There’s a large event I go to every year. I love going—I have a lot of friends and connections there. But inevitably, I end up in a situation or two that play on people’s assumptions about who I am and how I look. I wish they didn’t stick in my brain and taint what is otherwise an amazing and fulfilling experience, but I know I’m not the only one experiencing it. Not in this industry nor in any other.
It’s particularly egregious when coming from a vocal “ally” of the diverse community. But that is what’s in question: my diversity.
You see, I’m Indigenous Mexican without the intentional culture. Mexicans shame me because I didn’t learn Spanish (a long story, but it inevitably boils down to my family wanting to “assimilate” – their words). White people take one look at me—a very white-passing adult—and either don’t believe me or essentially try to convince me they’re closer to the culture than I am.
The last time this happened, an influential, high-ranking white man decided his local Mexican population meant he knew more about the culture. He went off about how they clog up traffic during their many holiday celebrations, and that’s when I ended the conversation and walked away.
You see light skin, hear American English, and know I grew up in a rural Midwest town, you think your local Mexicans make you more of an expert on…what? What were we talking about to get here? Because there’s never any discussion that should have led to a rant on Mexican holidays and how it makes for a more difficult commute.
Playing the “how diverse are you, really?” game is pretty fucking offensive, honestly.
First of all, as a white person, my identity isn’t yours to evaluate. And I say that because you have no context for what I’m talking about. You know women—I’m sure you all know at least one woman in your life. Can you claim you know what it’s like being a woman more than a woman because you are near them? (Actually, I was told that once, so…)
I am relaying an experience—mine—and a valid one. Whether or not you think I’m Mexican (enough) isn’t up for discussion or debate. And, in fact, it’s a sore spot. Not just for me, but for those of us who fit in-between diversities or don’t present in an expected way.
What most white people don’t know is that brown isn’t just brown and Black isn’t just Black (just like queer isn’t just queer and on into diverse infinity). There are shades and cultural norms that put you somewhere in between, which puts you in a place of criticism from just about everyone. Apparently, speaking Spanish is all that’s standing in my way of being considered “part of the culture” to Mexicans. And my adult skin color and location are what separate me from being able to claim my heritage.
These moments are hard to deal with because beyond being very personal, they show how shallow most people’s understanding of diversity is. It’s easy to say you support diversity and inclusion when the identities are visible, obvious, and easy to categorize. But identity doesn’t always come with a visual cue or distinguishing accent. Sometimes it’s shaped by distance, erasure, and decisions made generations before we ever had a say.
So when you play the game of “how diverse are you, really?”—know that the question says more about your lens than my identity.
If your DEI efforts only validate the loudest or most obvious forms of identity, you’re not being inclusive. You’re gatekeeping.
I’m not here to prove my identity to make you more comfortable with your allyship. I’m here to do the work, and if you’re serious about equity, you’ll make space for everyone under the diversity umbrella, not just the ones who fit a visual criterion.
