Mulâtres et Métis du Monde Index du Forum

Mulâtres et Métis du Monde
Bienvenue sur ce forum destiné aux Métis, à leurs parents, enfants et familles.

 FAQFAQ   RechercherRechercher   MembresMembres   GroupesGroupes   S’enregistrerS’enregistrer 
 ProfilProfil   Se connecter pour vérifier ses messages privésSe connecter pour vérifier ses messages privés   ConnexionConnexion 

Half Half

 
Poster un nouveau sujet   Répondre au sujet    Mulâtres et Métis du Monde Index du Forum -> Lecture -> Bouquinerie
Sujet précédent :: Sujet suivant  
Auteur Message
MéliA438
Administrateur

Hors ligne

Inscrit le: 29 Nov 2008
Messages: 462
Localisation: Canada
Âge: 28
Féminin
Origines: Afrique/Antilles

MessagePosté le: Jeu 18 Déc 2008, 01:17    Sujet du message: Half Half Répondre en citant

"The Mulatto Millennium" ©1998 by Danzy Senna.
From the book "Half and Half," edited by Claudine Chiawei O'Hearn.

http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1998/07/24feature.html


Since when did being the daughter of a WASP and a Black-Mexican become cool?



BY DANZY SENNA | Strange to wake up and realize you're in style. That's what happened to me just the other morning. It was the first day of the new millennium and I woke up to find that mulattos had taken over. Playing golf, running the airwaves, opening their own restaurants, modeling clothes, starring in musicals with names like "Show Me the Miscegenation!" The radio played a steady stream of Lenny Kravitz, Sade, and Mariah Carey. I thought I'd died and gone to Berkeley. But then I realized. According to the racial zodiac, 2000 is the official Year of the Mulatto. Pure breeds (at least the black ones) are out and hybridity is in. America loves us in all of our half-caste glory. The president announced on Friday that beige is to be the official color of the millennium. Major news magazines announce our arrival as if we were proof of extraterrestrial life. They claim we're going to bring about the end of race as we know it.

It has been building for a while, this mulatto fever. But it was this morning that it really reached its peak. I awoke early to a loud ruckus outside -- horns and drums and flutes playing "Kum ba Yah" outside my window. I went to the porch to witness a mass of bedraggled activists making their way down Main Street. They were chanting, not quite in unison, "Mulattos Unite, Take Back the White!" I had a hard time making out the placards through the tangle of dreadlocks and loose Afros. At the front of the crowd, two brown-skinned women in Birkenstocks carried a banner that read FOR COLORED GIRLS WHO HAVE CONSIDERED JEW BOYS WHEN THE NEGROS AIN'T ENOUGH. A lean yellow girl with her hair in messy Afro-puffs wore a T-shirt with the words JUST HUMAN across the front. What appeared to be a Hasidic Jew walked hand in hand with his girlfriend, a Japanese woman in traditional attire, the two of them wearing huge yellow buttons on their lapels that read MAKE MULATTOS, NOT WAR. I trailed behind the parade for some miles, not quite sure I wanted to join or stay at the heels of this group.

Mulattos may not be new. But the mulatto-pride folks are a new generation. They want their own special category or no categories at all. They're a full-fledged movement, complete with their own share of extremists. As I wandered at the edges of the march this morning, one woman gave me a flyer. It was a treatise on biracial superiority, which began, "Ever wonder why mutts are always smarter than full-breed dogs?" The rest of her treatise was dense and incomprehensible: something about the sun people and the ice people coming together to create the perfectly temperate being. Another man, a militant dressed like Huey P. Newton, came toward me waving a rifle in his hand. He told me that those who refuse to miscegenate should be shot. I steered clear of him, instead burying my head in a newspaper. I opened to the book review section, and at the top of the best-seller list were three memoirs: "Kimchee and Grits," by Kyong Washington, "Gefilte Fish and Ham Hocks," by Schlomo Jackson, and at the top of the list, and for the third week in a row, "Burritos and Borsht," by a cat named Julio Werner. That was it. In a fit of nausea, I took off running for home.

Before all of this radical ambiguity, I was a black girl. I fear even saying this. The political strong arm of the multiracial movement, affectionately known as the Mulatto Nation (just "M.N." for those in the know), decreed just yesterday that those who refuse to comply with orders to embrace their many heritages will be sent on the first plane to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, where, the M.N.'s minister of defense said, "they might learn the true meaning of mestizo power."
But, with all due respect to the multiracial movement, I cannot tell a lie. I was a black girl. Not your ordinary black girl, if such a thing exists. But rather, a black girl with a Wasp mother and a black-Mexican father, and a face that harkens to Andalusia, not Africa. I was born in 1970, when "black" described a people bonded not by shared complexion or hair texture but by shared history. Not only was I black (and here I go out on a limb), but I was an enemy of the people. The mulatto people, that is. I sneered at those byproducts of miscegenation who chose to identify as mixed, not black. I thought it wishy-washy, an act of flagrant assimilation, treason, passing even.

It was my parents who made me this way. In Boston circa 1975, mixed wasn't really an option. The words "A fight, a fight, a nigga and a white!" could be heard echoing from schoolyards during recess. You were either white or black. No checking "Other." No halvsies. No in-between. Black people, being the bottom of the social totem pole in Boston, were inevitably the most accepting of difference; they were the only race to come in all colors, and so there I found myself. Sure, I found myself. Sure, I received some strange reactions from all quarters when I called myself black. But black people usually got over their initial surprise and welcomed me into the ranks. It was white folks who grew the most uncomfortable with the dissonance between the face they saw and the race they didn't. Upon learning who I was, they grew paralyzed with fear that they might have "slipped up" in my presence, that is, said something racist, not knowing there was a negro in their midst. Often, they had.

Let it be clear -- my parents' decision to raise us as black wasn't based on any one-drop rule from the days of slavery, and it certainly wasn't based on our appearance, that crude reasoning many black-identified mixed people use: if the world sees me as black, I must be black. If it had been based on appearance, my sister would have been black, my brother Mexican, and me Jewish. Instead, my parents' decision arose out of the rising black power movement, which made identifying as black not a pseudoscientific rule but a conscious choice. You told us all along that we had to call ourselves black because of this so-called one drop. Now that we don't have to anymore, we choose to. Because black is beautiful. Because black is not a burden, but a privilege.


Revenir en haut
Visiter le site web du posteur
Publicité






MessagePosté le: Jeu 18 Déc 2008, 01:17    Sujet du message: Publicité

PublicitéSupprimer les publicités ?
Revenir en haut
Montrer les messages depuis:   
Poster un nouveau sujet   Répondre au sujet    Mulâtres et Métis du Monde Index du Forum -> Lecture -> Bouquinerie Toutes les heures sont au format GMT - 5 Heures
Page 1 sur 1

 
Sauter vers:  

Index | Panneau d’administration | creer un forum | Forum gratuit d’entraide | Annuaire des forums gratuits | Signaler une violation | Conditions générales d'utilisation
Powered by phpBB © 2001, 2005 phpBB Group
Traduction par : phpBB-fr.com