Why is Kamala Harris only referred to as Black? The ugly history behind how we define race

I’ve had a gnawing question in my gut for many years: Why is a person of mixed African heritage always labeled Black, even if he or she has ancestors of another race?

I’ve never heard mention of this issue. Still, I’ve been puzzled by what I’ve seen.

The subject is once again in the spotlight with Kamala Harris’s selection as Joe Biden’s running mate.

Ms. Harris’s mother is an Indian-American immigrant, and her father immigrated from Jamaica. That makes the Democratic vice presidential candidate equal parts Indian and Jamaican, yet she’s overwhelmingly referred to as Black with a parenthetical mention of her Indian roots.

The same status applied to Barack Obama. His mother was Caucasian and his father was born in Kenya, but he is always referred to as the first Black president.

The list goes on and on. Tiger Woods, Halle Berry, Bob Marley, Lenny Kravitz, Colin Kaepernick. All are famous people from biracial backgrounds who are routinely labeled Black.

It’s as if there’s an unquestioned principal that controls how we define race, a strategy for describing other people that only tells part of the story.

I recently learned the answer. And it made me cringe.

Our nation still engages in the rule of hypodescent. That’s where a child of a racially mixed union is assigned to the race of perceived inferior status.

As you can imagine, the history of this practice goes back to the time of slavery. It’s closely associated with the so-called “one drop rule” that says any person with even one ancestor of African ancestry is considered to be Black.

I knew about the one-drop rule and assumed it was a thing of the long-ago past. But to realize that hypodescent is still being practiced in plain sight left me speechless.

Is this the best we can do in the 21st century? My goodness, I certainly hope not.

I’m painfully aware that I’m a white woman grappling with this unpleasant concept.

My naivete may be laughable to some. Perhaps I have no right to even delve into racial matters that don’t directly involve me.

But they do involve me, damn it. They control how I think. They determine what’s taught in my grandkids’ schools. They define how people are treated.

They provide an acceptable platform for disparaging actions and jokes. Yet they are often so subtle and pervasive we’re unaware they even exist.

I can choose to blindly accept the status quo and perpetuate archaic belief systems. Or I can try to be more enlightened, paying attention to harmful, irrational edicts and calling them out when I see them at work. I can vocalize my concerns and possibly educate someone along the way.

Those of you who are regular readers will see this as one more step along my personal journey. While I’ve been secretly troubled by racial inequality for decades, I’m finally speaking out. It’s still with trepidation. I fear I’m going to get slammed.

Still, silence implies acceptance. And that’s no longer okay.