No one has ever asked me if I am half white. I’ve been asked if I am half Black or if I am Spanish. I’ve been asked “What are you?” and “What are you mixed with?” more times than I’ve been asked what my name is. There are so many issues with these questions and the circumstances in which they were asked, but the most unsettling for me were the underlying implications: the clearly defined yet unspoken understanding that there was probably white in me somewhere, but that color, that half, part, and piece of me, wasn’t the one that needed an explanation.