Forever Tainted

I remember as a child someone once explained the breeding of pure-bred dogs to me.
I was told that if a pure-bred dog gave birth to a litter of mutts, she could never give birth to a litter of pure-bred pups again.  Somehow, this bitch had made herself "dirty".    I can still remember pondering this as a child.  I had some knowledge of the birds and the bees, but it was still incomplete.   I actually thought that every time two dogs bred that some part of the male was forever left in the female, and that piece would somehow be a part of every future litter.

As a teenager, I had a epiphany while sitting in health class one day that this information that I had held in my head for so long was total BS.   If a poodle and a schnauzer mated they would have adorable schnoodle pups.  But, that poodle could absolutely have pure-bred poodles again.    They just wouldn't be recognized as such by the AKC because, as I said before, the bitch was dirty.   What foolishness!   I was so happy to be enlightened!

When I married an Asian man it was not lost on me that I would give birth to mutts one day.  In fact, I loved the idea.   My best friend from childhood will tell you that I always had a fondness for Asian babies and the way their jet black hair would stick straight up.    When I was pregnant with my first child, I confided in her that I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl but I really wanted the baby to have "Asian baby hair".   And wow! did my wish come true!  DD1 was born with a thick mop of hair and for the first few months of her life we affectionately called her "Don King" because it grew up so straight.    

DD1 at 2 months

Don King

For what it's worth, DD2 was born with the same delightful shock of black hair.

When both my kids were still really young I was at the park with a friend one day.   She was in a philosophical mood and asked me, "Isn't it strange to think that if something happened to your DH, and you married a different guy, a blond guy, that you could have children that looked completely different than DD1 and DD2?"   This question completely stumped me.   And, the answer was that no, I could never imagine having and loving children that looked different than the ones I already had.  

Now, I'm sure this is true for all mothers whether their children are half-Asian, red-headed, tow-headed or purple with green dots.   You love your children, and it is impossible to imagine loving "other" children that don't even exist, especially ones that look radically different than the ones you already have.   I get this.  

But, it also makes me think back to the dogs, the pure breds and the mutts.   A dog that had a litter with another breed was forever "tainted".    I finally understand the inherent truth here.    It's not something you ever get rid of.   It's the secret of the dirty bitch.

Dear Smart Non-Asian Kid (SNAK),

Dear Smart Non-Asian Kid (SNAK) in DD2's math class,

I don't know much about you.   I am assuming you are smart because my daughter told me that you received a 100% on your recent algebra test.  I am also guessing you are not Asian, because of what I have heard about you.  So, if you don't mind I will just call you SNAK.

SNAK, I think you should be really proud of yourself for getting a 100% on that test.  From what I hear, it was not an easy test, so getting a perfect score was quite a feat.   As you know, my daughter received a 95% on that test.    She studied and worked really hard to get that grade.   She did not, however, appreciate it when you bragged to some classmates that you "did better than the Asian kid".

SNAK, I'm guessing you are a kid who has some potential so I want to tell you something.   Being Asian doesn't mean you are automatically smart.  No one, of any race, is born understanding algebra.  Now, I will concede that it comes easier to some than others, but everyone has to take the time to learn it.    When you said, that you "did better than the Asian kid", you did a disservice to both yourself and my daughter.    I am guessing that you were driven to do well on that test.   I am guessing that you studied hard, put down the video controller, and figured out all your x's and y's.   You didn't do well on that test because of your ethnicity, and neither did she.     She is a kid with goals, and doing her homework is important to her, she has places she wants to go in this world, and she works hard to achieve her goals.   I'm guessing you do too.   So, let's stop the racial remarks, it's demeaning to you both.

So SNAK, next time you do better than my daughter on a math test (like that is going to ever happen now that you have gotten her ire up), try saying, "Wow!  I did better than DD2 and she works really hard."   or even better, try saying, "Wow!  I got a 100% on my math test!  I studied so hard for this test!  That is freaking awesome!  I am freaking awesome!"

SNAK, what I am trying to say is that I have faith in you.  Let's bring it up a notch.  Okay?

Thank you.

My Asian Yankee

My younger daughter is no shrinking violet.    She feels strongly about things and lets people know it.  This is my kid who, when she was in 2nd or 3rd grade, proudly wore a Yankees jacket onto a school bus in diehard Red Sox country, when the Yankees and Red Sox were in the playoffs together.   She didn't even care that the kids on the bus were boo-ing her.   It made her that much prouder to be a Yankees fan.   I love this about her.

About once a week she comes home from school and tells me about some racial incident that happened at school, to her or someone else, that I should put in my Honorasian blog.   Most of the incidents are so small that I consider them not to be blogworthy.    Recently she asked me if she could write her own blog post, since I was so unwilling to do it.      So, this week Honorasian, has it's first guest blogger.   I did not edit it at all, so please forgive my 13 year old's grammar and spelling errors and her general contempt for 13 year old boys.  So, without further ado, here it is:

"Hello. You people may know me as DD2 or something like that. Being an asian girl in middle school can be very frustrating sometimes. I’m here to tell you guys what racism is like through a 13 year-old girls eyes. Middle school boys are known to be extremely ignorant and unaware of the delicate feelings of girls. Sure, there’s a couple boys that are nice but sometimes I wonder what happened to gentlemen. I could go on and on about individual times where I wished I could explode in peoples faces for making fun of Asians RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. But, I’m just gonna tell you what it’s like. Imagine sitting in class next to a couple of your fellow goody-to shoe friends just trying to listen to the teacher talk. The boys sitting behind you are joking around and not being quiet after the teacher has shushed them twice. The only thing you can hear is the boys talking about football and such (things that I gag at). But, suddenly, you hear them talking in an Asian accent, saying they like to eat rice and fish, making their eyes look slanted, and pretending to be a tiger parent. It’s times like this where I wish I blended in. I don’t resent my heritage but sometimes it’s hard to be different. I’m not saying that I feel like they were making fun of me, but they didn’t even think to LOOK RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM  and see that an Asian girl is sitting right there."

So there you have it.   

Accept the Gift

The holidays are upon us again and that is always an extremely difficult time for acceptance, religious and personal.   Here are some of my thoughts on how to deal with some of the most "stressful" holiday dilemmas:

"Can I say "Merry Christmas!"?"
The truth is that I think most people are not adverse to good cheer.   But, there is a distinct difference between "Merry Christmas!" and "Merry Christmas dammit!"   You know what I mean.   We all know the difference between pure holiday exuberance and shoving one's ideologies down another's throat.  It's hard to begrudge the former, but the latter, well...........

"Can I send my non-Christian friends Christmas cards?"  
There are people who love holiday cards, and people who hate them.   It has little to do with religion.   I bet that if you write a personal note inside your card to a non-Christian friend that says something like, "I really miss you and I think of you every December, I remember when we were in college, and we were stuck at the Detroit airport during a snowstorm, and we went to a bar in another terminal with that cute guy from Houston and almost missed our flight...hahaha..." you might bring a smile to an old friend's face, and the Cross on the front of your card?   It's not gonna matter so much.

"Every year my sweet elderly neighbor brings me a fruitcake at Christmas time.  I hate fruitcake.  Should I tell her this?"
No.

"Can I buy my non-Christian friend a Christmas present?"   
Of course!  But, I would not recommend a nativity scene or a Santa sweater.  Remember that recent conversation you had with her on the phone?  The one where she mentioned her son had accidentally broke her ceramic sugar bowl, and how sad she was?  Need I say more?

"My friend says she is allergic to chocolate, but I don't believe her, should I buy her a box of chocolates for Christmas and show her that I know she is lying?"
No.

"Can I go to a friend's house and be part of a religious celebration that it not my own?"
Your friend invited you to their house to join in the celebration of one of their most sacred days?  Wow.   She must think a lot of you to include you in this, you are a valued and trusted friend.   They must believe that you are a person who respects other's traditions, and doesn't mock the beliefs of others.  This is the highest compliment.  Go.

"My sister hates the color green, but I just love it.  I saw this beautiful green sweater.   I think she would like it as much as I do.  Should I get it for her?"
No.

It's not really about religion.   It's about acceptance of the people in your life.   It's about accepting different beliefs, values, and personal preferences.

It's also about accepting fruitcake.

Native American?

Elizabeth Warren is running for Senator in Massachusetts.    The fact that she may or may not have Native American ancestry has been the subject of heated debate in the press and on social media.   Apparently, she is listed as minority faculty at Harvard University.    She has contributed to a Native American cookbook collection, in which, beside her name she has identified herself as a "Cherokee".    Some of her extended family supports her claim, some does not.    There is no written documentation that proves her connection one way or the other.    I suppose if she was a suburban housewife laying claim to Native American ancestry at cocktail parties, no one would really care.  But, because she is running for a national office, and some feel she has used this connection in a divisive manner to become a tenured "minority" professor at Harvard University, it merits discussion.

Does she have a right to call herself a minority?   I think when you look at her blond hair and blue eyes, it is easy to dismiss her, and her supposed Native American ancestry.    She looks like she would be much more at home on the Pilgrim's side of the first Thanksgiving table, than the "other" side. 

Or would she?  Would she be more credible if she was a brunette and had brown eyes?  I wonder.

There are things about all of us, that we feel inside, that is not visible to the naked eye.  Does it make it less so?   On the other hand, I doubt that Elizabeth Warren has ever truly felt what it feels like to live as a minority.   Has she ever been eyed suspiciously when walking into an elite country club?   Did kids taunt her as a child with Native American monikers such as "pale moon face"?    Did she ever live on a reservation?   I know that she did not grow up wealthy and I'm sure there are times when she has felt like an outsider, or an intruder, in the wealthy, elite, predominantly male Ivory Tower.    But, how seriously should this minority thing be taken?  Is she being divisive? or is this a case of a bit of information turning into a giant snowball, that is out of her control.  More likely the latter.

There are many mixed race kids who are applying for college this very minute who are pausing at the "race" box.   Most of these kids are making a quick decision based on what is in their best interest.   There has been a lot of press about how it is most difficult for Asian students to get into college, followed by whites and then blacks and latinos.   So, when kids get to that race box, they check the box that works best for them.  Why not?   If they are a fraction latino or black, it serves them well to check that box.  On the other hand, Asian students do the opposite.   There have been documented cases where Asian students have changed their last name to that of their white parent, so they don't even sound Asian.    Yes, this is ethically wrong, but it is also ethically wrong for colleges to make it harder or easier to get into college based on race.    It is quite possible that the decision they are making right now, at 17 years old, to get into college will come back to haunt them.    Who are you to call yourself black?   Are you ashamed of your Asian heritage?   I can guarantee you that they are not thinking of these questions now.

This is not a political blog, so I will not go into whether or not Elizabeth Warren is a good witch or a bad witch.  

What I will say it that the "Race" card is dangerously powerful in our culture.   It works for good and for evil.   It is played by everyone.   The only way to stop this is to take it completely out of the deck.

The Moment of Truth

I remember quite clearly the moment that my daughter learned about racism.

She was six years old and was quietly reading a book on the couch in the family room while I prepared dinner.    The book she was reading was from the Babysitter Club chapter book series.  The series focuses on a group of young adolescent girls who run their own babysitting business.  Even though my precocious reader was a little younger than the age that the books were targeted for, the books seemed gentle enough in content that I didn't feel the need to censor them before she read each individual book.

On this fateful day, she was completely engrossed in one of the books, her eyes quickly darting back and forth as she devoured every word on the page.    I tended to my pasta sauce.    At some point I heard sniffles and I went to check on her.   The book was on the floor, she was curled up under a blanket, and she was crying.   I was perplexed.

"What's wrong?"  I asked.

"There is a family in that book that doesn't want Claudia to babysit for them, they don't want her to babysit for them because she is (long pause with some sobs for effect) Japanese."

"Oh." is all I can say.

Then she looked at me with big, tear-filled eyes and asked the awful, awful question, "Will people hate ME because of the way I look?"

Oh, how I wished at that moment I could just say "No."

I knew she already knew the answer, she just wanted confirmation from me.    Lying was not an option.  This was not Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.   This question begged an honest answer.  I knew I had to respect that.

I sat down on the couch and explained to my six year old child that there were some really stupid people in the world.  These people hated everybody, not just one person, but they were out there, and she might encounter them.  I must have said the word "stupid" about 100 times.   I hated having this conversation with my daughter.
I hated telling her that the world was less than perfect.
When our awful conversation was over, I picked up the book, and told her to finish it.   It was a book for children, so I knew it must have a happy ending, or at least a good moral lesson.  
She resisted, but being the avid reader that she was, she couldn't not finish it.
I went back to making dinner.   I heard a few more sniffles, but eventually they subsided.  By the time she finished the book her eyes were completely dry.

At dinner, I asked her to tell me how it all turned out.   She told me in her own six year old way that Claudia's friends all decided not to babysit for that family either.  So the "stupid" parents couldn't go out to their "stupid" dinner and had to spend their anniversary at home with their "stupid" kids.   She thought it was a great ending.   She also made it clear that it was the "stupidest" book she ever read and I couldn't argue with her.

Over the years, I have thought of that moment many times.   I have wished she had never picked up that book, I have wished I had read it first so I could have prepared her, and I have wished that I could have honestly told her that no one would ever hate her for the way that she looks.

But, in a strange way, I am also grateful for that day.   I am grateful that she was at home, with me, when she learned this harsh lesson.    Sadly, there was no way I could prevent her from coming face to face with racism at some point in her life, but at least I was there when the unsavory introduction was made.   I am also glad that I could tell her that it was the offenders who were "stupid" and not the other way around.

Now she is fifteen and reads books like "The Diary of Anne Frank" and "To Kill a Mockingbird" that deal with racism at a much deeper level, with endings that are not always happy.   Thankfully,  neither the untimely death of Miss Anne Frank nor the unjust death of Tom Robinson will ever have the impact on her that one simply written, elementary school chapter book did.  

Unfortunately, the lesson that the world can be a cruel and unkind place only needs to be learned once.
In my opinion, it's a pretty stupid lesson.

Where are you from?

Where are you from?

Think about it for a minute.   Do you have your answer?   It's a pretty simple question, isn't it?  You are probably thinking of the place you were born, or maybe the place you spent your childhood.
If you are white, and not an immigrant yourself, I am guessing, you are NOT thinking of where your ancestors came from, but where YOU came from.

People ask my husband where he is from all the time.    He knows that it is a loaded question but he usually gives them a straight up, honest reply, "Iowa".   Yes, he was born in Ames, Iowa.   That is not the answer most people are looking for, and they usually respond to his reply with a quizzical look.

The truly brazen will then ask that audacious follow up question, "Where are you really from?"
(I know, it is all beginning to sound familiar)

What they really want to know is what Asian country his parents, or grandparents came from.

Sometimes he indulges them, sometimes not.    When he is in a playful, snarky mood he might answer, "Well, okay, I spent most of my childhood in New York City."   Then, their look changes from quizzical to confused.   Are they brave enough to ask the second follow up question, "Where are you really, really from?"?  (maybe he should say "My mother's uterus!"?)

One of the great things about America is that it is a huge, huge melting pot.   Almost all of us, are the descendants of immigrants, and this is a great equalizer.   No one has more claim to this great country than anyone else.

Maybe it is because the Asian immigration is more recent, but it seems to me, they are less readily accepted as "real" Americans than other ethnic groups.   African-Americans have their share of issues but no one expects them to say "Ghana" when they are asked where they are from.   Of course, there is that whole awkward slave thing, so maybe no one wants to go down that road and "Connecticut" is easier to say than "Well, my ancestors lived in Ghana but then my great, great, great grandfather was stolen from his homeland and my family worked on a plantation in Mississippi for fifty years."  Awkward.  I live in a part of the country where there are not a lot of Hispanic-Americans but I imagine that they get their fair share of questions from people trying to find out if they are "legal", "How did your family come to this country?  By car?  By bus?   By a little rowboat with 50 people in it?"

I once met a young man on an airplane who was a true anomaly,  a real live example of a man without a country, a global citizen.    He had a French mother and a Portuguese father.   His parents were both diplomats and this young man had been born and raised in Japan.   His parents had decided since he was not ethnically Japanese that they would send him to an International, American school.   He attended that school from Kindergarten to 12th grade.    He spoke perfect American English.   He wore American blue jeans and American sneakers.    If you met him, and knew nothing of his background, it would be easy to mistake him for a kid from Iowa.   You would absolutely, unquestioningly believe him if he told you he was from Ames.   Oh!  The Irony!  In actuality, he had never stepped foot on American soil.   The plane ride we were on was his first time going to America, and he was on his way to spend four years at Columbia University.   He explained to me that no matter how long he lived in Japan, even if he lived there his whole entire life, he would never be accepted as Japanese.   His tall, six foot frame, light brown hair, and blue eyes immediately excluded him.   It didn't matter if he spoke fluent Japanese (which he did) or understood and respected their customs.  He wasn't one of them.   He couldn't even fit into their clothes.   He hadn't spent much time in France or Portugal, so he didn't identify strongly with either of those cultures either.   In fact, since his parents were of different nationalities, they all spoke English at home.   Since he went to an American school he grew up playing baseball, basketball, and football (real football, not soccer).   He celebrated Thanksgiving with American friends, and went to Fourth of July parties.   He was an All-American boy.   Except he wasn't.

This happened about 20 years ago and I still wonder what happened to him.  Does he still live in the states, or did he make a home somewhere else?   I imagine him living here, in some suburb, with a "typical" American family.   I think that every now and then he is at a cocktail party and someone asks him the innocuous "Where are you from?" question.    And, if he is anything like my husband, he gets that little crooked, somewhat devious smile on his face and answers, in all honesty, "Japan".

What comes to your mind when someone asks, "Where are you from?"?