I stand in the Iguana body jewelry kiosk, separating the blue navel rings from the clear ones, the nose studs from the tongue rings, and the Italian silver from the fake rhodium silver. As I finish arranging everything in the showcase, a man approaches me.

“Um, excuse me. What are you?” he asks.

“Excuse me? What am I?” I reply.

“Yeah, my friend and I walked past here and saw you. We were wondering what you are.”

“Funny,” I say. “I thought I looked like a human. Have a nice day, sir.”

The man gives me a disgruntled look and turns away, mumbling under his breath. Oh well, another day, another rude “what are you” question.

Maybe working alone at a kiosk makes me an easy target. Maybe if I didn’t wear such big hoop earrings, or pants that hugged my curves instead of hiding them, or if I cut my hair short instead of letting it sway at the bottom of my backbone, I wouldn’t have to explain to people “what” I am. But then again, I’ve been asked this question my whole life. I don’t look 100 percent Sicilian or 100 percent Mexican; I can’t speak fluent Italian or Spanish to tongue-roll around the qualifications of being considered one or the other. I don’t have blonde hair or thin thighs, yet I don’t have curly hair or an accent either. It isn’t obvious what race I am. This is what I assume they mean when they ask “what are you?”

What ever happened to “What ethnicity are you?” Or “What decent are your parents?” Asking “What are you?” feels like an insult, whether it’s meant to or not, which is why I reply, “I am a human. Can’t you tell?”

Truth is, I know what they are trying to ask me. I just don’t feel the need to answer a question that shows someone is paying more attention to my looks than my voice. Particularly with dating, I find it amusing when men consider me “exotic”…I know, weird. I never tried to figure it out, but today, as I sit on my bed next to my Chihuahua, Muchacho, I realize it’s time I try.

The first time I remember wondering about race was back in second grade. Ms. Timpson handed out the standardized tests and told us to begin. At the top of the page, we filled out the empty lines: name, grade, birthday, teacher. Then, something that confused us all: race. There were several little boxes, but we were supposed to shade in only one. I raised my hand and asked the teacher what to do.

“Just shade in Caucasian,” she said. So I did. I was far more interested in which Ninja Turtle my grandma had waiting for me back at home, or what outfit I’d put on my Barbie next. Looking back, I wonder why Ms. Timpson didn’t ask me what ethnicities I am. I guess since everyone else in the school was white, she figured I should be, too.

In middle school, I decided I should check “other.” I am not white non-Hispanic, I am not Hispanic non-white, and so I am “other.” The first time I marked “other,” I remember I felt like an alien, like an outsider, like I couldn’t just fit in somewhere.

The 1950 Census was the first to attempt to identify individuals with mixed heritage by offering a box called “other.” In the 2000 Census, people who are mixed were finally allowed to check more than one box to identify their race. The categories are White, Black or African American, American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Native Hawaiian and Other Pacific Islander, Some Other Race, and Two or More Races.

Wondering what happened to the “Hispanic” category? It’s the new “other.”

In the 2000 Census, “other” includes people who are Moroccan, South African, Belizean, or of Hispanic origin (e.g., Mexican, Puerto Rican or Cuban). And the new “Two or More Races” category is for respondents who chose more than one of the race categories. So, if I were to take a standardized test today, I could choose between checking the “Two or More Races” category, or I could mark off “white” and “other.”

Being multiracial has its ups and downs. I am proud of my race, but sometimes I sense that others think I should feel shame. I realized this when I was looking for my mom during one of her employer’s charity events, and I saw a man who had been talking to her earlier.

“Do you know where my mom is?” I asked.

“Who’s your mom?”

“Christine Palazzolo. She’s got brown hair, light skin, she’s Mexican…”

“Mexican! What? Don’t say that about your mother. She’s Italian!”

“Um, no, sir. She’s not. That’s my father’s last name.”

“Well geez. Don’t tell people your mother is Mexican, young lady.”

I was stunned. I turned around and decided to keep the night peaceful. Maybe this was why my mother always passed for Italian when she was younger—to avoid the criticism. I realized that the stupid remarks I get are nothing compared to what my mother must have received. It seemed less acceptable from her generation to be of mixed or minority race. I am so grateful that being multiracial is more acceptable now.

I understand that I am unique, and in recent years I have come to terms with it. In grade school and junior high, I was not so comfortable. I would come home everyday crying because there was another song making fun of the way I looked, or another incident where someone called me “ghetto booty ho.” The one that hurt the most was a song called “apples and oranges,” because I was the only girl in school developing. Since no one else was, I must have been using apples and oranges to stuff my bra.

I don’t look like the crowd I grew up around. My skin is olive-toned; my hair and eyes are dark. I am a short little thing, as I always was, and my figure since day one was equipped with thighs. In the summer, I turn a golden brown, the skin of my father’s Sicilian decent, yet in the winter I might as well blend with the snow. My Sicilian eyes, colors, and last name can make some guess that I am Italian or of some European decent. But my Mexican nose and lips have people confused as to what race I am. And oh how it bothers some people that they cannot decide what category to put me under! And it’s to the point where they stop in their steps, or tilt their head in the middle of my sales plug, and ask “What are you?” Once again, I am a seven-year-old asked to choose from the boxes.

But now that I’m in college, I realize there are many people like me who are of multiple backgrounds. Mutts and proud. And my eyes have opened to what I wish I would have known when I was younger. I realize now that I don’t have to choose what “race” I am. I don’t have to explain what “race” I am. And I don’t have to answer questions I find rude.

A lot of my inner issues with my “race” changed when I went to my parent’s house this past summer. They were ecstatic about the patio; it was finally done after all these months. I walked through the door, and made my way to the back. As soon as I got to the screen door, my mom said “It’s the eagle and the medusa!” She was smiling with her red lipstick on (as always) and motioned with her hands. Sure enough, the left side of the patio had the Sicilian flag’s medusa, and the right side had the eagle of the Mexican flag. My dad stood on top of the steps overlooking his creation.

“Nice, huh?” he said.

“You have no idea,” I replied.

My thoughts rewound back to when I walked in the front door and saw the American flag dancing in the wind above my address. My parents’ families went through hell to be here, to be American, and I am here because of them. I am multiracial. I am “other.” I am American.