I’ve recently discovered that I am in fact, caucasian.
I always assumed I was. “They” say if both of your parents are white then chances are, you are as well. I don’t know who “they” are. Doctors? Genetic scientists? Pssssh!!! What do they know?
I mean, I guess I’ve always had caucasian traits. I’m pasty. I played the clarinet in high school. I orgasm for Nutella. I own a Kitchenaid mixer that I never use. All characteristics that point to honkey heritage.
But then I would become confused because at times I could not relate to my other alabaster friends. I despise country music. I do not think Dave Matthews is a God. I hate men in pink. Yoga does not look like fun, it looks like porn. I’m pretty sure camping is what hell is like.
But ultimately most of my problems are white people problems. I figured the genetic scientists “claiming” that my two caucasian parents resulted in my cracker DNA must be somewhat accurate. I accepted it, mostly. There was about 5% of my brain that was still convinced I was a unicorn. That is, until yesterday evening.
Yesterday I arrived home from work and rummaged my pantry and freezer for snacks. This is what I found…
Pumpkin spice peanut butter, pop-tarts, m&m’s, and waffles. Did I mention that I also had pumpkin Oreos in my purse? Somehow over the last two weeks I had bought these festive treats and not realized that they added up to a disturbing display. That’s when I realized it… I HAVE THE PUMPKIN GENE.
Pumpkin gene: A molecular unit of heredity found only in caucasian-born humans, characterized by loving pumpkin-flavored food to the point of obsession.
The proof was right in front of me. Years of questioning my Aryan ancestry was over. That’s when I knew I couldn’t fight it any longer. I was caucasian.
I decided to drown my defeat the only way I knew how… but devouring every snack in my pantry until I myself, resembled a pumpkin. I tore open the m&m’s. I ate the peanut butter out of the container with a spoon. I didn’t even have the patience to put the Pumpkin Pop-tarts in the toaster. I needed them NOW. I ran over to my purse and started on the Oreos when my husband walked in.
“Did you just eat an entire sleeve of those Oreos?’ he asked.
“I have the pumpkin gene! YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND! You’re not white!”
He rolled his eyes and then shot me a look that could only mean “I love this crazy bitch.”
I’m going to try to embrace my new found Anglo-Saxon roots. I’ve come to realize that I’ve had signs of possesing the pumpkin gene all along but just never admitted it. For example, I bought a pumpkin-spice latte from Starbucks THE DAY it came out this year. I also visited a pumpkin patch last autumn and murdered an innocent gourd. THE HORROR!
Call me basic. Call me ridiculous. Just don’t call me late for pumpkin pie.