I recently submitted my genetic information to a company that analyzes genetic ancestry. For as long as I’ve had the mental capacity to consider the question “What am I?” I’ve identified as Cherokee Indian and German American. Lots of people in my family identify as just German American or more broadly “White,” but I’ve never been able to do that comfortably. Since I was a kid, people have asked me where my almond eyes, my cheekbones, my olive skin, my textured hair come from. Some of my first memories include other kids in the play yard telling me I didn’t look like them. Even if I wanted to ignore that part of my ancestry, I wouldn’t have been able to. It’s hard to know how to feel about your own face when even adults assume that you’re adopted.

Throughout high school and college the questions into my background became somehow simultaneously more intrusive and more sensitive. Instead of, “You look weird,” I got, “You look exotic. What’s your ethnic background?”

If you ever find yourself wondering if you should ask an acquaintance about their ethnic background, err on the side of never doing that.

The results of my genetic testing were interesting and unexpected. My ancestors haven’t kept thorough records of their origins, so my family has been content with guessing. My genetics contain pieces from literally every continent but Antarctica, which I had no idea was the case.

Since I’ve moved to Detroit and had conversations about race and ethnicity, I’ve found myself to be in a completely different position. I understand that most people in Detroit assume that I’m White and that I have to bring up my own complexities.

I’m not entirely sure what the direction of this new chapter of this discussion will be, but my eyes have been opened to the shades within myself and I’m sure that are within each of us.