But Hispanic has never been one of them. When I was 17 and had shoulder length, mostly blond hair, I was once mistaken for a woman (despite standing in front of a urinal at the time). When I lived in Harrisonburg, where nobody knew what a Korean was, I was once actually called black. While lunching in downtown Toronto during the film festival, someone once thought I was a particular director that I had never heard of.
But today, while I was out jogging, I was passed some little kids who were all mesmerized by the not-black person, apparently training to burglarize in broad daylight. Couldn’t have been any older than maybe eight years old. As we reached the range of earshot, one of them says to me “hola,” and not in the “I’m using Spanish because it’s cool” kind of way, but in the “I think this guy is Spanish” kind of way. I acknowledged him with a nod, and kept jogging.
Mistaken for a Spanish person. There’s a first for everything. Silly batarians.