Am I racist? Rather than trying to preemptively rebuke criticism by evoking the cliché “I’m not racist but…” as if it were an excuse (and when has that ever not been followed by something completely ignorant?), let me admit that yes, there’s the distinct possibility. It probably depends on whom I ask, though. And with the song “Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist” from the musical Avenue Q playing quietly in the back of my brain, I’d hazard that at least I’m not alone.
There’s been a flurry of talk lately about race, religious and socioeconomic relations (a perennial topic) with confessions of secrets and explanations for apparent hypersensitivity towards labels and (mis)assumptions. So, walking on lily-white eggshells, I admit to you that I’m in a quandary: I tend to be attracted to members of a certain race—a group to which I do not belong. Is it the physical features, culture or food? I don’t know. Race is, ultimately, a societally imposed categorization, and upon seeing my fairer skin and blue eyes, it’s unlikely, even when I speak another language that anyone would call me anything other than white. And despite a modest Jewish upbringing—a bit of a “hidden minority” status that only seems to come out when convenient, like my homosexual orientation—I don’t feel I can identify, ethnically, as much more than an amorphous American. Perhaps, then, my interest in other social groups comes from a somewhat parasitic need to fill this void—to actually find my own identity. I am defining what I am by recognizing what I am not.
It didn’t take me tallying up the number of desis I follow on Twitter (nearly half of my list, including Kal Penn, Aziz Ansari, Anoop Desai and Utkarsh Ambudkar ) to recognize my fondness for my somewhat more melatonin-enhanced brethren. Derived from Sanskrit and meaning “one from our country,” the term “desi” usually refers to the people, products and cultures from the greater Indian subcontinent (India, Pakistan and Bangladesh) and their diaspora. It’s a word that, over time, has also entered my lexicon, causing others in-the-know to chuckle, asking white-bred me, “How do you know that word??”
Language is key. In trying to build rapport with my patients in clinic, for example, sometimes I will speak Spanish. I usually preface it by playfully acknowledging I am different: “If you don’t understand me, let me know; it’s clear that I’m a gringo (foreigner).” I have also evoked a few scattered words in Vietnamese, Arabic, Mandarin or French to subtly express, “Hey, I’m interested in where you come from and have taken a moment to learn something about your culture.” This can backfire, however: I launch into some great explanation only to be met with a blank stare, a beat and a dull “I speak English.” Non-membership in a particular community affords certain leeway (“he doesn’t know any better”) but can be less forgiving in other respects (“how dare he think he’s one of us”). At least I am not chastising them for not speaking a language they “should” know, as several of my more “ethnic-looking” friends have been, seemingly randomly, on the street.
My interest in other cultures developed slowly, likely beginning while I lived abroad (“what’s foreign is unknown and therefore more interesting”). It wasn’t until I entered a long-term relationship with a double minority—a gay man of color—that I realized there could be anything wrong with it. A British-born Pakistani, having experienced repeated racial profiling in airports when coming to visit me, he was understandably angry. This transmuted into social frustration: He felt that if someone wanted to talk to him because he was brown, or European, or Muslim (he’s actually a practicing Quaker), he was being “fetishized” as something exotic, a tick-box to be checked. If he was given unfavorable attention, however, or the person preferred some other group to his exclusion, then he was hurt by this premature typecasting. Myself, I’ve actually enjoyed being looked upon as something novel (though, admittedly, this occurs rarely). While at the Great Wall of China, for instance, multiple people asked to take photos with me, gazing with amazement upon (and asking to touch) my beard. That said, I’m privileged to never having had to endure the reverse: “Whites need not apply” is generally not a sign that ever appears.
In the gay community at least, in which the title of “queen” belies some external, condescending judgment, my own attraction to Indian men has labeled me as a “curry queen.” Other members of my royal court include those who reign over a smorgasbord of culinary foodstuffs: potatoes (or dairy), rice, beans, hummus, matzoah and chocolate—referring to those who tend to focus, respectively, on white, Asian, Latino, Middle Eastern, Jewish and black men. (If nothing else, all this categorization sure makes us queers hungry.) The gravity of the title varies depending on whom you ask: Some contributors to Urban Dictionary, for example, emphasize that these interracial/intercultural relationships are exploitative, whereas others remark that they are not synonymous with fetishism. But who gets to decide whether this is blaxploitation revisited—the person carrying the preference, the object of his affection, or some altogether different third party?
It is notable that those who have a similar focus within their own racial or cultural group cannot be granted this questionable crown. Indeed, they can be called other things (“sticky rice” for Asians or “mashed potatoes” for whites), but these “like likes like” relationships are seemingly without reproach on a chromeometric level for either same-sex or heterosexual couples. Does this exclusion belie that, somewhere, as a society, we think that phenotypic homogeneity is how things “should” be in a well-ordered universe? Since when did the dating scene require affirmative action? Perhaps what we need is to dispense with unnecessary labels. Love is love, as they say, and we shouldn’t limit ourselves when looking for our soul mate. Instead of “GJM seeks GIM for samosa-packed picnics,” how about “Hi, my name is Ben. I think you’re handsome.”
Benjamin Silverberg is a second-year graduate student and practicing physician. His column runs every other Monday. Send Ben a message on Twitter @hobogeneous.
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