Answering the "What are you?" question

I started teaching college English courses three years ago. Before that I had taught pre-school at a military daycare. Making the transition from 24 children with superhero sneakers, glittery maryjanes, Power Rangers and Dora backpacks was nerve-racking. My last day at the daycare was pretty emotional and for an entire year, I found myself wishing I could go back, sometimes.

Becoming a professor was intimidating, not because of the lessons, or the reading, or where I felt my skill level was, but because of the audience. My new students were not the three, four, and five year olds who gave me hugs and asked me to draw them pictures of dinosaurs or mermaids, they were adults, like me. It was in my first class, where I suddenly transformed into another version of myself. The always professional professor who never bent the rules, answered every email within ten minutes, and provided sources for everything. I became a robot, but still managed to get through to my students by remembering what it was like for me when I was a student who worked full-time, was a military wife and a new mother.

I explained everything as clearly as possible and provided a lot of examples. I engaged them in thought-provoking discussions and group activities that kept the material interesting. Being a robot paid off, and now here I am three years later, but something is still missing. In class, I have taught my students to research the background of the authors whose titles they are reading. They realize how important it is to know what time period the author grew up in, who his/her influences were, what was going on in the world at the time when they wrote the story, etc. If your source of learning comes from another person's work, you should know something of that person's background. My students now use this lesson against me by asking me questions about my background, which is confusing, even to me. One of the first questions my students often ask me is; what nationality are you? I fear this question and always take a moment to carefully think about what my response will be.

  If I say: "I'm half Black and half Native American," the usual response is "Oh, yeah, I have Native American ancestors too." I usually nod and drop the conversation after this. What use is it going into detail about how my mom is Sioux, her first language is Lakota, and most of my relatives live on a reservation, which I used to visit every summer? Sometimes, people will say, "That's funny, you don't look Native American." But, if I don't look mixed, then why did they have to ask what nationality I am?

If I say: "My dad is Black and my mom is Native American," the usual response is "Wow, how did they meet? Where are they from? What tribe? Cherokee?" This is the answer I tend to give and then I just answer the questions. It seems as though the answer about my parents is the preferred answer from everyone because my parents each belong to one specific culture, whereas I belong to two. Even though there are many biracial people in the world, there is something about my combination of races that people seem to be uneasy with. Black and Native American. Could it be because these are two races of American minorities who each suffered through a grim, disturbing past that many would like to forget ever existed?

I hate answering this question, but I do because my self-identity depends on it. I know that I am both. I know that my mother's Native American culture had more of an influence, while I was growing up because we visited the reservation numerous times. I know that the last time we visited my dad's side of the family was when I was ten, so I can't just identify with one race over the other, like a lot of other biracial people do. It would make my life so much easier to say that I am just one of those races, but then people would ask about my extra long, curly hair or certain features, and I would be forced to realize that my identity has already been written, and it is unchangeable. Although I hate the question, hate thinking about my response to it, and hate answering it; I like that the question has stirred enough curiosity and interest about the fusion of my two cultures, that people feel almost compelled to ask it.