Born and raised in the sunny state of California, I grew up knowing nothing else, save the summer family visits to Chicago and Alabama. In grade school, my small class of 30 had every race from Caucasian, African American, Indian, Latino, Asian, mixes and more.
Everyone was different. Race was never addressed because it never needed to be. In high school, I was never asked what ethnicity I was. Naturally, when I went to college, I expected nothing less. College is a place where independence is key, where differences thrive and where people can be themselves.
When I chose to attend Alabama, due largely to my father’s alumni status, scholarships and my desire to get out of California, I was irked by the skeptical looks I received. I defended Alabama, citing tradition and southern hospitality as positive draws. “Alabama isn’t bad. It’s not what you think.”
Well, sort of.
I am now painfully aware of how naïve I had been. I learned about race wars and conflict in history class, but had assumed that they had largely faded into the past of my textbook. As I made my little freshman way around campus, how bizarre it was to see black and white people in their respective clusters, especially with no Asians or Latinos to be found. How unnerving to walk across the quad collecting stares and sidelong glances.
Did I have something on my face? Maybe it was how I dressed. Perhaps I spilled something on me. How embarrassing.
“What are you?”
Oh, the infamous question. Even as a senior, I still get asked this by most people I meet. Some try to be more discrete, asking instead where I’m from, or where my parents are from “originally.” Sometimes, “I’m from California” suffices, where as others bumble on, awkwardly skirting around the word “ethnicity” like it’s a slur. How curious people are!
There are times when I find it endearing, and times when I mercilessly let them flounder, determined to express my annoyance.
Reading the article on informal segregation in the greek system, I couldn’t help but bristle yet again. I recall asking one of my friends what sororities were best, in the hope of rushing, and his reply was, “Black or white?” I was as confused as the time I was asked if I liked watermelon. Why did it matter?
Year after year, I read CW articles stressing integration, and I am saddened to think that these articles are even necessary, but they are. I have never rushed for a sorority, even though, long ago, I had a desire. That desire has long since evaporated at the outrageous notion that I have to choose which of my races I would associate with.
My skin is too tan for a “white” sorority, too light for a “black” sorority. In both, I stick out like a sore thumb. I have never been one to shy away from individuality, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable in either group. It was incredibly disheartening to realize that I am an abnormality on my campus.
Of course there are sororities that encourage multiracial attendance, but I have since tossed in the towel. I refuse to partake in something that would put me in such a compromising position.
I love the South and the sometimes bizarre traditions. I came down for a traditional, small town college experience, and that’s what I’m getting.
However, I will never be in a sorority. I don’t know if it will plague me in the future, sending my daughter off to college without first-hand advice. I watch my friends back home pledge, listen to them talk about their sisters, and post pictures of their events. I am jealous. I see the stark contrasts between greek systems here and there. I am confident that I would have found a sorority outside of UA. It is one of my regrets.
I love being biracial. There are times when it is an advantage and others when it is not. I am always amused when people ask for tanning advice. I’ll never forget being chastised by a physician at the SHC for using tanning beds, before asserting that I’ve never set foot in such a shop. I can still recall a time when “multiracial” wasn’t an option on forms. There are still people who think my existence is an abomination.
Change is slow by nature, and I don’t have the answers. Progress is the goal to be aimed for, not politically correct perfection. But I know three things: I am proud to go to school in the South. I am proud to be multiracial. I am proud to be different. I think it is time that greek life at UA can be proud of those things, too.
Jessica Bailey is a senior majoring in studio art.
