I was a minority. But I never expected to feel quite the freak that I felt that day, nor gain such vivid revelation into my own identity. My racial identity is the meaning I have constructed about what it means to be a white person. Much of my definition of self is grounded in distinctives, how I differ from the Korean man next to me in the subway, from the African-American woman from whom I receive legal advice. Just as in painting or photography where contrast sharpens an image, so too is my sense of identity more finely attuned when I encounter others who contrast from myself.
Racial identity is formed, therefore, in the context of other people.
My seven hours of discomfort in Guangzhou highlight my daily experience of comfort in America. White participants, however, often pause before responding. On one such occasion a young white woman quickly described herself as middle-class but seemed stumped as to how to describe herself ethnically. Such is the American white plight of identity ignorance. In Guangzhou, I received the message that I am peculiar and apart, on display, to be feared.