I keep receiving spam from a sender named Jenn titled, "WANNA SEE MY PICS?" I have a cousin named Jenn. It's really starting to freak me out.

'Cause Manda tagged me: All you need to do is create a post with 10 random facts about yourself; simple as that.

1. I didn't know I have actually been outside of the U. S. until earlier this year. Apparently my parents brought me to Canada when I was younger - and I never realized it.

2. My cousins, myself, and my siblings used to be really close, in that we used to see each other all the time and spend time together. We weren't always nice to each other. My oldest cousin (Jenn) used to be a bit of a bully and would harass my brother. Probably partially out of peer pressure, partially because at the time I saw nothing wrong with it, I'd often be the equal participator. My other cousin (Dominique, who I call Dod (pronounced Dode) or Dods, derrived from her family nickname Dodi) was able to spend less time with us and she always was the weakest. Therefore, when she was around, abuse was shifted somewhat to her (oddly enough, me and her are the closest of friends now; I rarely think of it, but she's the closest to me of the few that are). As my sister and other cousin (Francesca) were born, the took the role of littlest and were excluded from most stuff. It kind of became the Big Kids and the Little Kids idea. That's how the adults used to put it, anyway. It lead to the family famous example of the Little Kids having to go to bed and Francesca exclaiming (as my brother was walking away), "Nathan! You're not a big kid!" (my brother is shorter for his age). In any case, as our parents moved farther apart and we spent less time together, these get togethers were broken up. We've become closer (maturity does all kinds of wonder to a person) and it's a shame we never did spend the same amount of time together consistantly. I think we'd have kept going a lot of the hobbies we did together, some of us would be different for the better, and we just would have been even closer. But alas - I'll hold. I could go on forever about. It was a fascinating social dynamic (if, of course, you're weird like me and enjoy studying how things work, like social interractions and social standing in a group).

3. When I was rather young, I used to want to be an architect and I'd watch this show about it. I don't, for the life of me, know why. I've never shown the slightest interest since then and never rethought about going into it.

4. I was the most straight-lace of kids, before 6th grade. And I wasn't that impressive in Middle School, either. Meaning, I wouldn't have been able to make heads-or-tails of a sex joke, and I don't think I even knew curse words. I remember saying something about someone playing with themselves in 5th grade, which I was just reciting from what sounded like it made relative sense. The situation didn't even make sense that I used it in, everyone else was just surprised it came from me. Which, of course, is funny if you contrast it to me now. There's little I don't know (heh, and I certainly don't shy away). Ever wonder what people who knew you 8 years ago would think of you now?

5. My humor is rather all over the place. I can love slapstick (so long as done well). Plus I love sexual humor, generally when done intelligently or it can be base as well (laughing with Rachel over descriptions on how to perform oral sex in the Kama Sutra book for a full five minutes comes to mind). Actually, just about any crude humor does well with me.

Contrasting this, my humor can be pretty dry, as well. I'm reminded of the time I'm sleeping in the car and my mom wakes me and tells me we're looking for Liberty Restaurant. I pause for a moment, then ask, "Is it in Boston?" Bad, I know, I know.

Plus I tend to really sarcastic. Caustically so. I'm even suprised when I look back at some of my stuff how biting my sarcasm was (heh, wow, that sounded a bit pretentious). Othertimes, my sarcasm is simply dry, in that it relies wholly on you knowing. For example, were we talking about eating flesh and someone asks is it good for you. My dry sarcasm would be responding back in a completely serious tone, like I mean it, "Yes. It's incredibly good for you." Which basically means you often have to know me to get when I'm being serious or not. My dad always gets irritated with this because I say something odd or weird, not meaning it, and he takes me seriously and gives me a weird look.

6. I used to draw a lot. Nothing award winning, but I used to. I could still make a comic, if I wanted to (I do, from time to time).

7. I love history, but I'm not sure why. I just love the subject, and any thing which impliments bringing back characters, events, etc. repeatedly. I suppose that's why I love the history of Germany and France starting from the founding of Germany to WWII (never told you this story? tsk, I don't know how not; absolute favorite).

8. Much to my parents distaste, I've purposely "dumbed down" anything immediately eye catching or alluring about me (in an example related to the rents, I never comb my hair; heh, mom hates that). I'm not very telling from the outside, and anything remotely interesting about me has to be learned from talking to me or getting to know me better. Hope that's clear enough.

9. I've always wanted a Pug. Pugs are my absolute favorite dog and I want one so bad. Dods has one, and I'm totally jealous. I also want a rodent farm someday. Heh, yes, the joys I will have...

10. I hate anything diet. It leaves the most disrupting after taste. Only if there's nothing else will I permit a can of the stuff. And generally I try to be really thirsty so as to not notice it when I take the first several sips.

 

I once stated on here that race relations in America were heading towards a train crash that most seemed to be conveniently oblivious to (with no further explanation of what I meant, of course). Well, maybe a train crash was a bit dramatic, but that they are confused and screwed up, I would certainly be willing to argue.

 

The first thought you would probably have is that I’m talking about racism (and, if that is the case – in our American minds, white on black racism). However, I am not. Where to start?

 

Simplistically, I am of darker skin. On a more complex level, I would be labeled half black and half white. Truly, I am multiracial. My mother was born and raised in Haiti. Her grandmother was from the lighter side of the country, her French heritage clear upon her. My grandfather was from the darker side, a mix of Haitian and Spaniard. My father is European, for the most part – his lines run from England to Poland to Scotland to Germany.

 

But if you were to talk to anyone, they would generally call me black. I am reminded of the time in elementary school that my mother made a fuss over what race the school marked me down as; the secretary wanted to simply check African-American and be done with it; my mother insisted that’s not what I was.

 

Yet in America, it doesn’t matter whether you’re really from Nigeria rather than born and bred here. No, it won’t always even matter if you happen to be Japanese instead. You’re not white – racism will follow you. In that sense, I am black. People will see me as that and I shall be treated accordingly. I have no qualms with this. I understand it and take it. My skin is dark.

 

Even still, I have never understood most demonstrations and protests in justification of being black. I have studied and followed the history in America, yes – I know well slavery, done projects on it; one of my favorite time periods is the black civil rights movement; one of my favorite speeches is I Have a Dream. I’ve been subject to racism (though I doubt no one hasn’t been or isn’t well aware of it). Even before I faced it, a favorite movie in my household is Roots. I knew of racism since I was born.

 

There was a problem, though. I’m middle class. The majority I’ve always known is white because that was what my classmates were for the most part. In fact, as I got older, the less racism I faced and the more my skin became an irrelevancy. I know better, so I’ve often wondered in awe how you could view someone who was different as the same as you so easily – my greatest acceptance (when it came to my skin) was from the majority. Other races for me were the many types of Asian. And while I have a deep love for rap, I’m a complete metal head, while my all time favorite artist happens to be Bruce Springsteen (taken from my dad, I admit). It was a white rapper who interested me in genre first, and Big Pun made me realize that my own windings among rhyme and alliteration were hardly anything in comparison. I consider myself a video game nerd. Some of my closest friends were the techies working backstage at the concerts (I have since become one since applying for a job in college, I am happy to report). My list of girlfriends has been Caucasian (if only for the reason I had little other choice, given my raising). And I have a fierce love for the gothic subculture; I remember listening to a spoken word poet listing the ways the majority stays complacent, shutting out the problems of the world; she lists the indignity of Columbine being placed on rap and video games; and then she cries, “Go back to your ‘goth’,” and I wanted to shout objection; did you forget they targeted us after Columbine just as much as the previous two?

 

So am I any less black? Will I be viewed and judged differently? In the days leading up to the primaries for the Democratic Party, some of the “black leaders” said that Obama didn’t share with other blacks in America that history of slavery and was, therefore, different from them.

 

One of my “brothers” happens to be a Jew. Of my “sisters”, one happens to be blue-eyed and the other a mixed Hispanic.

 

I don’t know (nor understand) a “black” culture. I don’t understand what the green, black, and red colors of an African continent does for an American like myself, nor would I suppose it make much sense, if I considered my own heritage.

 

So you’re probably thinking – are you criticizing black people? Is this some type of perverse racism and you feel the need to separate yourself from black people? Are you really this bored?

 

America is characterized as a people of no color. In my mind, that has always meant that we were a people despite our differences. As I viewed the statue of Thomas Jefferson in Washington, I stood in the shadow of a man who shaped our nation – of which I was just as much a part of. This man may have not been Haitian, but he was certainly me. With every word of the Declaration of Independence, he was crafting my beliefs and my future.

 

I may not have ancestors who suffered the pains of slavery in America, yet I view with pride the abolitionists who spoke out against it and the slaves who wove their own culture into the American fabric.

 

I am a child of Western thought. The Greeks laid out the idea of a free government and the Romans crafted a form of what would be our own, someday. To those minds I owe and I make no mistake of it.

 

I did not find alienation in the women’s civil rights movement and I use the words of Jane Addams and Sojourner Truth often enough.

 

I wasn’t hosed down during the 60s, but it is one of my favorite times to study. It was those people who paved the way to the acceptance I receive today. It was a moment when we said, “We might have inherited many problems, but at no point can we not overcome them.”

 

When I think of America, the words, “Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand/A mighty woman with a torch…/‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she/With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor,/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,/I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’” grace upon my lips, heaving with the spirit that must have infected the many who came to our land.

 

The Grapes of Wrath, for me, didn’t describe a strange people or a landscape I didn’t know. I read with dislike the internment of Americans with Japanese ancestry. I rejoiced at the discovery of Stonewall. I sat with solemn acknowledgement at what the two Marches on Washington (1963 and 1979) meant for us as a nation.

 

In short, every facet of American history defined me. We never got it right everytime – indeed, our grievances are many. But I take pride in what we have done. And I don’t understand why any person would isolate themselves to one position based on their heritage. Perhaps I’ve been too swayed by the words of King, but unification is the only route in my mind. I characterize myself as an American first and foremost.

 

There is no “black” culture but only what of our culture was taken from people of color. I will identify myself as a German (among other things), I eat everyday now with chopsticks (something I always wanted to do since a kid), and I proclaim loudly, “In the future days which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression…. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way…. The third is freedom from want…. The fourth is freedom from fear…”, “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…— and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth”, and “Yesterday the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater perhaps never was, nor will be, decided among men. A resolution was passed without one dissenting colony, ‘that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.’”

 

And, perhaps, most importantly, I believe deeply in that Latin saying – e pluribus unum.

 

So what am I, America? Should I cling to an identity – whether that be black or Haitian or German or male – and define myself by it, letting no others share it?

 

What am I, America? Should I find connection in only those like myself? Should I see my history only from those eyes?

 

What am I, America?

 

I thought I was American.

I feel too wired right now to work and too many things going through my head to think straight.

Everyone just make me a promise - take care of those you care about and never leave them. Never do anything to make them think you feel any other way about them. And always remind them.

A memory: During Band Awards Night,

I was sitting next to Sam because him and Sarah had come back to visit us all and they had mentioned something about an award for all students who got straight As from Fresh. year to Soph. year. I had missed that by one grade because I didn’t turn in my practice chart. So I was kinda bummed about that. So Sam leans over and goes, “Don’t feel too bad. I got a D for band my Freshman year.” We both laugh and I ask, “How’d you do that?” He goes, “Exactly.”

I miss my mom; I miss my dad. I want parents I can trust.