A story that sounds familiar: Justin García

Ordinarily, students select a college major or minor by carefully considering their personal interests,  particular subjects that pique their curiosity and fields they feel would be a good basis for future professional careers. Technically, my decision to major in anthropology and later earn a master’s degree  and doctorate in anthropology was mine alone, but I tell my friends and students, only partly as a joke,  that my choice of major was made for me to some degree by people I encountered as a child, teenager,  and young adult. Since middle school, I had noticed that many people—complete strangers, classmates,  coworkers, and friends—seemed to find my physical appearance confusing or abnormal, often leading  them to ask me questions like “What are you?” and “What’s your race?” Others simply assumed my heritage as if it was self-evident and easily defined and then interacted with me according to their conclusions.

These subjective determinations varied  wildly from person to person and from situation to situation. I distinctly recall, for example,  an incident in a souvenir shop at the beach in  Ocean City, Maryland, shortly after I graduated from high school. A middle-aged merchant attempted to persuade me to purchase a  T-shirt that boldly declared “100% Italian . . . and “Proud of It!” with bubbled letters that spelled “Italian” shaded green, white, and red. Despite my repeated efforts to convince the merchant that I was not of Italian ethnic heritage, he refused to believe me. On another occasion during my mid-twenties while I was studying for my doctoral degree at Temple University, I was walking down Diamond Street in North Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, passing through a predominantly African American neighborhood. As I passed a group of six male teenagers socializing on the steps of a row house, one of them shouted “Hey, honky! What are you doing in this neighborhood?” Somewhat startled at being labeled a “honky,” (something I had never been called before), I looked at the group and erupted in laughter, which produced looks of surprise and disbelief in return. As I proceeded to walk a few more blocks and reached the predominantly Puerto Rican neighborhood of Lower Kensington, three young women flirtatiously addressed me as papí (an  affectionate Spanish slang term for man). My transformation from “honky” to “papí” in a span of ten  minutes spoke volumes about my life history and social experiences—and sparked my interest in cultural and physical anthropology.

Throughout my life, my physical appearance has provided me with countless unique and memorable  experiences that have emphasized the significance of race and ethnicity as socially constructed concepts in America and other societies. My fascination with this subject is therefore both personal and  professional; a lifetime of questions and assumptions from others regarding my racial and ethnic background have cultivated my interest in these topics. I noticed that my perceived race or ethnicity, much  like beauty, rested in the eye of the beholder as individuals in different regions of the country (and  outside of the United States) often perceived me as having different specific heritages. For example,  as a teenager living in York County, Pennsylvania, senior citizens and middle-aged individuals usually  assumed I was “white”, while younger residents often saw me as Puerto Rican or generically Hispanic or Latino. When I lived in Philadelphia, locals mostly assumed I was Italian American, but  many Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, and Dominicans in the City of Brotherly Love often took me for either Puerto Rican or Cuban.

My experiences in the southwest were a different matter altogether. During my time in Texas, New  Mexico, and Colorado, local residents—regardless of their respective heritages—commonly assumed I was of Mexican descent. At times, local Mexican Americans addressed me as carnal (pronounced CAR nowl), a term often used to imply a strong sense of community among Mexican American men that is  somewhat akin to frequent use of the label “brother” among African American men. On more occasions  than I can count, people assumed that I spoke Spanish. Once, in Los Angeles, someone from the Spanish-language television network Univisión attempted to interview me about my thoughts on an immigration bill pending in the California legislature. My West Coast friends and professional colleagues  were surprised to hear that I was usually assumed to be Puerto Rican, Italian, or simply “white” on the  East Coast, and one of my closest friends from graduate school—a Mexican American woman from  northern California—once memorably stated that she would not even assume that I was half white.

I have a rather ambiguous physical appearance—a shaved head, brown eyes, and a black mustache  and goatee. Depending on who one asks, I have either a “pasty white” or “somewhat olive” complexion,  and my last name is often the single biggest factor that leads people on the East Coast to conclude that I am Puerto Rican.