This voyage is a joke

I’m miserable.

It’s no news to me that I’m not white, that I’m not black, and that I’m not anything commonly recognized as Asian, and I’ve always understood that I’m mixed, and I, somewhere along the line, realized that in being so, I wouldn’t or couldn’t be completely accepted by any or either of those groups to the same extent that they knowingly or unknowingly accept their own. The meaning of acceptance in this context ranges from its literal embracing as one with whom you have no objection, to less direct but constant action (or lack thereof), as in categorizing someone into a group you’d be comfortable with introducing yourself to, making small talk, and, perhaps, forging some kind of a friendship…as opposed to seeing them in that other group of people whom you don’t exactly avoid meeting, but with whom you have felt no reason to make contact (ie, when white high school students [and certainly not only white or high school students] seem to not even notice the table of black kids in the lunch room when choosing a seat….and for fairness, the way the kids at that table may surprised if Whitey McPoloShirt sat down at their table as a stranger).

In a student population of 702 individuals, less than 25 are non-anglo, about ten or eleven are of African descent, I’ve seen a small handful of Asians, and two, possibly three Indians. Out of seven hundred two. That means there are six hundred seventy- or eighty-some who are surrounded by their own kind.

There is a racial divide.

My experience thus far has been that I’m more accepted by clusters of whites than clusters of non-whites, and more accepted by non-white individuals than white individuals.

The impression these people have, all of them, is that I’m more like the other people. The white kids consider me a minority, and therefore believe I’m more comfortable with those in the category labeled “black, etc.” Most people of colour I’ve befriended in have insinuated that I have it okay because I can pass for Italian or Hispanic, and that is supposed to be enough.

I’m to consider that a good thing? Is that my being lucky, that I can pass for an ethnicity I’m not nearly a part of? Am I to take what shell of acceptance I can get in place of my own identity?
There are people on the ship who share my heritage. Caribbeans. Their accents and attitudes are comforting to me, and they have embraced me for no reason other than the fact that I, too, am from one of the islands. They offer me music, speak to me in local slang, and give me so much respect.

They are part of the crew, with whom I am not allowed to “fraternize” lest they lose their jobs or I be sent home.

The only people on this ship who can remind me of home, my history, my upbringing, and the first community I was ever a part of are to pour my drinks and take my plate, and are forbidden from being my friends.

My lingering in the dining hall and speaking to any one of them for more than a few minutes is cause for suspicion and could end either or both of our stays on this trip.

Seven hundred one students on this ship have someone else from their culture here on the ship.

I'm tired.