Bear with me here. This will likely be a long-long post, meandering here, fussing about over there, perhaps a bit of swanning hither and thither. I don’t have an ‘argument’ – but I do have a point. It will just take me awhile to work through the thought processes to get there.

Let’s talk about who we are. Who I am. Who you are.

Let’s be very clear, before I muddy waters. I am, and I identify (and always have) as a very white, cis-gendered, woman who’s heritage hails from Eastern Europe and whose life hails from the Pacific Northwest.

I read articles about “pretendians” that go a way back. White people who believe they are not white. White people who pretend to be of another cultural heritage than their legally provable genealogy might suggest. Articles about white women (somehow, it’s usually women…isn’t that interesting by itself?) who develop a rather deep tan and undergo a lot of perms to call themselves black.

When I was 14 years old, I was on the middle school ‘news’ team. I wrote op-ed pieces, usually guided by a teacher, that helped other kids explore challenging or new topics. Because of the interesting location of the suburb where my school was placed we had a beautiful blend of people. Black. White. Red. Yellow. (we’ve come a long way – the only group it’s still okay to call by color is ‘white’ people) Asian. Latino. African Americans. All-the-things. Rich. Poor.Middle. The cultural melting pot that was my middle school makes me ponder the mental health of my teachers of the time (including my Grade 7 teacher, Mrs. Foster… whew).

So – 14 year old me, an undiagnosed autistic cis-gendered very white female wrote an op-ed on cultural identity by wandering the halls of school with a box of crayons and sheet of paper and had everyone self-identify themselves by the colors they found best represented their skin (I was a blend of ‘peach, beige, salmon, and tan, if memory serves)… The idea came about because when I looked at my classmates, I saw only beauty – a beauty beyond me because I didn’t know how to talk easily with any of them, but yet we were constantly segregating ourselves by how we looked. Friends I’d had forever suddenly weren’t friendly because I was white and they were something not-white. There was the beautiful boy who’s skin was so black it rippled blues and purples – I had such a crush on him! and he made sure to crush my tweenaged heart by stopping in the hallway one day in front of all the people to ask in an accusing tone “are you blind?” and pointing out how weird my eyes were and that eye contact wasn’t my thing…- Then there’s the gorgeous Latina girl with rich jet-black curls teaching me how to pin hair into an elegant chignon using just a comb in the locker room (yea, my frizzy blonde locks never did behave with that maneuver), my still-to-this-day bestie who identified as Latina and as Jewish and as white and who was teased mercilessly for her gorgeous full-figured self that came to be rather ahead of the rest of us. The self-identified white boy who believed so firmly in conservative white values that he challenged me to a live, on-screen debate over the benefits of feminism (note – I won, in spite of his massive tower of Rush-Limbaugh books).

Oh yea. I was fiesty. I was white. I loved all the people. They didn’t really ‘get’ me, but that’s a different topic. Here – we’re talking identity and my theory behind why white people – white women keep getting called out for trying to identify as something other than white…

Let’s talk about what is ‘White’.

For starters. While I tick all the boxes. I’m not actually white. I mean, let’s get real here. Not even my teeth are “white” – they’re rather more ivory; my skin is mottled peaches and reds and yellows and creams. As a young girl, I truly objected at being the subject of every “dumb blonde joke” in existence, and I further objected to the term ‘white girl’ – as if all I amounted to on this planet was a blank sheet of paper. Did I really come across to others as so stupid that they identified me, ostensibly for my behalf, as something so blank and unwitting that they should write their own narratives for me?

Wait, sorry. That’s my 45 year old self coming out of an abusive, manipulative marriage where. yes. I identified as a doormat. Probably an embarrassment to actual doormats who’s purpose is to welcome guests and absorb their mud, though I was good at both.

But, the reason I want to talk about ‘whiteness’ is to, in fact, point out that these cultural identifiers are a bit ridiculous. Even to explain the rationale behind them (designed and defined by white men, I get it) is… ridiculous. As with ‘Black’ or ‘Yellow’ or ‘Red’ people (Did we really need to classify regions of the world in this way? I was taught this in school and it’s … well. awful), categorically ‘White’ people come from a huge range of cultural traditions, backgrounds, cultures, identities and more. Name any survey, however, and whole swaths of people are asked to simply be “one” thing; effectively erasing any identifier that might be actually meaningful. **this is not limited to ‘white’ people, but the list of cultural groups continues to expand for all except for those in the ‘white’ bucket**

So. the question. Why do White Women have this weird thing with being something they’re not?

Let’s explore the modern narrative – “White” people are colonizers. “White” people are racists. Not very nice things to identify with. The monuments to those who came before and ostensibly created our North American governments and nation-states are under fire for representing flawed humans who made mistakes that were in keeping with the cultural norms of their time. I would argue that if you look carefully at your contingent of ‘white’ people, many are completely lost. Our own heritage and culture is either lost from us, forgotten, or we’re told it doesn’t matter because – thanks to the color of our skin – our reality that we came here as refugees and asylum seekers is irrelevant because the ‘whole system’ is designed to give us a leg up. Then, if, by chance your heritage stems from the ‘white’ people who designed the current system, you truly cannot feel proud of your history or culture because of all the harms done by those who came before you. Your life has become a narrative of reparations and apologies for actions taken by those unrelated to you or came before you. So much easier, and in many ways more rewarding, to be able to play a victim and to join up with a group who has a thriving culture and community – even if that identity is rooted in a permanent victim-state that is self-defined and points an accusatory finger at your own natural community or race.

I think it comes down to the ‘loss’ of identity.

My biological grandparents were gone from this world before I was born. My family has no extended family. We have only each other – a small group, my mother, my adoptive-step-father, my half brothers. Nothing more. We had no faith group. We had no community. Our culture is defined by my mother – she alone defined us; and to her vision of us as good people and her narrative of where we came from and who our grandfather was – we established our tenuous roots on this earth. It would be easy and tempting to reach just a little beyond into a more romantic narrative that we had ties to the indigenous first nations people of the land where my grandfather immigrated to. I can understand the Rachel Dolezal’s of the world. I can appreciate the desire of belonging. Because, because, because – all people seek and need community and family. Even the introverts. Even the marginalized. We want a story that we can feel proud of. We want a story we can share with others and gain their approval.

And so, I believe, we have a reason why there is this pervasive occurrence of white women pretending to be something other than that which they are. Who tell stories, that become family lore or tradition, that are then passed down to unknowing future generations who then start to stumble when directly challenged. Who openly invent an entirely different reality. I believe it has to do with culture – and a self-perceived lack thereof and a desire to belong to communities that have a more vibrant narrative, a narrative of redemption, a narrative of survival, narratives that result in warm hugs and smiles and ‘I get its’ from others. A celebration of white culture is mostly a non-starter. No one wants to hear about your whiteness, your pride in white inventiveness, music, art, culture or literature; but it’s perfectly acceptable to have an identity that is more specific such as Ukrainian (victimized by their larger, white, colonizing neighbors) or French (a noble culture that brought us modern democracy and fantastic food) or Italian (a culture defined by the beauty of its loving and passionate communities) and etc. Without those cultural ties that give a person a strong sense of pride in who they are and roots them on this earth, then you see people casting about for a narrative that brings them the attention (and money, and position, and power) that they intrinsically need and desire.

In short – to identify as a White American is anathema to the current liberal culture. In large metropolitan hubs, in media, in journalism, it seems the only individuals currently accepted as rightfully ‘American’ are the first nations/indigenous groups, and everyone else needs to pop themselves into the appropriate bucket.

So. To my point. Why on this earth, why oh why, write an article about this weird and slightly deranged impulse by white people to pretend to be something they most definitely are not…? Why touch on a topic that seems to be fraught with tension and is generally unwelcome by all?

Because. No matter who you are. No matter your skin color. No matter your heritage, creed, geographical location, pain or triumph… we are all children of God. He celebrates all of us. This is what is missing from all of the narratives, and what is leading us to this terrible polarization between communities. He fills the hole inside each of us that has us tripping up. The community, the culture that fills all desires. It’s Him. Everything else, Everything. All of it – is just so much noise; so much ‘earthly’ desire.

Every day, I feel as though I am bombarded with passive-questions about who my authentic-self is. I know I’m not alone in this feeling of…being pursued to define myself. Simple existence is not enough for those who design the algorithms that sell us stuff; and it’s really not enough to answer those with whom we wish a relationship.

When God created us, He made us to be relational beings. As an autistic woman who, of late, is helping her teenagers navigate an unwelcoming world, “not” relating to people is one of the loneliest and hardest things a person can experience. When I lived in Japan, I was accepted as who I was because they had never known a blonde, white, violin-playing, sometimes-philosophical-overthinking girl. So, I felt accepted and invited in. But in North America, where my weird eyes simply made me a funny party trick, the alienation of not knowing how to relate to others is a trauma unto itself. So, when someone who’s background feels a little less…wonderfully romantic; isn’t something someone would write a book about; has zero drama because your whole life is rather typical of all “white” people, then it’s so, so tempting to start to fabricate a colorful narrative that isn’t quite wholly true – and before you know it, you’re invested in this narrative because, well… people who have legitimate claims to their own stories will question and dig and wonder at… There is a very earth-based power in having a wonderful story of being a victim and rising above. It’s just so very American and it can erode your real, and true cultural heritage and identity that isn’t discussed enough.

So often I feel we are all so very lost. The tenets on which America was founded are necessary, needed, wanted and to be cherished. The God that inspired us to truly seek justice and equality, the faith-based democracy that was crafted from people long trampled on – who had the temerity to stand and say “I am” would not want us to shrink from that history merely because the humans who built this place were as flawed as any and all humans. The way forward is not to hide from our faith, and not to hide from our heritage, but to embrace it fully, including its sins. Make reparations, and make peace, and learn from the past.

My older brother has been far more keen than I have been to dig into our lonely roots. Our maternal grandmother abandoned our mother as a child. We’ll never fully understand why she could not live a settled life, and the fallout has been tremendous. Trauma is truly inter generational, but it can be healed through a loving Mother (thanks Mom), a strong family bond (thanks to my adoptive Dad), a good community and faith (thank you God for never quitting on me). My brother and I – we don’t shy away from our curious and sinful grandmother. She’s become a part of the weave of our family. She was as white as anyone, as American as you can be, and we don’t know her full story – but she is ours and through her and her actions we are formed.

Love your family. Love your heritage. Love what you know about yourself and appreciate those histories that maybe don’t feel so exciting or trauma filled. The world needs fewer people waiving the flag of victim-hood and more authentic human experience. Embrace what you don’t know. Love Everyone Else as though they were family and friends, but don’t try to take on their identities.

If you, like me, are floating about in this world with very tenuous roots – that is not an opportunity to start inventing a rooted story that isn’t actually based in reality. It’s an opportunity to dig into your faith, to open the door to Him. To build and develop a culture of your own with Him at its center. To be a rock for your own children and grandchildren.

Make your own weird family customs to pass down. Seriously. Make it weird. It’ll make a good story for others to tell about you someday.

Keep it real. Love to you all. 🙂