Brown-Skinned Lady

Photograph Courtesy of Will Dinneen

That's me on the right.

In my life, I've had a few weird experiences predicated on my skin, eye, and hair color, but I've never been called blonde.

"Oh, but you are very blonde," said one of my colleagues today during çay, contrasting my hair color with that of Claire and Stephanie, both of whom have black hair. "Stephanie looks more Turkish than I do!" she added.

It's true that I have always looked ambiguous, but back home I know how to negotiate this better, and I've gotten used to the typical attitudes and questions.

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

“No, where’s your family from?”

“Seattle.”

“What’s your nationality?”

“I’m from here.”

“I mean, what’s your ethnicity?”

Or, “Are you adopted?” This only with my mom, who’s a legit blonde, because, “You look just like your father!”

Once, while I was riding my bicycle in Walla Walla: “White power! White power! White power!” (I think this had more to do with those four dudes in that car than to do with me.)

In El Salvador: “You can’t wear that red bandana. You’ll look like you’re in one of the gangs, and you’ll get shot.”

"What are you?"

“Is that your real eye color? Or are you wearing contacts?”

“You look very German!” (A comment I’ve heard here a number of times from various sources… Also, I begin to suspect that Turkish folk—at least the ones I know—have much less concern about skin color than do the folks back home. But most of the Turkish folk I know are also quite interested in hair.)

When I was on a ‘Diversity Fly-In’ visit to Whitman College with several other prospective students from the Seattle metropolitan area: I approached the group of African American and Asian American students who would share the five-hour drive with me, and one girl looked me up and down and said, “What are you doing here?”

What would it be like to have looked always like I fit in somewhere?