My father is full-blooded East Indian, the second generation born in Jamaica, the West Indies, and the first in his line to marry outside of the Indian community. My mother was born in Alabama, at least the second generation born in the US and believed to be of Scots-Irish and German heritage. My parents met and married in Chicago in the early 1950’s. My sisters were born on opposite sides of the planet, the first in Chicago, the second in India, and eventually my family ended up back in Jamaica, where I was born years later. Before I turned 5 years old, we moved to the US permanently.
Shortly after moving to Buffalo, NY, we settled in the northern suburbs, perhaps not completely by coincidence on Jamaica Road. As you might guess, we were the only family actually from Jamaica living on that street. There was a notable and diverse bunch of kids on our road, and for the most part we all played together. My best friend during that time, Alan, and his Irish-Catholic family, the Carmichaels, lived a few houses down on the same side of the street. Like me, he had two sisters who were older, but closer to our ages, especially the younger one, Kathy. Across the street lived a Jewish family, the Wolfishes, and their daughter Carol. Also across the street were Ricky and Susan Majerowski from a Polish-Catholic family. Farther up that side of the street was Reggie Marsh, the son of the only African-American family on our street at that time – to be honest, there could have been others, but I only remember the families with kids and our next door neighbors. In any case, I wouldn’t call them a token African-American family, not when you consider the diversity of ethnic communities represented.
Keep in mind, we lived there for a five year period starting in 1969, when I was only 5 years old – how integrated was your neighborhood back then? These kids were all within a year or two of my age, except the older of the Carmichael girls. Both Kathy and Susan were one or two years older, while their brothers Alan and Ricky were both a year or so younger than I was. Only Carol and Reggie were my age. I think Carol went to some sort of religious school, so Reggie was the only neighborhood kid in any of my classes. Unfortunately, he singled me out to bully, but I was not the only recipient of his aggression. He was always civil in the presence of authority figures.
There was some period of time early on, when the bullying was physical. He would push and taunt me during our four block walk home after school. One day I finally lost it. He was behind me, pushing, and I swung around and cold cocked him pretty sharply right on the chin. It was just a flash of penned up anger that finally burst out. When my fist connected with his chin, I saw the damage I could do and lost any will to fight. He tackled me, wrestled me to the ground and made me cry "uncle". It is true what they say about the psychology of my situation – I was more afraid of my own anger and capacity for violence than of getting hurt.
There was the predictable meeting of the parents, arising in part from Reggie’s complaints about his sore jaw. Reggie’s physical bullying stepped back a notch but continued for a while – perhaps to establish that he still had the upper hand – then eventually stopped. After that, he relied mostly on verbal bullying and intimidation. For example he enjoyed threatening to injure or poison our family’s cat. I guess it is no surprise that he tended not to socialize with the rest of the kids on the street. Regardless, Reggie and I had plenty of contact both in school and in the scouts.
We sustained a workable truce for most of those years. I find it sad that we did not learn to be real friends. After all, our fathers’ skin was equally dark, even if the tone and hue was somewhat different. In this regard, he had more in common with me than any other kid on the street. Yet, since my mother was White, I had just as much in common with the other kids on the street. This might have established my fondness for neutrality on life’s big questions. It may also explain why Reggie targeted me, possibly resenting how readily I integrated with the other kids. I have long considered in what ways I might have invited Reggie’s cruelty. Perhaps I was just a convenient target – playful and hyperactive, and pushy in my own way.
Sometime after our physical confrontation, I remember making a big blunder. One day, Reggie was still taunting me as we walked home. To throw him off, I parroted as best as I could, something my father had said. I told Reggie that he had a chip on his shoulder because he is "Negro" – this was the accepted term in Jamaica at the time; the term "Black" had not been widely adopted. In any case, Reggie started screaming that I had called him a "Nigger" and ran home. I had no idea what he was screaming. I had to ask my parents to explain it to me. It was only then that I learned of this horrible word, because I had never heard it before.
Not so for Reggie. That word must have been so deeply ingrained into Reggie’s sense of self that he expected to be victimized by it. Perhaps there was some truth to what my dad said about the chip on his shoulder. Of course, much of the blame must be attributed to a dysfunctional society in the midst of righting itself. And I don’t hold Reggie responsible for any racial bias passed on from his parents. My dad did his share to pass on his not-so-balanced worldview on race and in no way prepared me to handle Reggie’s personal issues.
My dad always demanded to be treated "White", and he raised us to expect to be treated as Whites. His bias was undeniable and unapologetic, though not entirely reconciled with his equally strong identity as an Indian. He was entrenched in the "us and them" paradigm. That’s how it was in Jamaica, where Africans were in the overwhelming majority. All other ethnicities, primarily British, Chinese and East Indians were few in number but affiliated strongly with each other. So in Jamaica, if you were Indian, you were considered White. It is possible – even likely that I unwittingly revealed some of this racial bias in a way that provoked Reggie. I would like to think otherwise but must allow for the possibility. We were just little kids; anything is possible. Except for the dubious "N word" incident, I hope that Reggie would look back and report that I never denigrated his race.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I felt much more White when I was still a child. We weren’t in Jamaica anymore, and I faced my share of discrimination as the years passed. My dad doubts whether I have any pride in my Indian heritage, because I legally shortened my last name when I was in my mid-twenties – my name at birth was Kirk Narinder Serabjit-Singh. In spite of this questionable choice, I do take my heritage seriously. Given my father’s view on being White, you might think that I would check the boxes next to "White" on all of those ethnicity questionnaires. I don’t. I also don’t dutifully check the boxes marked "Asian". Wherever possible I indicate my ethnicity as both White and Asian.
That is exactly how I reported my race on a Human Resources form that I submitted to one of my managers in the mid-1990’s. My manager delicately asked why I listed my race this way – not for any business related reason – but to satisfy his own curiosity. I explained that I felt equal claim to all of my ethnic make-up. He was surprised at my views. He expected that I would report myself simply as Asian. The view that any racial mixing corrupts Whiteness is typical in the United States. You are only White, if you have no claim to some other ethnicity. Contrast this with Jamaica, where all non-Africans seemed to consider themselves White. Even my first wife held this typical American view on White purity when we met. However, after hearing my perspectives on ethnicity, she was startled to see her own unconscious bias. She was White; my manager was Black.
Today, our society is undergoing tremendous demographic change. If I had known early in my career that eventually, half of my coworkers would be East Indians, I might never have shortened my name. Back then, it was much easier to navigate the business world with a short and simple name. Even now, I hear complaints that Indian names are difficult to pronounce and remember – to be honest, I have trouble with some of them too. Many people are patient and do what they can to adapt to our new neighbors. Others are fearful or resentful. India’s highly skilled and immense workforce is becoming a serious threat to America’s place in the world economy. There is a growing bias against the influx of Indians and outsourcing of jobs to India. The bias can be seen subtly in the workplace and on the street, and blatantly in the mass media. Again, I am somewhat neutral, allowing me affinity with both sides, if only at arm's length.
I understand that at first, I am a curiosity to my Indian peers. Until just a few years ago, there were very few East Indians in the US. Indians today can tell from my name and facial features that I must be Indian, but they are surprised at my first name, light skin, lack of accent and how well assimilated I am into western culture. Once they get to know me, I am no longer White, Indian or something in between – to them, I am All-American. Americans seem to agree and embrace me as one of their own, just as our new Indian immigrants might hope to be embraced. I doubt that Indians have much interest in being called White anyway, not when you consider India’s long history of occupation by invading White Europeans. On the other hand, I don’t suppose they would care to be confused with Africans. Calling them Asians lumps them together with the Chinese, Japanese, Koreans and other people of the far east, with whom they have little more in common. They are simply what they are – Indians.
That’s all that really matters – what we each think of ourselves. The real trick is to embrace your ethnic identity in a way that gives you a meaningful connection with your family, without coloring your view on others, or putting a chip on your shoulder. The first step is to ask yourself if you hold any of the biases I have described. What does Black and White mean to you? Me? I am White; I am Indian; I am a person of color in a rainbow of race and ethnicity. Take me as I am – judge me for my deeds.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Postlude
A quick check in an Internet phonebook (to confirm spelling) reveals to my surprise that all of those families from my youth still live on Jamaica Road. Every last one. We were the only one’s who moved away, my nomadic father never being content to stay in one place too long. I have not contacted anyone on my old street since I was 16. I wonder how Reggie is doing after all these years. I guess I should drop them a line and see what happened to the old gang.
