Throughout my upbringing, I have lived with the ambiguous identity of biracial. From my first state mandated exam in second grade to the 2021 University of Michigan DEI Climate Survey, I have, time and time again, been required to reduce my ethnicity down to asian or white. Even as such quantifications have modernized, allowing for multiple answers, the occasional question of “please select which racial group you most identify with” continues to leave me baffled and frustrated. However, only recently have I begun to question what it means to be a POC in America.

When I first meet many people, the question of “...so, what’s your ethnicity?” naturally arises. To which my curious and analytical personality often responds “take a guess.” Being what my biracial friends have come to coin as “racially ambiguous” or casually a spicy white, I have received anything from white to Chinese to Filipino to Native American (more so when I had waist length hair) to “I don’t know, but not white.” While I do genuinely find the broad range of answers interesting, this exercise in snap judgements has taught me visible and cultural aspects of the broad label POC.

Growing up in Okemos, MI, a small suburb bordering Michigan State University, my high school experience was far from diverse. Yet, I sought after diverse spaces, serving on the Superintendent’s Cultural Diversity Committee and working with Dr. Hall in the ANDIE lab. Furthermore, most of my friends in high school were South and East Asian, with me often being named the “white friend.” While many spaces I occupied at Okemos were white dominated, in conversations regarding race and privilege I commonly found myself speaking on majority experiences.

Prior to June of 2020, I do not think I critically examined my racial identity. I knew I valued diversity and fought for equity in my communities, but I had never formally positioned myself within these conversations. This introspective questioning is far from over. Being a fourth generation mixed Chinese American, I have never felt white, yet I have never felt Asian. Visibly, sure, Asian enough, but culturally, far from. Unlike many of my Asian friends, I grew up speaking exclusively English, my parents and grandparents were born in the U.S., and my great-grandma immigrated in a time of U.S. exclusion acts and strict Asian assimilation, yet I am not white. Fast forward to my first two years at the University of Michigan, a liberal, predominantly white institution (PWI), which values DEI, I found myself in an unfamiliar situation.

Entering Michigan, I immediately joined communities that advertised themselves as diverse. However, I did not know I would be the diversity. I quickly began to realize that these spaces that “valued diversity” and encouraged familiar conversations on identity and privilege were designed for white students. As fellow ANDIE labber John Steudle detailed in his blog post “The Backside of DEI”, I suddenly found myself advocating for and speaking on behalf of racial minority experiences. My time at Michigan has compelled me to question, “am I a POC?”

The self-identifying label POC has long daunted me due to my complex ethnic identity. Dictionary definitions note that a POC is anyone who is not white, including mixed race individuals. Yet the Merriam Webster Dictionary places emphasis on darker skinned individuals, implying that even 100% East Asians may not be POCs. On one hand, as a fourth generation, mixed Chinese American, who has grown up in liberal spaces that have bought into the model minority, as detailed in colleague Erin Chon’s blog post “I Bought into the ‘Model Minority’ Rhetoric…And I Want Out!”, I have faced little discrimination on the basis of my ethnicity. My Chinese culture goes about as far as eating lo mein and making dumplings on Chinese New Year, but should I not be proud of my heritage? Am I succumbing to the structural assimilation so harshly imposed upon Chinese Americans in the 20s and 30s if I don’t identify as a POC?

Since 2020, I have discussed my predicament with many DEI experts, all of whom have offered conflicting and ambiguous advice, leaving me with the title of “open to interpretation.” I understand that I come from a place of great privilege when I write this article, but labels matter. Until we reach an equitable society, labels matter. We no longer subscribe to the “I don’t see color” narrative. Only until we all see the inequities in our world and situate ourselves within these conversations can we work to construct a more just future.

So what is my racial identity? From the first time I answered the “diversity question,” I knew I would never fit into any one box, and like so many other aspects of identity, my self label would be fluid. For the time being, I identify as a Person of Color with good ears. I understand listening is just as important as contributing and educating others is just as important as educating myself. While my identity is subject to change throughout my life, I have found comfort in the uncertainty. I know that if I hold true to my values of open communication, empathy, and equity, I will be satisfied in my identity.