"White" men can't jump

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, everyone. It’s time to grab a brew (preferably a stout; I’ve chosen Stockyard Stout), wear green, and fill out your 2010 US Census form.

The form for my apartment came Monday. I found the envelope in the kitchen under another letter for me. I think it was my roommate’s subtle way of telling me to fill it out. But it’s his apartment, so I left it on the counter. However, he, an Australian (here legally or not?), apparently wanted nothing to do with it; it sat untouched until last night when I was cooking. I took a knife and opened it to take a peek.

I looked it over and had a couple thoughts:

1) Do I need to fill this out? I don’t want to be counted as a Californian.
2) Why the fuck do I have to provide my name?
3) What, exactly, is “White”?

Seriously — what is “White”? Besides a color, I mean.

Now, I don’t want this to sound like something you’d hear from one of Rupert Murdoch’s shouting heads — for all I know, however, the conservative cable news cronies classified as “White” would probably check the box with pride and gusto, and not think any more about it — but the “White” race classification on the Census form bothers me. It’s a gross simplification.

As a foreigner and inquisitor of all things American, Zee German has asked me about our national insistence in classifying race according to skin color. To him it’s absurd. Despite their homogenous complexions, he’s said, the Slovaks would not consider themselves the same as Czechs, Russians would abhor the thought of being ethnic equals to the Poles, and the Germans and French would disavow similarity to any of them, especially each other. Would our dear Irish consider themselves kinfolk to the Scots and English? Fuck no. Yet, in the United States, they would all be grouped together as “White.”

I don’t know what to tell him. The American obsession with skin color, and whatever it’s rationale (or lack of), predates me by centuries. Part of me wants to think it’s just racist simplification, but another part wonders if it has a utilitarian purpose in our “melting pot.” For instance, what am I?

Based on what I know from the hearsay, assumptions, and concrete facts regarding my lineage (I only have vague information from my mom’s side; my dad is apparently “100 percent German”), The Quiet Man is: 75 percent German, and 25 percent “Heinz 57,” as my mom liked to call it — a blend of Welsh, Scottish, English, Irish, Ojibwe, and possibly French.

So what does that make me? “White.”

Like most Americans, I suppose my ethnic classification is too complex for straightforward surveys like the US Census, thus the necessity for oversimplification. Since many of our ancestors were fresh off the boat, I thought that a question pertaining to national origin was asked back in the day on the first American population surveys. But the emphasis on skin color has been a part of the Census from the start. According to Wikipedia, ethnicity was simplified in the 1850 Census to three categories: White, Black, and Mulatto.

The definition of “White” for the 2000 Census was, “A person having origins in any of the original peoples of Europe, the Middle East, or North Africa. It includes people who indicate their race as ‘White’ or report entries such as Irish, German, Italian, Lebanese, Near Easterner, Arab, or Polish.” So, I’m apparently just a cracka like every other “White” person in this country.

Since I’m required by law to fill out the form (or otherwise risk being hounded by Census workers, which may happen anyway), I suppose I’ll have to check “White.” Based on the definition, it best describes and simplifies my personal genealogy. But I can’t help but want to check the “Some other race” box and insert something else. I don’t want to think of myself bleached to a uniform paleness. But what would I write?

I will, though, indicate my Native heritage, so I do have a little personal “color” after all.