I am of mixed racial/ethnic heritage — it’s apparent. What exactly constitutes that mix isn’t necessarily obvious to the average passerby, so I’m used to being asked the question, “Um, what’s your ethnic background?”
Depending on how that inquiry is phrased (and honestly, also on how I feel that day) will determine my response. Nicely asked with sincere interest will usually get the truth: 50% Black American, 25% Vietnamese and 25% White (that’s French and Scots-Irish from what the family histories show). If I’m feeling a little mischievous, I’ll flat out lie; some days I’m Indonesian, Filipino, or from the obscure Micronesia. Oh, and the dreaded, “What are you,” phrasing elicits a simple: Human.
The responses to my answers are usually fairly predictable, too. People are either really intrigued and want to know more with a typical, “Wow, that’s cool,” or are put off by my b.s. answers and just go away. Bing, bang, boom and it’s done.
A couple of months ago, however, I had an exchange that threw me off, and I was reminded of it recently. The first incident started off nicely enough with a man wanting to know my heritage. (Ding! Off to a great start.) I was in a pleasant enough mood, so he gets the percentage breakdown. (Ding! Heading in the right direction.) Then he says, “Wow, you’re such a mutt!” (Screeeech! Put on the breaks. Did that really just happen?) Mutt? Really, dude? Asinine.
Now, the same term "mutt" was recently used again, but this time I wasn't really angry...just sad that it happened.
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure that it’s socially unacceptable to refer to a person as a “mutt” (even though our very own President Barack Obama jokingly called himself one). That word is typically reserved for use in reference to dogs, and some animal lovers may even be offended on man’s-best-friend’s behalf when that term is used. A mutt is a mongrel, and antonyms to mongrel include words such as, thoroughbred and purebred.
Now, I’m not usually the type of person to be easily offended. I know who I am, I’m comfortable in my own skin, and I don’t need anyone’s approval; but, I’ll be honest, being called impure-bred —-an impure-bred what, exactly? — has such a negative connotation, I’m not sure how else I could possibly feel other than offended. Pair that with years spent trying to figure out where I “fit” and the struggle to become comfortable in my own diverse self and you’ve got the recipe for offense with a side of salt-in-old-wounds. That hurts, and who ever wants to hurt someone on that sort of level?