My parents divorced when I was young, so growing up, when my mom had to work or wanted a night out with the girls, I would often go to her friend’s house to be watched. We even lived with them briefly when my mom couldn’t afford her own place. I had known them for as long as I could remember, and they were unquestionably family in my eyes.

What my mother never discussed with me was the fact that these family members were Latino (Mexican to be exact), whereas she and I were both undeniably white. She did not talk to me about cultural differences or the effects that being immersed in this family’s strong Mexican culture might have on me — it wasn’t something at the forefront of her mind. It was not until much later in life that I realized social attitudes tended to take a dim view of such things. That it was fine to join in my family’s customs while we were together, but a white girl like me was not supposed to engage in such Mexican cultural practices on my own.

My tío had perfected his carne asada, a delicious grilled steak dish from Latin America, so when asked what my favorite food was growing up, it was an easy question to answer. Pop music was fun, but it did not evoke the passion I felt in my soul from La Banda. To the outside world, this gringa, with her light blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, was only seen as confused. As a youngster, it seemed natural to break out the few Spanish phrases I knew, and it was generally treated as a party trick by adults. The older I got, however, the more uncomfortable it seemed to make everyone outside our family circle.

Never in my young mind did I think about the complexity of racial stereotypes or what is now called “cultural appropriation”. Even now, I believe there is a difference between cultural appropriation and being immersed in another culture. As a child, I knew only that I enjoyed the foods my family cooked, the media we consumed together, and the positive association these things held for me. At no point did I ever claim to be Mexican or Latin — I simply got a taste of another culture and felt love within it.

But what if I had sought to lay claim on one or both of these identity labels?

The practice of policing identity is a messy business, most can agree. Some groups are fairly straightforward (“left-handed”, for example), whereas the boundaries of others are hazier (e.g. “middle class”). Some identities have turned into hotbeds of controversy (like “man” and “woman”), while others have remained rather innocuous (such as “carpenter”, “accordion player”, and “mime”, at least as far as I know).

In my case, it became apparent rather early on that claiming either “Mexican” or “Latin” as an identity was not an option. But (at least initially), I was far less clear on the specific reasons why. Was it because I was born in the United States? Surely, that wasn’t it, because both children in my adopted family were also born in America. Their dad was from Mexico, though, which reflected in their physical features. Both my parents (and thus also me), on the other hand, were white Americans. So, as I grew more aware of concepts like race and ethnicity, I came to understand that my inability to claim belonging to this world was largely informed by my genetics. I had no traces of Mexican ancestry in my DNA, so I could not be Mexican.

Reflecting on this experience has recently led me to contemplate the value and validity of gatekeeping. In “Questioning the Gender Binary”, I wrote about the taboo in many queer circles (and elsewhere) of calling a person’s identity into question. I note that while it is important to honor and respect other people for who they are, asking questions or seeking a nuanced understanding is not an inherent challenge to that. What I did not discuss is whether challenging someone’s identity is ever acceptable. According to the taboo, the answer is always, emphatically “no”. But upon closer examination, I believe there are certain instances when such an act of gatekeeping might be appropriate.

As individuals, we all have a seemingly endless supply of labels for ourselves, if we so choose. I certainly have plenty: emo, musician, nerd, queer, tomboy, foodie, feminist, aunt, West Coaster, techie, woman, 20-something — the list just goes on. Of course, I do not always embrace each of these labels at the same time nor to the same degree. My sense of self changes as I go through life, and with it, so too does the list of my most relevant identities.

This fluidity is but one of the many reasons that questions arise surrounding identity. Among the most pressing is: how do we know when another person is associated with a certain identity? Or, put another way, what makes an individual’s identity claim valid?

There are two general philosophies used to approach this question. The first is to verify an identity claim with some kind of evidence or “proof”. Such tools of authentication can take many forms, but the most common are those that can be scientifically determined. A person’s age, for instance, is directly related to their date of birth, which can usually be corroborated with a birth certificate or some such equivalent. Height can be easily measured, as can things like body weight and BMI. Increasingly, DNA evidence has been used to determine a person’s racial and ethnic makeup, whereas other aspects of human biology form the basis of still different types of belonging (most notably the use of reproductive sex to classify someone as female, male, or intersex).

Another way of authenticating identity is rooted in an individual’s lifestyle choices. Religion serves as a good example of this type of validation, as it can be verified by church attendance (or its equivalent), religiosity, and lifestyle changes in accordance with the chosen belief system. Yet, in comparison to the scientific evidence described above, these acts are far less concrete. What qualifies someone as sufficiently Catholic, for example? Is it their belief in a certain version of the omnipotent being known as “God”, or is it the act of attending a Catholic church? If a person cherry-picks what they believe from the Catholic Bible, are they still allowed to claim the Catholic identity? To what extent? If they were raised Catholic, but no longer practice, do they lose their Catholic card?

Social scientists might seek to answer these kinds of questions by developing metrics and conducting various ethnographic studies, but most of us layfolk just go with our gut, or simply accept that what people say about themselves is true. In recent years, this second approach has become increasingly popular, resulting in the growing reluctance to ever question anyone’s assertion of identity.

This inclination is understandable. Gender is such a nebulous concept that we are left with little choice but to take someone’s word for how they feel. I identify strongly as a woman, yet I have no idea how to pinpoint what necessarily qualifies me under this identity. I haven’t had a period in several years. I also fluctuate in the ways I present my gender to the world. Some days I may appear more masculine, wearing loose jeans and a unisex t-shirt, while on others I look more feminine and am just as comfortable wearing a pink dress and pumps. The same could be said of anyone identifying as a woman. So what other choice is there but to accept how a person feels?

The challenge I find in this acceptance is that there seems to be no reasonable limits to it. Feelings, in some circles, override virtually everything else. I may wake up in the morning feeling 10 feet tall, but when I stand next to a tape measure, the numbers staring back at me tell a different story. The next morning, I may wake up feeling 100 years old, but I could hardly expect to suddenly be admitted into an age-restricted retirement community. In a similar way, I may have felt a strong affinity for Mexican culture growing up, but that feeling alone does not make me Mexican. Don’t get me wrong — I still enjoy the music and food and feel at home in the culture, but there is a difference between liking something and feeling connected to it, and claiming to be it.

For this reason, I find myself in an in-between space when it comes to identity and gatekeeping. It is wonderful to live in a time and place where it feels as though I can be whatever I want. Many people in the world are not so lucky, and I am grateful for the experience. But I worry that the desire to create such an open and accepting environment comes at a cost, where we have become so concerned about offending one another that we are no longer capable of confidently calling bullshit. Being left-handed shouldn’t keep you from doing a right-handed cartwheel any more than being white should keep you from enjoying a good taco. But isn’t there still a value in knowing how many white or left-handed people there are in the world? We are all individuals and should have the freedom to love and live however we want. Perhaps the answer lies in trying not to assume so many things about each other based on our identity labels.

Published May 1, 2020
Updated Dec 29, 2022