Check only one box.

It's census time! That means that I have received a form in the mail asking me about my race and sex. It also means that I have been thrown into the confusion of race identity, once again. Let me tell you a story.

A long time ago, a woman named Josephine was born in Mexico City. She grew up and fell in love with Frank. They moved to Arizona. They had a son named Frank. When Frank grew up, he married Alice, who bore my mother, Beverly.

My mother married a man from Washington who had Irish-Scottish ancestry, named Mike. My mother herself was a mix of Mexican, French, German, and Scottish.

What on earth does that make me?

On the census, it asks people if they are "of Hispanic origin", but clearly states that they (who is this "they"?) don't consider Hispanic a race. They go on to ask about race identity. Hispanic is not an option.

Yesterday, I stood in my kitchen holding this little piece of paper. I thought about my grandparents speaking Spanish to my mother and how they never taught me. I thought about my grandmother's homemade tortillas. I have never seen the recipe. When strangers see my grandparents, they ask them about working on farms and immigration--even though they were born in the U.S.

I haven't filled out the form. I don't know how to answer the question. Once upon a time, my history was in Mexico. Once upon a time, one drop of blood was the measurement for race. But. No one ever asks me if I'm part Mexican. I have white skin and white privilege. I have never checked a scholarship box indicating I am Hispanic because I'm afraid it might be like stealing.

But secreted away between my first and last name is the name Josephine.