When my mom was pregnant, she enjoyed watching Bewitched.
No, I’m not talking about the shitty Nicole Kidman-Will Ferrell 2005 version (why do such great actors make such horrific movies?) but the Nick-at-Nite classic 1964 version with the beautiful Elizabeth Montgomery.
She liked the show so much, that she named me after the nose twitching Samantha.
Samantha Marie Davis, born March 16th, 1986, and named after a fictional witch.
So why does everyone think I’m black?
Since I was a child, I’ve gone by Sammy. Sammy Davis, Jr. was a member of the infamous Rat Pack with James Dean and Frank Sinatra. He was a black Jew with a talent for vocals and toes for tap dancing.
My parents never made the connection between Samantha and its logical nickname, Sammy. When I was born, a friend pointed it out to my mother. She realized she had named her blonde-haired, blue-eyed and very white daughter after a legendary African American entertainer.
So why am I telling you this story? Because I feel bad that when I email someone who is African American, they logically assume I am, too. That when I make a call and say Sammy Davis, someone else snickers at the other end. That when I introduce myself as Sammy, I take advantage of the corny joke, “It’s a name that’s hard to forget.”
Today I interviewed a supporter for Barack Obama. In our conversation, we talked about his time at Harvard Law School (he is a lawyer in Philadelphia) and when he first heard Obama speak. He was passionate about Obama running, not only as his candidate of choice, but as a black man leading the political way for the underrepresented, historically neglected race.
And in our conversation, we spoke about where I grew up: Lancaster, Pennsylvania, one of the most conservative, WASPY (White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant) areas in the Keystone State.
I knew I was screwed when he asked, “Are there many black people in Lancaster?”
Shit. He thought I was black, too. If only he saw the girl at the end of the phone.
A few weeks ago, I emailed the head of diversity intiative at an organization I’m involved with called Magazine Publishers of America. She and I engaged in a friendly e-mail exchange. I was inquiring about whether an editor from a leading black teen magazine could speak at a Temple sponsored event.
When she forwarded me information about a diversity-driven opportunity called “Project Masthead,” where applicants from diverse backgrounds (read: not white) are encouraged to apply, I knew I was screwed again.
She too thought I was black. Talk about AWKWARD.
Race remains a touchy subject. I still don’t know whether to say black or African American. And according to my African American literature professor, most Caucasions are 1/19 black anyway— the result of plantation owners taking sexual advantage of their slaves.
So when I suspect someone thinks I’m a race that I’m not, do I own up to my whiteness? Or do I use the race card to my advantage, to establish a relationship with the person regardless of them ever knowing what color my skin truly is?
I went to a high school with a handful of minorities. It wasn’t until attending Temple that I ever even really had black friends, and later on, black boyfriends and love interests, too.
So maybe it shouldn’t matter that with anonymitity, someone thinks I’m black. Maybe it is good for me to experience the other side of the situation— where I am forced to fulfill expectations to win over the trust of someone else, much like I imagine minorities must do everyday as we continue to fight prejudice and stereotypes.
And then, maybe that 1/19 of me is more like 1/10. Or 1/8. Or even 1/5.
If we were all named Sammy Davis, maybe we wouldn’t have to worry about race anymore.
*Posted by Sammy D
