It begins, as it often does, with a question that masquerades as curiosity: What are you? Not who, not how, but what. A question that arrives before kindness, before context, before connection. It’s asked in passing, in parties, in classrooms, in moments that should be mundane but suddenly feel like interrogations. I’ve learned to brace myself for it. I’ve learned to read the tone, the tilt of the head, the pause before the words. Because this question is rarely innocent. It’s a demand for definition, a request for placement. And I know, deep down, that it’s not really about me. It’s about them—about their need to feel secure in a world that doesn’t always fit into neat categories.

There are days when I want to answer. When I want to speak of Brazil, of Manuel, of the African roots braided into my bloodline. I want to tell stories of color and culture, of belief and belonging. I want to share the richness of being mixed, of living between worlds, of dancing across borders that others pretend are walls. But there are other days—many days—when the question feels like a trap. When I sense the undertone, the quiet calculation behind the ask. They want to know how to treat me. How to speak to me. How to interpret my laughter, my anger, my silence. They want shortcuts to understanding, and I refuse to be reduced to a stereotype that fits their comfort.

I’ve come to see that this question is about power. It’s about control. It’s about the illusion of knowing. Mixed people are anomalies—we disrupt the system. We are the wildcard, the picture without a frame. And that unsettles them. Because if they can’t place me, they can’t predict me. They can’t decide what I represent, what I threaten, what I affirm. I am not a checkbox. I am not a category. I am not a convenient narrative. I am a constellation of histories, a mosaic of cultures, a living contradiction. And that makes me powerful. That makes me whole.

So, when they ask What are you?, I sometimes smile. I sometimes stay silent. I sometimes say, I am just me. And that is enough. I am not here to ease your discomfort. I am not here to fit your frame. I am here to exist, to speak, to challenge, to love. I am here to be the question you didn’t expect. The answer you can’t simplify. The story you’ll never fully grasp. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the beauty of being unframed is that I get to define myself—again and again, in every moment, on my own terms.

©️ Beatriz Esmer