My mother is from South Africa, born in the Transvaal. Three hundred years ago my maternal ancestors left Holland and settled in Cape Town. Fifty years ago, my mother left Cape Town and came to this country and met my father. My father's family came to this country from North Central Europe over two hundred years ago. They settled in the Shennandoah Valley and then moved west. Since my mother was African and father was American, I grew up thinking I was an African-American. I had no idea that this designation had special meaning to some people.
When I started applying for my first job, I began to sense there was something wrong. Of course, on the employment form, I would check off African-American under Race or National Origin. It never occurred to me that this would cause trouble. I would eagerly show up for the interview and always find a chilly reception. The person would look at me and then look at the application. Back at me. Back at the application. Stalling for time. Back at me. Back at the application. Then an awkward smile would creep across their face and they would mutter something that I couldn't make out. The interview usually ended right there. No second interview. No job. Just a polite form letter suggesting that my skills did not match up with their current needs. They did, graciously, agree to keep my name on file in case their needs changed, whatever that meant.
I began to get depressed. I felt alone, unwanted, and alienated. Then I read an article in the newspaper that said that it was common for African Americans to have trouble finding jobs. So I joined a local support group for African Americans hoping to share experiences with others. Sharing experiences is really important. Well, I'm here to tell you that they did not want to have anything to do with me either. They felt that I could take my experiences and do unpleasant things with them. This group was not at all receptive to my travails.
On the bright side, I did make one friend at the young African American's support group. We shared experiences and got to be good friends. One day, in the middle of sharing stories, he turned on me in anger and frustrations and said "You know, you are NOT really an African American".
"I'm not? Well, what am I then?"
He told me. I didn't recognize the classification although it sounded vaguely Teutonic. I figured it was one of those middle European minorities like the Basques or Gypsies that got kicked around and never showed up on the demographics. In fact, I have never seen Dumschitt on any list of Race or National Origin. But it feels good, at last, to know what I really am. I have a sense of identity. Some times I just sit back and wonder if there are any other Dumschitts out there who might like to get together and share experiences.