IT IS SAID THAT GENDER IS FLUID, but I would argue that race is no less so. Apparently it all depends… on circumstances. And this is how I realized it.
When I started my graduate studies at Georgia State University, Atlanta, I urgently needed support. I already had a master’s degree and a lot of experience teaching mathematics in high school, so I was adamant about getting a teaching position in my university. Thus one sunny day, in Atlanta that is a default mode of weather, I went to see Sandra, a department official. She gave me a bunch of forms to fill, which I did at once and brought them back to her as soon as possible. Middle-aged with soft features, she was wearing always, along with her professional attire, a smile. Although, officially, she held a position of Office Manager in our department, there was barely anything she wasn’t in charge of, from undergrad students’ final grades to the proper equipment of study rooms. We had known each other for two whole semesters to the moment since as a graduate student assistant I had been meeting with her on a regular basis.
She goes through my forms and stops at one of the pages, ‘You forgot to write your race here,’ she points me out.
I didn’t, I just hadn’t been able to find the one that describes me properly. And ‘other’ or ‘prefer not to answer’ were not options. So, I left nothing checked.
‘I don’t know what to write, can I leave it blank?’ I say.
‘No, you cannot,’ she replies, ‘If you want to get the job, you have to fill it in.’
Oh no! I exclaim in my heart. Am I not getting the job because of this stupid race thing again? Being a ‘sneaky’ Uzbek minority group back in my country, I had been denied many career opportunities, including the ability to work in my own alma mater. My heart plummets down somewhere into one of my feet.
‘I am Central Asian,’ I tell her in a small voice, ‘and it’s not there.’
‘Listen, Rovshan, she says calmly, seeing my disappointment, and starts explaining me that race is required due to some federal law which guarantees that minorities are properly represented in organizations. ‘We can do it right now, together,’ she says, taking a pen in her hand. ‘Just choose the one that best fits you. Or, if you are not sure, how about Mixed?’
Me? Mixed? Really? I know my ancestry quite well and I am as pure as one can get. Not like it matters. I chuck this option away, ‘No, I am not mixed, I cannot be mixed.’
I am leaning towards her to look once more at the options and my brain starts working wildly: I am Central Asian, so in a broad sense Asian, but here in the US, Asian means Chinese, Korean etc. Worse, Chinese are by no means a minority among graduate students in our department of Mathematics and Statistics – they are in fact a majority, comprising at least two thirds of the department’s graduate student population. If I am a minority even in my own country, I cannot be a majority here. How come? My brain is pounding. Then suddenly it clears up.
‘How about black, let’s put Black,’ I tell her.
I will never forget her reaction! She slowly looks up at me, with a mixture of amusement and anger in her face. ‘Rovshan, Black is someone like me,’ she is almost shouting, her finger pointing at her cheek. ‘Do you see my skin?’ – she is an African-American.
I am terrified, only now I realize how inappropriate it sounds. The thing is in Russia, part of which we had been until very recently, people of my race are called ‘chornyi’, literally meaning ‘black’. I am rushing to explain that to her. Lucky for me, she is an easy going person, or should I say – tolerant. She has already come back to her senses, so to end everything quickly I add, ‘Asian, let’s just put Asian.’
‘You don’t look Asian to me,’ I hear and find Sandra squinting at me.
‘What do I look like then?’ I am starting to lose any hope of finding my race.
‘You look White,’ she declares.
‘White then, White,’ I quickly agree with her. At this point I just want to be done with it, even if you call me Yellow-Blue or Martian.
The next semester I was already a professor, at least that’s how students started calling me. For the first time in my life! And also for the first time I became… white, but only in the US, and only in one of the departments of Georgia State.
She goes through my forms and stops at one of the pages, ‘You forgot to write your race here,’ she points me out.
I didn’t, I just hadn’t been able to find the one that describes me properly. And ‘other’ or ‘prefer not to answer’ were not options. So, I left nothing checked.
‘I don’t know what to write, can I leave it blank?’ I say.
‘No, you cannot,’ she replies, ‘If you want to get the job, you have to fill it in.’
Oh no! I exclaim in my heart. Am I not getting the job because of this stupid race thing again? Being a ‘sneaky’ Uzbek minority group back in my country, I had been denied many career opportunities, including the ability to work in my own alma mater. My heart plummets down somewhere into one of my feet.
‘I am Central Asian,’ I tell her in a small voice, ‘and it’s not there.’
‘Listen, Rovshan, she says calmly, seeing my disappointment, and starts explaining me that race is required due to some federal law which guarantees that minorities are properly represented in organizations. ‘We can do it right now, together,’ she says, taking a pen in her hand. ‘Just choose the one that best fits you. Or, if you are not sure, how about Mixed?’
Me? Mixed? Really? I know my ancestry quite well and I am as pure as one can get. Not like it matters. I chuck this option away, ‘No, I am not mixed, I cannot be mixed.’
I am leaning towards her to look once more at the options and my brain starts working wildly: I am Central Asian, so in a broad sense Asian, but here in the US, Asian means Chinese, Korean etc. Worse, Chinese are by no means a minority among graduate students in our department of Mathematics and Statistics – they are in fact a majority, comprising at least two thirds of the department’s graduate student population. If I am a minority even in my own country, I cannot be a majority here. How come? My brain is pounding. Then suddenly it clears up.
‘How about black, let’s put Black,’ I tell her.
I will never forget her reaction! She slowly looks up at me, with a mixture of amusement and anger in her face. ‘Rovshan, Black is someone like me,’ she is almost shouting, her finger pointing at her cheek. ‘Do you see my skin?’ – she is an African-American.
I am terrified, only now I realize how inappropriate it sounds. The thing is in Russia, part of which we had been until very recently, people of my race are called ‘chornyi’, literally meaning ‘black’. I am rushing to explain that to her. Lucky for me, she is an easy going person, or should I say – tolerant. She has already come back to her senses, so to end everything quickly I add, ‘Asian, let’s just put Asian.’
‘You don’t look Asian to me,’ I hear and find Sandra squinting at me.
‘What do I look like then?’ I am starting to lose any hope of finding my race.
‘You look White,’ she declares.
‘White then, White,’ I quickly agree with her. At this point I just want to be done with it, even if you call me Yellow-Blue or Martian.
The next semester I was already a professor, at least that’s how students started calling me. For the first time in my life! And also for the first time I became… white, but only in the US, and only in one of the departments of Georgia State.
Rovshan Karimov is refugee from a Central Asian country.
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