Oh my god, I'M WHITE

Due to my immersion in multiple cultures, especially Latino, I sometimes forget myself. So it was with great delight and comfort that I headed down yesterday to International Blvd and 50th in Oakland — that "real" Oakland that so many people think of when they hear the city's name, rather than the deer-infested, forest-like and idyllic backyards of my neighborhood.

As I parked, I looked around the neighborhood. On one corner were three kids with hoods up, shades on, grills on their teeth, cell phones active. A few feet down were two hookers of indeterminate gender, and one guy passed out on the ground with a plastic bottle of vodka clutched to his chest. As I stepped over the used condoms and sidled past the working...PEOPLE...the guys on the corner sized me up while I feigned nonchalance, confident in my ability to Be One With The People as I headed down to Corazon del Pueblo to buy my papel picado for Gregg’s birthday fiesta.

And then suddenly, as one of the boys gave me an up and down, I saw what THEY saw.

I saw my Swedish car with the Thule on top and the "I saved public radio" window sticker on the back. My blond hair. My pony tail. My J. Jill corduroy jacket and velvet hippy slipper shoes with flowers stitched across the top. A loose black tunic shirt that no self-respecting woman of color would be caught in and simple silver earrings. No make up other than Pretty-in-Pink lip gloss.

And in that moment I realized what they all knew the second my car rounded the corner — I'M WHITE. I'M SOOOOO WHITE.

I panicked. What if I was like Robert on Everybody Loves Raymond, when his black partner started taking him to clubs but then had to dump him because he had, in her words, gone "too ethnic" with his "what's up, my BROTHA" and "WORD" affectations. When I insisted — even in Safeway or Taco Bell — on pronouncing tortilla and burrito and carnitas correctly as opposed to butchering it with the common American pronunciation, had I become a mockery? Had I crossed a line somewhere and forgotten that I was not a Latina but a very Scandinavian-looking woman whose residency in Latin American countries had been limited to weeks at surf camp and beach houses, a mere visitor in the back streets of a small fishing town or the calles of Guatemala?

HAD I BECOME VANILLA ICE?

I entered the store, after being buzzed in and three locks being thrown open and then quickly locked behind me. I felt tall and white and as gawky as I had returning to school after growing 4 inches one summer. I was absolutely sure that I looked as out of place as big jar of mayonnaise in the middle of a salsa bar.

The woman behind the counter spoke no English and to my surprise I had no problem asking for help in Spanish with papel picado and a variety of other items to dress up our Norwegian dining space. At no point did she appear aghast at my language skills, so apparently I never accidentally asked her about her sex life or if she was a dog or where I could find my name.

As I began to talk to her about the party, our Spanish-immersion school and how her daughter might like it, how her business was doing and more, I realized something. Yes, I am white. White white white white white WHITE. I will never be mistaken for a Latina, an African-American, a Filipino, an Asian or even someone with any mix of races other than the most blond and stalwart and cheek-bone laden. But I could cross cultures, thanks to my determination to learn Spanish as an adult, my continuing cultural education through my friendships, my reading, my travels and my commitment to raising my children with pride in the country that gave them to us.

As long as I don’t start modeling myself after Ugly Betty’s sister and start tossing off the “ay, mami” in business meetings, I think I’m okay. For now. And I trust my Latina friends to smack me upside the head if I ever cross la línea.