Schrödinger’s Race

Discovering Identity Beyond the Binary

Written by Maitreya Kershner

Growing up, my race always felt like a very important part of my identity. And yet that importance always seemed to be projected onto me by outside forces, not born out of my own experience. My family culture feels like a thing on its own, disconnected from racial stereotype or assumed cultural identity. I felt I was being taught, through my community, that being biracial was supposed to mean something. But I could never place what that meaning was supposed to be.

Many people see me as white. This makes sense. I have light skin and hair. I don’t look like the “stereotypical” white person, but I certainly appear to be one. When I was little, being seen as white bugged me. I wanted my skin to be darker. I wanted it to be obvious; to take on my heritage as a kind of birthright, something that would make me stand out, that would let people see I was unique.

Some people see me as black, mostly people of color. I’m undeniably a person of color too. Ironically, calling me black follows the same logic the slave masters used, where “just one drop” turned you into the tragic mulatta of a minstrel play. Even so, I wanted to be seen as black. It connected me to a historical struggle. It made my existence feel like disobedience to racist ideology. We all long to be part of something bigger. I fell so deeply into that longing that I would become defensive whenever I felt “misidentified,” or when attention was drawn to the lightness of my skin.

Looking back, I can see that wanting to be read as black and resenting being read as white were really the same impulse: I was letting other people’s categories tell me who I was.

I’ve tried to put my struggles with racial identity behind me. And yet the questions still come up: Who are you? What are you?

The simplest answer is biracial. The term is accurate enough, but it doesn’t explain my experience as an individual; it doesn’t even specify which races. Mulatto is more specific, but it has, for good reason, fallen out of common speech. And again, it doesn’t really capture the way I experience the world. Why do I feel like I need a word to categorize myself in the first place? In a world with so many words to describe all the things a person can be, it sometimes feels like it isn’t enough to just be a person.

I like to think of my experience as “Schrödinger’s race.” In a famous thought experiment, a cat sealed in a box is imagined to be simultaneously alive and dead until someone opens the box to look, both states existing at once. Like the cat, I am both black and white, a kind of quantum superposition in human form. The box, in this metaphor, isn’t meant to be opened. And yet people keep trying. We long for the binary, for simple categories that can be easily explained. We long to understand one another, so we create an array of boxes to place ourselves in. And still we don’t understand. We just create smaller and smaller, ever more specific boxes, hoping we will one day be able to summarize all the perfect complexities of a human being.

Much of this comes from the dualism that runs through our society. We see things as one or the other — right or left, good or evil, black or white — and we deny the gray areas that are always there. We are slowly learning to escape these patterns, but their hold is hard to release. The issue lives not only in the systems we’ve built but in the way we interpret and express our reality. Most of us can’t pull ourselves out of our day-to-day perceptions long enough to see past them. And even when we glimpse a deeper truth, we struggle to put it into words.

I struggle with this often. The true feeling I’m experiencing doesn’t seem to conform to the words I know. So, I search for more words. I imagine some perfect term: a combination of sounds so self-evident that anyone hearing it would immediately understand. But even when it feels just on the tip of my tongue, the perfect word always reveals itself to be a perfect delusion. Only the feeling remains.

Maybe the feelings hardest to express are the truest ones we have. Maybe identity itself is supposed to be partly indescribable, because so many things shape who we are and how we see the world. Beyond every stereotype lie real experiences, but those experiences are never the whole story. Even people who share the same experience will process it differently, because they’re carrying different experiences of everything else. And deeper than that, there seem to be parts of each of us that don’t stem from any lived experience at all.

Through some combination of life experience and pure happenstance, I’ve found that as a queer woman of color, I don’t feel particularly connected to the identities of “queer” or “woman of color.” I feel more connected to my identity as a person, moving through space. An ever-changing human being who contains multitudes. An individual, just like everyone else. The boxes other people use to read me have never really told the truth about who I am.

When I let go of the imposed binaries, I can finally stop trying to fit myself into them. The individual pieces of an identity will never add up to the whole of a person. The cat in the box stays the cat in the box, regardless of what label gets attached. The surface things matter less than the living of an actual life. And a life, lived honestly, can never be summed up by a category.

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