Letter to the Editor: An inside take on being bi-racial in St. George

Written by Varda Klabanoff

Yesterday my 23 year old bi-racial daughter said to me, “Mom, you do not HAVE IT!  There is no way that you are a racially ambiguous woman!  You are white!!  Just look in the mirror!”

I took my daughter’s suggestion and looked deeply into the mirror at myself. Yes, I thought, I definitely have it.  I know what I am talking about – maybe in her eyes I did not have it, but I knew for sure that I had it!

“Yes, dear, I do have it.”

“Mother, look at my hair. My hair is coarse, very thick, with tight, small curls. Your hair is white, with some browns and reds and loose curls.”

Back in 1956, my mother would brush my bright, red, long hair up into a beautiful ponytail. I winced in pain with every stroke of the brushbecause at the age of  seven I had already grown in coarse, thick, and curly hair, which she had to pull and brush so that my hair could straighten and form into the ponytail. After she finished brushing, she smiled, looked into my face and said, “Your hair glistens in the sun!”

I could tell that my Jewish mother was tired after brushing my hair. She had a heart condition and took pills every day to help.  Thirteen years later, while driving with my father to Kingman, she would start throwing up blood, which ended her life.

One Friday night, I remember walking with my parents into the synagogue. I felt all eyes on me and I purposefully and proudly bounced my glistening ponytail to the left, and then to the right. 

As we sat down, I came to the realization that it wasn’t my crown that people were staring at – it was….me…..my red, RED, hair…and my skin…not an olive , but a freckled pink with a Phoenix sunburned skin. The knowledge about myself solidified and I knew that I had always known that I was different and that I had IT, but at seven years old, I had no word for … IT.

Some members of the congregation threw blank stares at me, others whispered. I did not know why people thought that they were whispering – I could hear them!

“Are those her parents?” a woman asked her husband.

He shrugged his shoulders, “Maybe she’s adopted.”

An elderly woman bent way over to ask her best friend, who was sitting two people down from her, “Which parent gave her the bright red hair?”

“Who knows? All I know is that she is not of our race. She’s a goy.”

Today, my hair is short, colored in whites, browns, and a little red. I use my ambiguity to my advantage and can walk into any group, business, or organization. In fact, if I wanted to, I could walk into the KKK or the Mormon church, and be accepted – at first. 

People always begin their conversations by asking my name. I say my first and last name and then the bombardment of questions and comments start.

“What ethnicity is your last name?”

“That’s a funny sounding name!”

“Your name is so hard to pronounce – I’m just not going to try..HA.Ha…Haaaaa….”

My daughter then joins me and I introduce her. The question bombing begins again.

“Oh – she’s so beautiful…is she adopted?” (Code for – I need to know her race)

“Which parent has the curlier hair?”  (Code for – I have to know the race)

“Your daughter has more of an olive complexion than you – – – is she Samoan, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian?”  (Code for – is she black?)

I think that in the same way others have tried to figure me out, they are now redirecting their focus on my daughter; but I have news for them. Since I have had decades of learning how to deal with my own ambiguity, I now am a perfect teacher and advocate for my precious daughter…LOL…lol…l…Not.