Skewing the Data: Mixed-Race Identity & The Problem of Counting for Race

CWILAA few weeks ago, I attended a panel hosted by the Institute for Gender, Race, and Sexuality at the University of British Columbia, entitled “CWILA and the Problem of Counting for Race.” CWILA (Canadian Women in the Literary Arts) is a non-profit organization, founded in 2012, as a “discursive space to address gender disparities in Canadian literary culture, as well as the wider politics of representation, the critical reception of women’s writing in the literary press, and the ways in which we can foster stronger critical communities.” Through their first two annual counts, CWILA demonstrated that there is a significant imbalance when it comes to gender representation in Canadian literary culture. Considering the myriad ways in which these imbalances continue to circulate, (as evidenced by statements from the likes of David Gilmour, whom I have written about here) the collection of data seems to serve a useful purpose in providing some numerical and concrete grounding to what often feels like an abstract and unquantifiable problem. Data can help to back an argument, to lend “credibility,” when people would otherwise dismiss lived experiences or personal narratives as “mere anecdotes.” 

Of course, a lack of equitable gender representation in literary culture is but one facet of the problem of visibility, of the need for a dynamic articulation of the whole spectrum of lived experiences, especially by those who have histories of being silenced by systemic oppression. As CWILA continues its work, the various identity formations that intersect with gender—the intersectionality that occurs when we think through gender in relation to sexuality, race, class, and disability, among others—emerge as new spaces for discussions around how to collect data in order to demonstrate inequality in cultural production. 

Data is important. As panelist and author Madeleine Thien noted in her eloquent list of thoughts on the question of numbers, “numbers are interesting because they give us another perspective and another way of observing.” Of course, while Thien is clear that “we are not numbers,” she elaborates that “we are using numbers to understand a system that we have created. The numbers help us see the ways in which our system is a meritocracy, a celebration of great literature, and the ways in which it is not.” This could be said, too, of any way of counting for inequality and problems of representation, whether it be in the field of cultural production, political life, or the spheres of violence which often disproportionately affect marginalized populations.

Of course, the methodology of counting is not entirely un-problematic, for race as it is for any of these categories. As UBC English professor Dr. Laura Moss mentions, “To measure gender, CWILA instructed volunteers to look for pronouns in publishers’ material or self-identifying material: he/she/they, etc. To measure Canadian and non-Canadian, we looked at mentions of somewhere in Canada as a place of birth, residence, or work: Canadian by birth or by choice. To measure race and ethnicity there are no indicators like pronoun or markers of residency that will indicate race or heritage.” So, too, it must be acknowledged that counting on the basis of categories rarely, if ever, allows for fluidity of identity, for shifts, for identification somewhere on a spectrum. It’s hard to get a handle on your data-sets if they’re constantly shifting beneath you. Sometimes, in order to collect a snapshot of a given situation, we must invoke parameters of rigidity, even if they are not perfect. As writer and UBC English professor Dr. Larissa Lai stated in an interview with CWILA founder Gillian Jerome, “Well, I think the methodology of counting is fraught. And then the methodology of racial categorization is fraught. As is the methodology of gender categorization. So you’re already in the swamp!”

And so, as I reflect on this panel, I think about my own swampy self.

I am aware that when I write and speak (as a scholar, as a teacher, as an activist, and as a creative writer and blogger) that my racial identification is always lurking in the background, even when I do not directly address it. And so I wonder: simply based on my name, and on my appearance, how might I be counted in a study of literary or scholarly representation? How might I be filed away and categorized? How might I count or categorize myself?

I am deeply aware that I am, in so many ways, a question mark. A fully Italian name, with seemingly-matching olive skin. My mother tongue is German. My mother is white and my father is black. When my parents separated, my sister and I were raised by our mother in a primarily-white suburb of Vancouver. And, in many moments in my life, I have had the privilege of passing. While my sister and I share the same parentage, the rolling of the genetic dice meant that while I was born with lighter skin and straight hair, my sister was born with darker skin and curly hair. Even now, when my sister and I are out together, it is she who is more readily-racialized than I am. It is because of this complexity that the question of race, and accounting for my own racialization, has always been fraught. I am genetically, biologically, half-Black, and yet I have had virtually no connection to “Black” culture for most of my life. What is “Black” culture, anyway? I did not inherit the stories of my father’s family, the stories of growing up in Barbados, growing up Black on an island with a history of British colonization and the Atlantic slave trade. And yet, that history is still mine, somehow. It’s in my skin. Do I count in percentages? Half-half? 70%-30%? 

Sometimes, I wonder if this is how people see me. Half and half.

My attempts to reconcile my complex racial and cultural identity, however, are always affected by the ways in which others choose to define me, and by the ways in which they choose to interpret the data that I offer them. The forms of data-collection about my racial identity have all been different. The ways in which they breach the boundaries of my skin, interrogating my blood, all have different nuances and different textures.

Some are curious: “Where are you from?”

Some are probing: “Where are you really from?”

Some are presumptuous: “But aren’t you actually Italian/Spanish/Middle Eastern/Greek/Portuguese/something else?”

Some are institutional: “Please identify your racial background.”

Some are cold, callous: “What are you?”

The issue, of course, is not only the questions themselves, which can range from innocuous attempts at mutual racial or ethnic identification, to genuine curiosity, to the fetishizing eye of the guy on the street who tells me that I can’t possibly be half-white “with that ass.” The problem, all too often, is that the data which I offer is scrutinized, questioned, discounted, or trivialized. I am counted, only to be discounted.

Example One:

2003. I am sixteen years old, sitting at the year-end highschool awards ceremony, when an acquaintance casually asks me if my parents are in attendance. I glance up at the bleachers, quickly identifying my mother and proudly pointing her out.

“The woman in the red sweater?” My mother, in a blue cardigan, is seated beside a work-colleague, a black woman wearing a bright poppy sweater.

“No,” I say, with annoyance in my voice, “the woman in the blue cardigan.”

My schoolmate looks puzzled. She looks at my white mother, then back at not-white me. She frowns slightly.

“Ohhhhhhh! So are you adopted?” she exclaims.

Before I have a chance to respond, the school band chimes in with their hearty rendition of “O Canada,” and I shrink back into my seat for the rest of the night. As I cross the stage to receive my award for Student of the Year, I think: “Why can’t white mothers have brown daughters?”

I’m aware, of course, that everyone has a different relationship to these questions. Even I have different relationships to them, depending on which mood I’m in. It’s not that I don’t embrace my mixed identity, or that I am attempting to conceal it from others. In fact, sometimes I am quite happy to talk about it. What I wish to convey, however, is that self-identification is still always partially dependent on how others see my self, not merely that identity or lineage which I claim as my own. 

Quite coincidentally, as I was writing this article, I had another opportunity to see this problem of counting for race, and the politics of self-representation in action, when I filled out a survey organized by my university’s student society. The survey was broad, typical, a sort of attempt to grasp a sense of students’ experiences on campus, in terms of academics, resources, funding, discrimination, and so on.

Gender:Sexuality QsWhen it came to the identificatory questions of gender, sexuality, and disability, there were options to identify as “unsure,” to “prefer not to disclose” (re: disability), or to “prefer not to answer” (re: sexuality/gender). [Of course, the parameters of the survey require that these options be actively chosen, that one must choose non-choice or non-disclosure, rather than simply being able to leave all options blank.]

Yet, when it came to the question of race, there was no such option available. While I could choose more than one category, for instance, both “White” and “Black,” there was no way for me to express that my biology is never read as such, and thus has little impact on how I actually experience race as an embodied being. And heaven forbid I should choose the category of “Other – Please Specify” a category that I have stared down far too many times on census forms and applications, a category that reminds me that I am a question mark, I am neither/nor, I am both/and, I am in-between, I am invisibly-visible, I am different things to whoever is reading me, I am exotic cheekbones and a year-round tan and I must-be-adopted and I am only ever-always-Other. Please specify.

Not answering is almost never a choice, neither in the survey nor in my day-to-day experience.


I don’t have a choice.

I do deflect answering for a while, sometimes, if I’m feeling unduly pressured or uncomfortable. I try to ask why they’re interested. I do try. But I am so often worn down, tired of prying eyes and mouths, and so I give them what they want, I give them their data. 

Example Two:

2013. I post a link to an article about mixed-race identity on Facebook, with a preamble of sorts about how it much it resonates with me.

An acquaintance, who clearly hasn’t read the article (which is funny, because it is exactly all the issues involved in questioning someone about race), comments, publicly: “what r u mixed with hun?”

I don’t bother to dignify that with a public answer. 

Later that day, I get a private message. No offense meant by the question, it’s just a QUESTION, you see, it’s just because she thinks I look exotic and beautiful and she’s just so CURIOUS. But, so, what am I actually, though.

It’s late, and I’m tired of this. I reluctantly type: “My mother is white, and my father is black.”

A bubbly response, emoticons galore: “Oh! I totally knew it! I’m like a pro at guessing race, LOL!”

I close the conversation on Facebook. I walk away. I feel defeated. I feel as though my data, my cells, my blood, my skin have been stolen, perverted, manipulated, sold for exchange on the market of exotic Otherness that is traded like trinkets. I am merely a token, a prize in a game of “What Kind of Not-White Are You?” and I have participated, albeit under coercion, in my own objectification.

But I am a human being, not a game.

It is perhaps, no surprise, then, that when I am asked to identify myself, even for the purposes of having my voice heard, or my lived experienced counted, for recognition that yes, I am a writer and scholar and thinker of colour, I sometimes cringe. This is it, this is the swamp of racial identification, the part of the double-edged sword that turns against so many of us. Yes, I am no longer a question mark when I offer up data, but I am still always Othered. I don’t know quite how to reconcile that. I have far more questions than answers, more lingering doubts and uncertainties than feelings of security.

Laura Moss mentions, that as data-collectors, non-profit organizations such as CWILA “need to be completely aware of the multiplicity of identity and not shut doors by collecting data.” In a strange, way, too, I am aware that I, as a mixed-race person who lives in a space of ambiguity, I often shut these data-doors myself. Sometimes, because I have no choice, sometimes, because I am not sure on which side of the door I stand, and at times, because I cannot bear to leave that door open, because I am uncertain as to what or whom I will find at the threshold. 

I have no idea of knowing just how many data-sets I have skewed in my moments of uncertainty, of shame, of confusion, or of sheer exhaustion with the question of race. Some days, especially when I am hiding behind a computer screen, or it seems irrelevant to the questions being posed, it’s easier to pass, to click “Caucasian/White.” It’s not entirely untrue, anyway. When I am presented with “African-American” as the only near-option for racialization, I cannot in good faith select a very specific history of Blackness that is not, in fact, my own. Some days, I’m not at all sure how to answer, given the blurry boundaries of race and culture in my life. Some days, when I am given the choice, I select both “Black” and “White.” Some days, I’d really like to write “biracial but still-ambiguously-racialized sparkle pony” or put “who the heck is asking, anyway, and why?” in the blank space of “Other.” Many days, I would simply rather not answer the question at all.

In Diamond Grill, a beautiful and often-murky biotext about mixed-race identity in Canada, Fred Wah writes: “I’ve assumed a dull and ambiguous edge of difference in myself; the hyphen always seems to demand negotiation” (171). Despite my own often-ambiguous and troubled relationship to these questions, or to the process of collecting data, I cannot ignore the necessities of counting for race, not when the stakes are so high, not when the representations of people of colour—especially representations which do not rest on racial stereotypes, or representations which does not require them to speak only about racialized experiences (or for other similarly-racialized people)—are so sorely lacking. I cannot ignore the necessities of counting for race when, as Roxane Gay revealed in her count of book reviews in the New York Times in 2011, “nearly 90% of the books reviewed are written by white writers.” And, moving beyond the literary and scholarly worlds, I cannot ignore the necessities of counting for race when incarceration rates for African-American men are six times the rates for whites (NAACP), and when, according to Canadian government statistics, Indigenous women are “five to seven times more likely to die from violence than other women.” (Amnesty). Counting is not the end-point, of course. It is only the beginning. 

Data is imperfect.

Questions are messy.

Identity is complex.

But it’s only by thinking through these issues, and asking questions (even if they have no answers, or many answers, or contradictory answers) that we negotiate the process not only of counting for race, but being accountable to ourselves and each other as we relate through and across the various identities, histories, and bodies we inhabit.


*Thank you to CWILA and the GRSJ for hosting the panel which inspired this essay, and, in particular to Laura Moss, Madeleine Thien, and Mary Chapman for their thoughts, queries, questions, and observations on this “swampy” subject.

**A profound thank you is extended to my sister, Maria Lorenzi, for her thoughts and our conversations as I wrote this article. As a statistician who works with data on a daily basis, her perspectives have been invaluable to my own understanding of the possibilities and limits of data collection. Beyond that, she is the person with whom I have shared the most in this experience of mixed-race identity, and I am grateful for her love, her support, and the ways in which we guide each other through these murky, joyful, confusing spaces of the self.


References and Resources

Canadian Women in the Literary Arts

Thien, Madeleine. “The Work That Remains Invisible.” The National Post26 November 2013.

Wah, Fred. Diamond Grill. Edmonton: NeWest, 1996.


Resting in Power: Resisting the Depolicitization of Nelson Mandela’s Legacy

10741303-republic-of-south-africa--circa-1994-a-stamp-printed-in-rsa-shows-nelson-mandela-circa-1994I was sitting at home this afternoon, quietly working, when my Twitter feed suddenly started swelling with grief. Though the world had known that the life of Nelson Mandela would end sooner, rather than later, and that the year had been filled with precarious moments during his repeated hospitalizations, the news has hit us hard. My eyes welled up with tears, and as I communicated with friends, and shared the news of his death, we mourned together, silently. It was as if a hush had come over all of us, a quiet knowledge that with Mandela’s passing, we were witnessing the end of an era, witnessing the death of one of the greatest freedom fighters we have had the privilege of knowing.

And yet, in and amongst the messages of sorrow at his passing, and joy in celebrating his life, were a number of statements about Mandela—both by politicians and by citizens-at-large—that erased an important part of his life: the ways in which he actively fought against violent white supremacy, and the ways in which the global community turned their backs on apartheid in South Africa. Predictably, while it is being remembered with deep sorrow and a deep recognition of history, the death of Nelson Mandela is also in danger of becoming branded and sold, commodified and traded on the public market of memory.

While I do not begrudge anyone their grief, or wish to condemn their expressions of sorrow, of honouring, and remembrance as insincere, I believe that on the occasion of such a death, we must also honour and remember the difficult things, the things that we do not necessarily wish to commemorate.

Photograph by David Turnley.Let us not forget that for all the years of freedom Mandela had, and for all of the years of political change he was able to enact in South Africa, the government of his own country had, with the support of other nations, sought to absolutely destroy the anti-apartheid movement. Let us not forget that politicians, including Margaret Thatcher, labeled him as a terrorist.

Let us not forget that Mandela spent 27 years in prison, forced to undertake hard labour. It is far too easy to forget, perhaps because most of us cannot ever really imagine, nor will ever be forced to experience, what 27 years in prison was like.

Let us not forget that until 2008, when Mandela was 90 years old, he was still on the U.S terrorism watch list.

Like many other social justice activists and freedom fighters, Mandela’s actions, words, and legacy have often been co-opted and folded back into the very systems that continue to oppress racialized communities. Whether spoken by Martin Luther King, Jr., or Rosa Parks, by bell hooks or by Maya Angelou, the words of racialized anti-oppression activists are often stripped of their context, and of the historical and political specificity of their struggle. Their quotes now circulate the internet in numerous memes, deployed, understandably, for inspiration, but it is crucial not to forget under which circumstance words have been spoken. The words of anti-apartheid or anti-racist freedom fighters have been used to inspire workouts at the gym as much as they have been used to sell products and to uphold the greed of capitalism. Forgive my bluntness in saying that the fight against cellulite is not equivalent to the fight against white supremacy, and that for the words of anti-poverty activists to be used as a capitalist selling-point is absolutely reprehensible. And while it may be nice (pleasant, even) to use these words, including those spoken by Nelson Mandela, to sell the illusion of a multicultural society that simply needs to love each other, we often do so in order to turn a blind eye to the violence that continues to rage around us, or to elide our own complicity in systems of racist oppression. The words of anti-apartheid struggle do not belong to us all equally (if they do at all), and we must be mindful of how they are appropriated. Some words may not be ours to use.

Confronting death is difficult, especially when it comes to the deaths of those figures who seemed to embody a nearly superhuman sort of dedication, resolve, commitment, and leadership (though of course, Mandela was a human being, and not a saint). Confronting a legacy is difficult enough without having to look critically at the social, political, and economic problems that still persist, without having to acknowledge that we do not by any means live in a post-racial society, that we do not live in a world where “peace” and “love” can simply transcend or erase racial boundaries, because there are active forms of oppression, apartheid, and genocide in our world today.

images-1For me, confronting Mandela’s legacy means continuing to acknowledge the various privileges that I have in my life, and in the community where I live. It means acknowledging that while I am of mixed race, I still have a large measure of white privilege. As a citizen of Canada, living on the West Coast, it means being critical of the ongoing legacy of colonialism and violence towards Indigenous communities, about recognizing that the country I call home has attempted to wipe out entire Indigenous nations. It means listening to the testimonies of survivors from residential schools. It means acknowledging my status as a settler on unceded Indigenous lands. It means knowing that this violence was no mere accident, and that Duncan Campbell Scott, a Canadian politician and poet, actively called for Canadian policies to “kill the Indian in the child.” This is the work to be done in my country and community: others have their own geographically and socio-politically specific legacies to confront.

To honour Nelson Mandela’s legacy is a difficult task. To do so, we must look around, in our own lives, in our own communities, and know that his work is not finished. Indeed, it is the time to remember that Nelson Mandela cannot be, and never could be, the sole source of courage, of action, and of protest, neither in South Africa, nor in the world at large. We must look at the leaders we have in our respective communities, and we must support those who are fighting for freedom, for equality, for environmental protection, for economic justice. These great tasks are our collective responsibility, one that he has now, in no uncertain terms, left to all of us. We must fight for equality and justice in this lifetime, on this earth, as Mandela did.

Madiba, rest in power. We are grateful for your fight.

“Mixed” Feelings: Looking at Racial Identity in Beauty, Fashion, and Beyond

In the past few weeks, I’ve found myself thinking about the politics of racialized bodies more than usual. As a person of biracial descent (my mother is white, and my father is half-black), this isn’t an issue that is ever far from my mind. I can’t count the number of times that I’ve been asked (by perfect strangers, no less) “what I am” and “where I’m from.” I’ve been asked (when out with my white mother) if I’m adopted. I’ve faced questions and received comments, based solely on my appearance, that would never be asked of or directed towards individuals who are white. For racial, biracial, and multiracial individuals alike, the constant interrogation over our appearances—and the assumptions of identity and behaviour that often accompany this barrage—are a constant reminder that in a culture where whiteness is still considered the norm from which all else deviates, those who appear different are always forced to answer for who they are.

Ken Tanaka’s recent video for YouTube Comedy Week, entitled “What Kind of Asian Are You?” cogently points to the sheer ridiculousness of the logic of this interrogation of race and ethnicity by turning the tables on a white man after he asks a Korean woman “where her people are from.” In a similar fashion, NPR’s Code Switch project, which features a team of journalists writing about race, culture, and ethnicity, put together a slideshow of some of the awkward and offensive questions that racialized people face on a daily basis. When General Mills launched a new commercial for Cheerios, featuring an interracial couple and a biracial daughter, the internet exploded: General Mills had to halt the ability to post comments to the video on YouTube because of the sheer amount of virulent racism hurled towards it.

This is just a small sample of what’s been going on in the media lately regarding racial identity, and of the many struggles that racialized people face on a daily basis. It’s also an indication of the fact that racism, both overt and covert, is still extremely prevalent within our culture. Now, I’m going to go out on a very generous limb by suggesting that many of the comments, questions, and labels about racialized appearances do not emerge from a location of sheer malice in the style of white-supremacist groups. However, these articulations exist within a spectrum, in which natural curiosity, internalized narratives of racism, and the ignorance and denial of white privilege all exist. 

What fascinates me most, as someone who is interested in the body as read through the lenses of fashion and beauty, are the comments that pertain to the ways in which racialized beauty (and, in particular, biracial or multiracial beauty) is read. Indeed, many of these comments are earnestly seen or intended as compliments, rather than as symptoms of the historical commodification and sexualization of racialized women. I’ve written before about my various criticisms of a lack of critical thought about diversity in the fashion industry, although I’ve focused mostly on diversity of size and shape. However, as we well know, among the other privileges that exist within the modeling industry (youth, thinness, and some arbitrary definition of “beauty”), white privilege is alive and well, and, in my opinion, the privilege that often underlies many of the others.

As someone who has dabbled in modelling, and who has interviewed with a couple of modelling agencies, I know first-hand that one of the first things out of agents’ mouths are questions about ethnic and racial heritage. I was reminded of that last week, when a local agency—Wilhelmina Vancouver—posted about two of its biracial models.

In introducing one of their latest models, Wilhelmina used the following hashtags: “#eurasian #mixed #halfer.” I must point out that this post was later edited to exclude the word “halfer.” A couple days later, an update about a model on an international contract featured the hashtags “#eurasian #mixed #exotic.” Now, I can see how those who are writing these posts may conceive of these words as simply descriptive, and that they are using terms like “exotic” and “halfer” in order to point to the beautiful mosaic of all colours and creeds that are ostensibly represented in our wonderful, multicultural society. I can see how they might think that these are totally, non-problematic compliments.

And yet, it’s important to call attention to the fact that these seemingly innocuous posts are symptoms of the exact same things that Ken Tanaka and NPR’s CodeSwitch are trying to address.

For instance, why is it that only the racialized models receive hashtags that a) identify their race and/or ethnicity, and that b) link their racial identity directly to their beauty? I certainly don’t see the fair-skinned, blue-eyed, blonde models identified with hashtags such as #purebred #white #alabaster.

  • Why is it that modelling agencies ignore the ways in which whiteness has appropriated, commodified, or sexualized racialized beauty by calling it “exotic”, and, more tellingly, the manner in which the praising of biracial beauty often comes at the expense of and the exclusion of fully-racialized individuals?
  • Why don’t we talk about the fact that the racial makeup of people is often still spoken about in the same way as dogs’ pedigrees are: in terms of “purity” and fractions of heritage?
  • Why aren’t we talking about the fact that white models still make up the large percentage of models featured on magazine covers, runways, and in catalogues in North America and Europe?
  • Why aren’t we talking about the fact that white models have their eyes taped and their faces painted black in order to mimic racialized physical traits?
  • Why aren’t we talking about the fact that surgeries to achieve more Western features and products such as skin lightening creams are part of a multi-billion dollar industry?
  • Why aren’t we talking about the fact that most lines of makeup are created for and advertised with skin tones on the much lighter end of the spectrum? Or that “flesh” tone is still code for “white”?
  • Why aren’t we talking about the fact that biracial or multiracial individuals are still constantly interrogated about their racial identities, because there is a fervent desire to attach a label or category to “othered” appearances, and that these labels allow for organization, commodification, and marketing of appearance to various markets?
  • Why aren’t we talking about how we still police people’s racial self-identification? How some women aren’t considered black enough, or white enough? How people fall between the gaps when they identify as something other than what people WANT them to identify as?
Ondria Hardin in blackface.

Ondria Hardin in blackface.

I acknowledge that fashion isn’t usually seen as a particularly potent arena in which to begin meaningful discussions of oppression of any kind. People are very willing (in the name of capitalism, under the guise of “art”) to blatantly exploit race, and to continue obviously racist practices, such as the recent use of white model in blackface for an editorial entitled “African Queen.” People are very willing to subscribe to the “multi-culti” narratives of inclusion and love, willing to claim that they “don’t see colour,” and that they have “evolved past racism.” However, since fashion and beauty are all about the visual, all about the image, they provide a unique environment in which to observe the types of narratives and attitudes that are created around and about racial identity and appearance. It’s a microcosm, in many ways, of what’s going on in the rest of the world, and it’s worth looking at. As Touré notes in a NYT article, we do not live a post-racial world. We don’t live a place where we can casually throw around words or questions about race without any historical or social attachment to them. But we can live in a place where we begin to think and talk a bit more critically about racial issues, and start to face them head-on. We can question why we want or need racialized beauty to be exotic, why we need to know “where someone’s from” or “what they are,” and to think deeply about how we have come to learn about, understand, and live out race in our own lives. Racial issues are difficult: they can force us to confront out privileges, our biases, our assumptions, and our desires. Just because I’m part-black doesn’t mean I haven’t had to deal with my own privilege from often “passing” as white, or white enough. It doesn’t mean that I haven’t had to learn about the history of Orientalism, or the disproportionate amount of sexual violence perpetrated against Indigenous women. I’m not exempt from this process of inquiry: none of us are.

But from where I’m standing, from the racialized body in which I’m living, that’s a hell of a lot more beautiful, honest, nuanced, engaged, and community-oriented than the depoliticized hashtags, labels, and identities that we often assign each other about how we look.