Identity Politics: Race & Ethnicity in the Outdoors
Photo credit: Brad Siefert
How do you choose to identify? Does that differ from how others perceive you?
In the U.S. and around the globe, our racial and ethnic identities have always been political. Throughout history the names chosen for us have often been used to oppress, enslave, and disenfranchise. Alternatively, the names we have chosen for ourselves, including the identities we have reconnected with at great cost have been a source of empowerment, strength, and resilience.
Most of us agree that language matters, names matter. Agreeing on which ones best represent our communities is a different story; especially when the only constant seems to be change. Our identities are something we hold closest to our beings and simultaneously share with the world. We create culture through language and everyday interactions. In sociology we describe this as symbolic interactionism; every interaction we have with others plays a role in creating the larger society we take part in. For this reason, our words matter immensely.
As you read this article I encourage you to reject the right/wrong binary; we’ve got more than two options, and no identifier is more correct than any other.
The responses below have been edited for clarity and brevity.
Ellen Bradley: Indigenous, Alaska Native or Tlingit
On a personal level, I identify as Tlingit, Xutsnoowú Kwáan, Yéil, L'eeneidí, Aanx’aak Hít. That is my tribal affiliation, tribe, moiety, clan, and house. However, when I speak with non-Tlingit or non-Indigenous relatives, I refer to myself as Indigenous, Alaska Native, or Tlingit, acknowledging my racial identity, regional roots, and the specific lands to which I belong, Lingít Aaní.
I do not refer to myself as Native American, as I disagree with the current occupation of these lands by the "United States of America". The term POC does not fit me either; as an Indigenous person from a northern latitude who is also of mixed European descent, I am often white-passing in the winter. The specific terms I use to identify myself to others depend heavily on the audience and subject of conversation. When speaking about Indigenous rights and sovereignty, I identify with all Indigenous peoples. However, I recognize that Indigenous peoples are not a monolith and, while my Tlingit identity inherently instills a desire to support peoples who belong to other lands, it does not confer any level of expertise over the history or injustices faced by other Indigenous peoples.
When speaking on issues of racial inequality, such as the disproportionate effects of climate change, I may identify within BIPOC spaces. However, in my experiences, the "I" in BIPOC is often left out, or I may be the only Indigenous identifying individual represented in the space. In many ways, this term "BIPOC" can be harmful for Indigenous peoples, as it groups together the experiences of all non-white individuals. The term BIPOC ignores that, for Black and Indigenous peoples, our participation in the "United States of America" is forced, not voluntary. That is not necessarily the case of all People of Color, as many have chosen, historically, to come to this country in pursuit of the "American Dream".
Historically the "United States" government utilized residential schools and other forms of ethnic cleansing to strip Indigenous Peoples of our languages. We were punished for practicing our traditional ways, our ceremonies, songs, and values. Indigenous languages are rooted in our relationship to all things within the more-than-human world. As an individual attempting to relearn my traditional language, the way I use any language is incredibly important, and has caused me to focus on the ways in which the English language has evolved to embody settler colonialism biases, prejudices and violence. That has motivated me to remove as much colonial language from my vocabulary as is possible. It has also influenced how I self-identify.
Drea Woods: Black or Black American
I identify as Black or Black American. I don't care for the American part, but since wanderlust runs through my veins, I've learned, when I'm outside the USA, that I can't distance myself from my Americanness. I prefer Black over African American because Black is more diasporic, in the sense that it connects me to all Black folks across the globe. I'm neutral when it comes to the term BIPOC. I will say, however, that I love a unifying term for people of the global majority. I don't know if BIPOC is that term, but I'm not going to say I don't identify as BIPOC. I am Black, and although my Indigenous cultural heritage has been erased due to trans-Atlantic slavery, my ancestors know their truth.
In a U.S. context, there's a baseline story: the white story. However, we are not all the same. I am not white. Since the origins of racial identities as a hierarchy of oppression based on skin tone, those identities have privileged some and targeted others. We need to be clear on that history and be clear on whose story has always been told. If we're striving for equity, the racial identifier is important to make sure we're hearing more from those groups of people whose stories have been silenced.
Many have said this before, but I think it often deserves repeating. We can't erase the Black story in the USA, by replacing Black with BIPOC. They are not synonymous and are not always interchangeable. Sometimes the intentions behind the desire for more unifying terms aren’t meant to be harmful, however the impact is still just that - full of harm.. Umbrella terms can be useful for mobilization; simultaneously, we have to be mindful that they don't become the same tools of the oppressor and begin to silence stories.
Alyssa Gonzalez: Hispanic and Southeast Asian
As a mixed race person it's been hard for me to figure out how to identify. If I had to really break it down I'm mostly Chilean, Uruguayan, Thai and Irish. But when asked about my race I usually say Hispanic and Southeast Asian. I grew up in a very American way and didn't have any connection to either Hispanic or Asian culture so most of my life I've struggled to feel "Asian enough" or "Hispanic enough", but it's still where my roots and ancestors come from so I've been doing a lot of work to understand my culture more and figure out what it means to me. I also identify as BIPOC or refer to myself as a woman of color; I have never been white passing and, even with lighter brown skin, it's been made very clear to me that I stand out from the predominantly white communities I'm in.
Just like I'm proud of my mixed race identity, I am very proud to be a brown woman. I think about my identity constantly and the language I use is extremely intentional. When it comes to my Asian identity, I say Southeast Asian not AAPI or Asian American. My mom and her family are from Thailand and that is really special to me—I am extremely proud to be Thai and a lot of the time people tell me I don't "look Asian".
With racial identifiers, there can be a lot of erasure in the words we use, so identifying as Southeast Asian is a way for me to have more clarity in that. I rarely meet other Southeast Asian folks, so I want to provide representation whenever I can. I've also always identified as Hispanic, not Latina. I know there's a lot of debate on these terms but, for me, Hispanic just feels right. I've struggled for so long to feel "enough" of a race but when using my hyphenated identities, it helps me feel more authentic. I am not just one thing, I am made up of so many different races and cultures and I want to honor that in how I identify.
It's impossible for me to tell my story without sharing how being Hispanic-Southeast Asian or a woman of color has affected that. Being a brown woman is just who I am. It's been the one truth throughout my entire life and no matter what environment I'm in, that has always had an impact. I have always lived with an extremely close proximity to whiteness and that is also a very important part of my story. For a very long time I didn't think about my race or talk about it with anyone. I tried as hard as I could to blend in. Trying to be a "wealthy white girl from Connecticut" was easier for me than admitting that I was different, didn't have money and was born in Florida. I grew up thinking that being a poor brown girl was a bad thing and that I would never be happy or successful if I embraced my culture and identity. It wasn't until I was 25 that I could proudly say I was Hispanic and Southeast Asian...I'm 27 now. My race and the color of my skin are so incredibly important to my story because of that. Speaking up about my identity has helped me grow as a person and learn to really love myself.
Jr Rodriguez: Mestizo
How I identify changes based on my audience and how much they are willing to learn on their own. I prefer to identify as Mestizo, but for people who are unwilling to do the work, I may also use the term Latinx. My hyphenated identity (Mexican-American) is too easily dismissed and susceptible to prejudice. Mestizo tends to make people stop and think and do a little research.
I love the collective energy from the terms BIPOC and POC but sometimes they feel like a catch-all that can be used by white systems to erase more of our individual and collective history. The best is when those terms are used to dive deeper, but that seldom happens in white systems.
Fluidity, connectivity, and evolution make language a tool for revolution and oppression. Many of these have evolved from learning of an oppressive past and acknowledging it in real time; take Latinx for example, it's evolved into our vernacular from a collective desire to acknowledge and combat the genderization of Spanish and the patriarchal history ingrained in many Latinx cultures. Even the term Latinx has come under criticism, and that's the beauty of language.
My identifier is not static, it’s an interaction between myself and the listener. I even sometimes say I'm bicultural to make people stop and think what that means to someone that looks like me…I've grown up in the States with McDonalds, Street Sharks, individualism pero también con tamales, Selena, y familia.
I hope people dive a little deeper with any identifier since for example Mestizo was used "as state policy (that) operates to mask white supremacy and conceal racial subordination in Mexico of Indigenous people and Afro-Mexicanos." (Laura Gomez; 2020).
Being aware of this, I'm currently using it to connect back to my indigenous and afro roots whatever they may be. Utilizing the identifier mestizo is to a certain degree performing a social experiment to weed out people that may not be doing as much research as they should. In a sense I'm reclaiming, Mestizo con conciencia, if you will. Everything can and will likely be co-opted. “BIPOC” and “POC” feel like a distancing tactic for white people to avoid acknowledging thateach culture has been and is being harmed.
Shara Zaia: Assyrian American, Iraqi American and Middle Eastern
I don’t like to put myself in just one box because I am more complex than one identifier so I am constantly using different words to describe my ethnic and racial identities. At any given time I may use terms such as “Assyrian-American” “Iraqi-American” “Middle Eastern” “POC” “WOC” “BIPOC” “MENA.” I think we need to acknowledge that we are all uniquely identifying individuals and there is no one term to encompass us all perfectly. Too many of us have suppressed our authentic identities through forced assimilation as a means of survival. The right terms to define your identity are simply the ones that YOU resonate with - and these may change.
As someone who speaks up about my lived experiences, I have been criticized from all angles - for what I say, the way I look, the work that I do, the work that I don’t do. Plus, I know that my proximity to whiteness makes me more digestible than many of my dear friends. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if I should just sit out because of it. But should those friends always have to fight in the front lines and expose themselves to further harm or can I use my privilege to do so for them? Not because they can’t, but because they shouldn’t have to.
Language matters. Words both build and reflect culture which means their meanings are always changing. If you look at history, the term “Person of Color” was used to define the Black community.* But does POC still hold that meaning one hundred years later or is our language shifting? Based on the current state of our culture, I understand the term POC to mean anyone who identifies as something outside of the White experience. This newer term BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color), separates the Black and Indigenous experience from individuals who identify as People of Color as a way to put their lived experiences at the forefront of the movement but shouldn’t invalidate or discount anyone else’s.
When I was invited to a previous BIPOC meetup group, I hesitated to go because I was unsure of where I fit - both within that space and also outside of it. So I made sure to build Cruxing In Color on the foundation that no one would be gatekeeping who was “POC enough.” We don’t owe anyone our stories nor should we have to justify our identities because they are just that - our own. Is it really productive to ask folks to create more and more boxes to fit ourselves into or keep each other out of? Shouldn’t our goal as people who are tired of experiencing harm due to our racial and ethnic histories be to lift each other up rather than point fingers and cause one another further harm?
No one has the place to police and invalidate someone else’s experience or invite others to weigh in on defining another human’s personal identity. Spaces like CIC are built to give folks a place to belong as they are - not to force them into more assimilation in order to belong or survive. We’ve all done that for too long.
Dani Reyes-Acosta: Mestiza, Multiracial, or Mestiza Asian and Pacific Islander
Race is a construct humans made up based upon physical similarities, perceptions of common origin, and skin color. I believe race categorizes us in ways that are often more harmful than helpful. As a person of mixed race descent, I find myself checking multiple boxes on the US Census. According to the categories available, I am Asian, Pacific Islander, Native American, and White. These categories completely erase my cultural identification, and often, I describe myself through my ethnicity more so than my race (I identify as Mestiza, Multiracial, or Mestiza Asian and Pacific Islander). Oftentimes, I’ve find myself using identifiers that less informed people might understand, namely, using the countries where my heritage comes from. Honestly, I don’t have will to exact patience or emotional labor to tell people about my heritage—often, they just want to know why I look “different.”
I push hard against identifying through race or nationality because both are arbitrary creations of colonialism that have oppressed both my ancestors and others that share some of the same identifiers. For example, as the darkest-skinned person in my maternal family, it's easy for strangers to project the race they're most familiar with: depending on my outfit for the day, my geographic location, the language I'm speaking, or even who I'm with, my perceived race changes. My maternal grandmother would often give me a hard time for spending too much time in the sun as a child: dark skin in Mexican families has, for centuries, been a classist and caste-demoting legacy of colonialism that speaks to how (predominantly) Spanish settlers mixed with their Indigenous and African slaves, wives, mistresses, rape victims, or all the above.
This "racial mixing," evidenced through casta paintings (learn more here) shows how different races could produce offspring of different skin tones - and the nearly-fixed social class one would inhabit based on their skin tone, blood, and birthplace. As such, a preference for light-skinned children emerged in Mexican culture, which, as you can imagine, encourages us to completely erase our ties to our Indigenous heritage.
And Hispanic, or Latinx? The former, a pan-cultural term coined not too long ago often feels like it sells me short too. (Code Switch has a good episode on the term Hispanic here.)
The politics of race, especially for someone whose nationality may be American but whose looks certainly live outside the blonde-blue-eyed standard that media pushed for years as an ideal, have always been complicated. Both my grandmothers have White on their birth certificates since the USA has never known what to do with the carriers of Spanish, Indigenous, and Filipina immigrant blood. We are outliers in their eyes—race cannot define us.
And maybe it doesn't have to, because it's our culture, our beliefs, and our values that make us unique, enriching this place we get to call home. Como el arco iris es un puente, los americanos de varias razas también son puentes. We are the future, as much as the past.