“Mixed” in Mississippi
My first introduction to the concept of race was at 7 years old during a visit to the local public pool in Oxford, Mississippi. It was a hot and humid, summer day around 1985. My family had just moved to Oxford from Bloomington, Indiana in order for my Dad to continue his PhD studies at the University of Mississippi (AKA Ole Miss).
My family was initially reluctant to move Down South; given the region’s history. Before going any further, I have to acknowledge that I was lucky to grow up with practically the same crew from 2nd Grade all the way through High School. The South reminds me a lot of the Arab World, especially the Gulf — it’s all about hospitality and a sense of community. Once folks get to know you; they tend to see past the veneer — relationships supersede race (or ethnicity).
Relatively speaking, Oxford was the more cosmopolitan of the towns within the state because the university attracted academics and international students. Over the years, the number of international students grew. But, when we moved there in the mid-80’s: there were predominantly two race conglomerates — White and Black; that was it.
It was our first summer in Oxford. And like most kids; I’d been spending time outside on my bike or in the backyard, so I was rocking my super tan. On this particular hot Mississippi day, my family decided to go swimming at the local public pool — an outdoor facility that is still operating today.
There are specific moments in your childhood that standout for the rest of your life because they permanently reframe your cognitive lens — the one you use to understand yourself and the outside world.
This was one of my moments…
I was splashing around the pool on my own — right in the center, not too far in the deep end and not too far in the shallow end. A prime position to connect with other kids and find a playmate for the afternoon. One of my siblings was close behind to make sure I didn’t drown — my arm floaties also helped.
Out of nowhere, a little Black kid, who was probably no more than 5 years old, splashed up towards me, and I was thrilled — finally, a playmate! We splashed around together for maybe five minutes without speaking a word to each other; just giggling — the universal language among children. Then, he stopped dead in the water; looked at me and poignantly asked — “Hey! Is you Mixed?”
I had been puppy-paddling and laughing the whole time, but he seemed so serious, that I felt compelled to straighten-up, catch my breath, and attempt a response. The problem was I didn’t know what ‘Mixed’ meant or what the term even referred to. All I knew was I didn’t want to lose my potential Marco Polo counterpart, although we hadn’t gotten that far yet.
I had a 50/50 shot. So, I mulled it over quickly and sheepishly replied, “I don’t know, I, uhh, I guess so.” I involuntarily shrugged my shoulders, which emphasized that I really had no clue.
Life can be tough when you don’t quite fit into any readily available categories. In an effort to understand one another, people— both young and old — tend to push frames on to you that you aren’t against, but simultaneously don’t define you accurately. The whole thing can easily elicit an overprotective response…
As if on cue, one of my siblings came out of left field — like a referee throwing a flag on the play: “Fifi! [which was my childhood nickname] you are not Mixed — you are Arab!” Given the stern correction, I spun around quickly in order to face my kin…
When I turned back around, my pool buddy was swimming off. I was crushed. All I wanted was to play — I didn’t care about ethnic constructs or racial conflations. I didn’t even know what ‘Mixed’ or ‘Arab’ or ‘Black’ or ‘White’ was. But, it was a harsh reality that I came to terms with.
The good news is, before leaving, I ended up getting my Marco Polo wish. The little boy had his family there too, so we eventually all came back together and bonded over a memorable, supersized match. Over 30 years later, my siblings and I still reminisce about that game to this day…
I must’ve asked because when we left the pool later that afternoon, I knew the differences among Mixed, Black, White and Arab. That day: I also learned that even though I didn’t care — still don’t give a flying rat’s tail — about color or classifications, the rest of the world very much does.
#FSB140
