Transracial. It’s real. And it’s finally getting press thanks to Rachel Dolezal — the transracial Jesus. The way the media is treating her, she’s basically our Mathew Sheppard. Everyone on the left and the right is tying her up to a fence and beating her to death simply because she dared to live the way she felt was natural — in a meticulously crafted type of blackface known as transracial.
Well guess what folks, it’s not 2014 anymore. It’s 2015 — specifically June 2015 – and it’s time to stop living in the past.
I finally feel safe enough to admit that I’m transracial. It’s true. I’ve felt this way ever since I was five years old — when I first started drawing pictures of myself with crayons that didn’t match my skin tone. That’s the telltale sign of transracial by the way. A transracial child will use brown crayons. Rachel Dolezal did, and I did too. That’s how science works. Race is just a social construct based on which crayons you use as a child.
But life for transracial people is harder than it is for everyone else. Everyone hates us. We get fired from the NAACP. And there’s only three of us (me, Rachel Dolezal, and Tom Hank’s stepson that loves to use the n-word). If you want to be a good person, follow this list of things to NEVER say to a transracial person:
“So like, what AREN’T you?”
Ugh. Nothing, alright? I’m not not anything. I’m all of them. I’m all of the races. You can go down the list and check off every single one, because all of them are me. Am I Mexican? Si Senior. Am I black? Ya damn skippy. Am I Chinese? #1 Lucky You Bet. I’m every single race — even the ones I don’t know about yet. Like, I think Catalans are a thing, but I’m not sure what they are exactly.
Anyhow, I’m one of them. Whatever I’m feeling that day determines my race, and sometimes it varies throughout the day. You see race is kind of like a mood ring — you change colors on the outside when your truth changes on the inside. And your truth depends entirely on what situation you’re in. For example, if I’m applying to colleges, I’m Black. If I’m trying to do math, I make sure I feel as Chinese as possible, unless I’m calculating a tip for a waiter, in which case I Jew it up. Get pulled over? I have an entire jar of mayonnaise in the glove compartment as well as a pair of salmon shorts that I immediately put on so the cop knows that I’m as white as it gets. I am all of the races.
“Can you stop touching my hair?”
Look, black people, I have to touch your hair. It’s called research. The smell part is easy; I just steal old hand towels from my gym and I stuff ’em down my pants, but the hair is extremely difficult to fabricate. You know how stupid I would look if I just tried to guess what real black hair felt like? No, I need some kind of tactile understanding of it before I design my costume. So just sit still and let me touch your hair, I’ll get off the bus in a second. Actually you should be thanking me that I’ve chosen your hair to sample. It’s kind of like you’re my mom now.
“That’s so weird, you don’t LOOK (Black/White/Asian)!”
Yeah, I haven’t put on my costume yet dumbass. I just woke up. Do you know how long blackface takes to put on? Do you know how dangerous all those shoe polish chemicals are? If I went full black before noon I’d be drunk off the fumes by lunch. I’m going for black, not Irish here. Maybe you could be a little more sensitive to my issue and keep your comments to yourself.
“You don’t seem like those other transracial people. Like that Rachel lady who lied to get into college. You’re chill.”
Look all transracial people aren’t the same. Just because Racehl Dolezal is a bad person, it doesn’t mean that other transracial people are (me, I’m the other transracial person.) How would you like it if I assumed things about you based on things other cisraced people have done? Don’t stereotype me just because I put on black face and talk about how much I love chicken and being late. It’s not only racist, its transracist.
“You’re Faking It”
Faking what exactly? All this makeup I had to put on? The tape I used to keep my eyes slanted? I could say that your clothes make you fake or that back brace you have to use means your spine is fake. My skin color (white) is in a way, a disability. It’s something that hinders me from experiencing my true race (whichever one benefits me at the moment). I’m not “faking it” any more than a guy with crutches is faking having a broken leg, or a student with PTSD is faking trauma to get their professor fired for saying that the Civil War was nuanced.