The fine line between appreciating and fetishizing ethnicity in liberal America

In the Atlanta, Georgia, neighborhood in which I grew up, discussions about race, ethnicity, and religion were minimal, as everyone assumed they shared the same identities: Caucasian American and practicing Christian.

It became awkward for me, a Jewish girl with partial Mexican ancestry, to negate these presumptions when they were applied to me. Physically, I didn’t stand out from other kids, and even my Spanish-sounding name didn’t seem to tip anyone off. I passed — a privilege that I saw at that time as a nuisance. 

It didn't occur to anyone else that I may not be Christian, and I couldn't simply say I was Jewish, because few kids really knew what that meant. When I was asked about my Christmas plans, I had to explain that I wouldn't be doing anything, and that not all people worship Jesus, and that I celebrated a different holiday in winter. My peers were flabbergasted. Some were shocked to learn that other religions existed. Others confused Judaism with atheism, and were horrified because they thought I didn’t believe in God. I usually didn’t bring up my Hispanic heritage because I didn’t want to cause further confusion and questioning. In my experience, white Atlantans assumed that all Mexicans were short, brown, and Catholic, of which I was none. 

My family moved to New York City when I was 10. Most of the people raised in the city who I came to know grew up surrounded by ethnic and racial diversity; they know at least baseline information about faiths different from their own. Many of my classmates were children of Eastern European, South Asian, Middle Eastern, or Latin-American immigrants. Others also know that New Yorkers represent a myriad of ethnicities and religions. 

While it was a relief to be in a diverse environment where everyone understood the concept of different ethnicities, I encountered an unexpected problem opposite to the one I experienced in Atlanta. Many of my New York peers were, and still are, hyper-focused on race and ethnicity.

It is not uncommon for people my age upon meeting someone to bluntly ask, “Where are you from?” Other forms of this question include “What nationality are you?” or occasionally the most severe: “What are you?” It’s New York, and everyone is expected to have ties to somewhere outside of the U.S. — and everyone feels entitled to know this information before anything else.

When I’m asked where I’m from I reply, “I’m from New York,” since I was actually born in Manhattan and have now spent almost half my life here. If asked about my nationality, I answer truthfully, if not laconically, “I'm American.” But when I’m asked what I “am,” I find the question so rude, abrupt, and ignorant that I never know what to say.

People are never satisfied with my answers to these questions, and often keep pressing me and only stop when they get the answer they deem the appropriate response. They seem to feel that it’s their right to know my ethnicity. I hate that someone may leave an interaction with me not knowing my last name, what book I’m reading, or if I’m a kind person, but instead what a 23andMe genetic test would say about me — and still thinking they have learned something significant about me. 

These everyday interactions are reinforced by a broader culture that normalizes the idea that understanding someone’s race and ethnicity is essential to understanding them. After her engagement to Prince Harry, the world went into a frenzy researching Meghan Markle to find out if she was black, and if so, just how black. Think of any ethnically ambiguous public figure; it’s likely that thousands of people have Googled what race they are before wondering anything else about them. 

Our culture still does not accept “American” as a full identity, especially to those who look ethnically ambiguous or nonwhite. Your Americanism is less likely to be questioned if you resemble the white English immigrants who settled in New England in the 17th century. But otherwise, immigrants and their children who have lived in this country for years are still viewed as foreign. One apparent example of this is the case of our last two presidents. Barack Obama and Donald Trump were both born to immigrant parents. Obama’s father is from Kenya and Trump’s mother from Scotland. But it is Obama who is accused by many Republicans — most notably Trump himself — of faking his American birth certificate. 

Ultimately, ethnicity may be a big part of our identities or not. It can influence our values or not. Either way, ethnicity should not be fetishized, and knowledge of it should not be demanded by others. It should be the individual’s choice to bring it up and enter into conversations naturally.

For example, last month I went to a birthday lunch and sat next to a friend of a friend whom I’d never met. Neither of us interrogated the other about ancestry or religion. Instead, I told her I was an English major and that I study Italian. She told me that she’s going to study abroad in Germany, and isn’t nervous about a language barrier because her mom is German. A few minutes later, I said that if I ever went abroad to Italy, I would want to go to a city with a higher Jewish population because I’m Jewish. It felt good to say. It was my choice.