Some of you familiar with THE STORY will know that recently (or anytime before September 10th) I will have had a birthday.
Those of you wondering what I'm talking about, well, just click on the label. Otherwise, in short version, I have no idea exactly when, where, or to whom (who? Help me out here, Mocha Momma and Arkansas Songbird) I was born.Wow. Looking perplexed there, aren't I?
What makes this an interesting fact is that I'm faced with THE BOX. Having a child in school means filling out lots of forms each year, and sometimes, these forms want to know something about the parents. The forms ask about job information, contact information, and some? Well, some ask about race. And those aren't the ONLY forms.
I have a luxury few people enjoy. I will never be a racist.
I have always checked the same box: Caucasian. But am I? I don't know. Unless genetic testing reaches a point beyond that of knowing our ethnic ancestry, I may never know.Do you know your ethnic ancestry? You probably do.
I look at the box and wonder if I'm a traitor to my race. That's how the box affects me.
Not knowing my birthparents is bizarre...because I think I'm a pretty good person. I actually like hanging out with me. Could people related to me be so awful? I know, I know...the whole abandonment thing - but, we ARE related...could it have been just some horrible mistake of youth? Lord knows I've made a few.
I see the box. I check Caucasian.
I'll let you decide.