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luckyluxeph In Kamala Harris’s Blackness, I See My Own
We seem to be beginning yet another season of a perennially popular American spectacleluckyluxeph, “How Much Is That Mulatto in the Window?” I frequently think that, after 400 years, this show is about to go off the air — jump the shark, as it were. But then it returns, with ever more absurd plot lines. Yet even as a so-called mulatto myself, I can’t stop watching.
The Hollywood pitch goes something like this: Put racially ambiguous Black people in the public eye — Kamala, Meghan, Barack. Have them declare themselves Black. Count down the minutes before the world erupts into outrage, distress and suspicion. People scream their confusion and doubt, accusing the figures of lying about who they really are. It makes for good TV.
On last week’s episode, Donald Trump got his cameo, accusing Vice President Kamala Harris of switching races. “She was Indian all the way, and then all of a sudden she made a turn and she became a Black person,” he said during an appearance in front of the National Association of Black Journalists. His staged bewilderment, implying that she was practicing some sort of sinister racial sorcery, felt wild for 2024, when mixed-race people are everywhere, visually overrepresented in Target commercials and Kardashian family reunions. Yet even in the midst of our fetishization, a stubborn strain of mulattophobia remains widespread. And no matter what answer we give to the ubiquitous question — What are you? — someone, somewhere, will accuse us of lying, of being a grifter trying to impersonate another race, a more real race.
Multiracial, mulatto, mixed-nuts, halfies — whatever you want to call us today, we remain the fastest-growing demographic in our country. When we enter the spotlight, we are often treated as specimens, there to be dissected, poked, debated, disputed and disinherited. We are and always have been a Rorschach test for how the world is processing its anxiety, rage, confusion and desire about this amorphous construction we call race.
It goes way back, this practice of poking and prodding mulattos. In 1891 a Tennessee journalist named Will Allen Dromgoole set out to understand the mysterious nature of a group of mixed people calling themselves the Melungeons, who lived in isolation in the nearby Appalachian Mountains. They had dusky skin and a swirl of Benetton features. Dromgoole ultimately declared them — us — “doubtful and mysterious — and unclean.”
Almost 50 years later, a white sociologist, Everett Stonequist, turned his gaze on people of mixed ancestry, publishing an essay called “The Marginal Man,” in which he essentially declared such people to be damaged goods whose “contradictory” ancestry would always mingle uneasily, producing “an indefinable malaise.”
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