The Privilege of ‘White Passing’

Race and identity when there is more than meets the eye

I am ‘white passing.’

I noticed the term used recently on social media and I admit I had to google it. I have lived all my life devoid of a label that represents my experience as a white skinned person born of a brown mother and a white father. And now, arriving very late to the party (the term dates back to the 18th Century), I have one.

White Passing: Someone who is biracial, but is mostly recognized as white, and reaps the benefits of white privilege (Urban dictionary).

My gut reaction to my ‘new’ found label initially was to rebuff it. Firstly, for labels sake. The inability to be neatly categorised has often suited me just fine. The polarising worlds of labelled existence never accounted for the grey, the in between, the outlier. Maybe also, I confess, because my nebulous sense of self allowed me to occasionally exempt myself from the conversations I was sure did not quite talk to me or about me. I am not Karen, I’d joke to myself, I am Karindra.

The term ‘white passing’ also says to me: not really white; pretending; infiltrating, a wolf in sheep’s clothing even. Pointing to the American…