Navigating My Own Race(s) Colette Faulkner

What are you?

I am American.

No, but what are you?

I am Vietnamese. My father comes from a childhood of war. A war that took his father and brother and sister without notice. My father comes from broken English and mispronunciations. From corrections from others, even though he understands the language. My father comes from phở for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even though I never learned the language or visited Vietnam, I still find pride in it. I find pride that I carry in my blood the same strength that carried them through the Chinese, the Khmers, the Chams, the Mongols, the French, and the Americans.

I am Syrian. My grandfather came from immigrants. They fled from religious persecution. They came with nothing, but the clothes on their back and the memories of those that they had left behind. I come from these same stories still being played out today. I come from hearing the hurtful rhetoric and mischaracterizations of a group of people who want nothing, but the help of others. While I may not speak their language or know all their traditions, I still find strength in their perseverance.

I am white. My mother comes from a Syrian father and a white mother, but her skin would tell you she is only the latter. My name comes...