I once saw this as a distinctly North American thing. (And racism in the U.S. is, of course, especially the one-drop rule.) A North American drug that fed off of ethnically ambiguous women, who look beige but fuck like they’re black. In many ways, however, the threads of our recently articulated desires are urbanely global. These desires are bought not by the postcolonial class but by the postcolonial studies class. There’s Trevor Noah, the first African comedian to be on Jay Leno’s show, who jokes about and profits from how he was “born a crime.” It’s easy, and preferable, to see hybridity and multiraciality as a space—and theatre—for an affirmation of diversity and multitudes. And in Trinidad and Tobago, racially mixed census figures engender a space of potential anxiety for voting. In the early twentieth century, we could hear it in the poems of Nicolas Guillen, an Afro-Cuban poet who tried to develop a “poetic mestizaje” as a sort of national project.