – this one wasn’t exactly what I expected.

I was finally able to take the box out of my closet labeled “outfits for when you’re finally a minority” and start wearing them about town. These are things I had been collecting since my early teens in preparation for this day – a Viking helmet, my uncle George Washington’s powdered wig, and a replica bayonet with a brown leather ‘messenger’ strap. These were the key pieces I maintained in order to accurately represent my people.

And I have to say, as good as I look, things have been weird. I’m not sure people are taking me seriously. When I talk they are all like, “What?” like they can’t understand when I try to complain about my coffee order, “Thou knowest that ye coffee runneth a bit warmeth?” And it’s like no one cares at all what I have to say and the other day I didn’t get picked for the pick up basketball game because my 1″ colonial heels would have “scratched up the court.” “That’s poppycock!” I said. I think this whole minority thing sucks and I’m going to move to South Carolina where I’ll never be a minority, ever.

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