After failing my written Learner's Permit test, sadly, three times I was finally granted an official driver's license. I was not over the moon or patting myself on the back for reaching any sort of finish line. I was much higher on the eye roll vibe than any sort of grateful attitude for meeting this moment. My Father is an over-the-road truck driver at this time; I had been driving their stick shift Honda Accord since I was eight. Learning to navigate this said stick shift started as many others had done, on a dirt road in Dover, Oklahoma. On the North side of Route One my Grandma Ruth's house had played host to many before me, cutting their teeth driving, while at the same time waving "Hi" to fellow country dwellers as paths crossed.
My understanding of myself then, much as it is now, is tough. I did not give much attention to the Permit test, as I had been driving for years. Only nervous as I backed out of her driveway, as it was bookended with two ditches, and a whole lot of inconvenience if I did not turn the tires correctly. The reference and study book had been left much un-turned, my self-perceived capability outweighed the potential threat of any sort of disqualification. I am just as hard-headed as I was then, now; by the third time I took the test I had been around the block many times, lost as so, I thought, surely, I have passed this thing. I still had reserved a small amount of energy to receive another failure from the proctor before he gives me the clear.
As my Mother and I continue forward with the process, the police officer asks what race he should delineate on my Driver's License. He asks inquisitively, as I stand beside my Black mother looking every bit of White. This narrative happens today just as often as it happened then. Strangers will ask me just how dark my Mother is and just how White my father is. I have, only once, been demanded of, to provide a picture of Mom.
There was no bi-racial box in 2001. This empty space still resonates with me now; I lack a true definition from those around me. I have no visceral response to this, for the most part, either you are aware and surrounded bi-racial people, or you are not. I am tall, with curly hair, my arms are also especially long. The perception of my visual identity through others ebbs and flows, as it always has done. Native American or Hispanic in the summer when I have been sunning, left of center White in the winter.
I still remain a relative Outlier, but as time goes on, only to a degree. The Police Registrar or whatever tells my sixteen year old self I should just mark White, as the delineation will be less confusing to an Officer, or maybe, he meant the general public. As he spoke this either side of the decision held little meaning. My definition of Who I Am has always stood on the shoulders of my parents; I am what I am, mixed, bi-racial, interracial, the names go on and on yet to those outside of those definitions I still regard as other.
Other than me.
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