Who "We" are

As I mentioned in my last blog post, my father-in-law died about a month ago.   His loss of life was unexpected and left the family in a shocked state of grief, while still having to attend to the unfortunate bureaucratic details that go hand and hand with death.

My in-laws had recently moved to a community that had a sizable Korean-American population.  This was nice for them since it meant easy access to Korean grocery stores, in addition to many establishments where they could frequent and speak their native tongue.    When my father-in-law died my mother-in-law found a funeral home that was recommended to her by many of her Korean friends, even though it was not actually owned by Koreans.   My husband even went with her to meet the funeral director, an older white (this is an important detail) gentleman who seemed kind and jovial.  My husband agreed that it seemed like a good choice.

I have to admit that much of the weekend of the funeral, I felt absolutely, positively, conspicuously white.   I had never before felt like such a minority.  Not only were the majority of mourners Korean, but we were in a largely Korean community, staying at a Korean owned/occupied hotel, eating at Korean restaurants.    If someone had told me that I had somehow been magically transported to Seoul, I would not have argued.     I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb in the company of pinkies (reference to the pinky finger, not communist or socialist ideologies)  That being said, my husband's family was nothing but embracing and inclusive.    One of his cousins went out of his way to make the girls and I comfortable while my husband took care of his mother.  Some of his older relatives inquired about my parents and my brother who they had met at our wedding so many years ago.   Everyone went out of their way to make a difficult weekend just a little bit easier.

The funeral was difficult but lovely, and when everyone finally filed through the receiving line, there were suddenly just five of us left, my mother-in-law, my husband, the girls and myself.   I watched as the funeral director was talking in a rather brusque tone to my mother-in-law and was surprised at how harsh he was being.   She had just lost her husband, he was a funeral director, why was he not being kinder and gentler?   Yes, there were details that needed to be tended to, but there was certainly a nicer way of handling things.    He was particularly focused on having a few items that had been on display during the service, picked up by no later than the following Monday.   My mother-in-law shook her head that she understood.    Then, quite unexpectedly, the funeral director looked me right in the eye and, without batting an eye said something like,

"They don't understand deadlines the way we do, when we say we are going to get something done, we do it, they, on the other hand,  do things on their own time, whenever they feel like it.   They have no respect for deadlines."

Excuse me?

I stood there with my mouth agape while the rest of my family made their way to the door, unsurprised, by what this man had just said.

I wish I had said something, but I was too dumbfounded.

When we outside, on our way to the car, I asked my husband, "Did he just say that?"

All he could muster was, "Yup".

It always surprises me how my entire family lets racism and racist remarks just roll off their backs.   Even my own children don't react to such idiocy.   And, in some ways, I think this is good.   I don't want my kids to feel every unkind remark, racist or otherwise, that comes their way.   However, I also think it is wrong to not react.   How is this guy going to know that his behavior is completely unacceptable if no one ever tells him?   He apparently gets the majority of the Korean business in town, and yet, he behaves like this?

Unfortunately, I was no better.   I did nothing.   I said nothing.   Yet, I felt slightly bruised and damaged by this man who had been so rude to my family during such a difficult time.   Yes.  My family.

As we drove down the street to the post funeral luncheon, and as I spent a strangely delightful evening in the hotel bar with my husband's extended family the following, yet unsent, letter went through my head:

"Dear Mr. Funeral director, just so you know, you and I will never be "we".   Even if you and I were the last two people on this earth, we would remain "you" and "I", never, ever to be "we".   The "They" you referred to, are my "we" and will always be.   "They" are the ones I stand with in good times and bad, "they" are the ones who comfort me and make me laugh.  "They" are a part of me, which makes us "we".

Despite this, I should thank you too Mr. Funeral Director.  You see, I had been struggling this weekend, feeling a bit like an outsider.    But, you helped me see my "we".    "We" does not discriminate, "we" is not about the color of your skin, or hair, or how tall or fat you are.  "We" is a choice we make.

"They" are my choice.   You can be "We" all by yourself."

There's really not much more to be said.   We stayed at the bar pretty late that night.   And, some of us had too much whiskey) ;)  The next morning, we got up, we had breakfast, and then we went home.  The car drive home was quiet as we were all lost in our own thoughts.

And, in case you are wondering, we are doing okay.

It's them that I worry about.

He's just an animal

When we welcomed our dog into our family almost six years ago I made a vow to myself and my husband that I wouldn't, or we wouldn't, become those "crazy dog people".   You know, the people who spend thousands of dollars on their dogs (or cats, or gerbils, or snakes)
 so that they can get an extra year or two out of their already very short lives.   I think I said something, "Let's always remember, let's keep perspective, he's just an animal."

Once upon a time our eldest daughter had an extreme phobia of just about all animals.   To say that this put a damper on our life would be a gross understatement.    Have you ever gone for a walk in a state park on a beautiful fall or spring day?    You know who else likes to walk on beautiful days?  Dogs.    Lots and lots of dogs.  Every time we took our little family to a park, forest, or anywhere outdoors for that matter, there seemed to be an over abundance of dogs.   This would send our eldest daughter into an extreme panic attack and usually ended up with us making a hasty retreat, and more often than not, with said daughter climbing my husband like a tree (his back and shoulders still sorely remember these days).   As she got older we thought the problems would get better but they got worse.   She would show up at a friend's house for a playdate and find out they had a dog.   Sometimes the friend was willing to put the dog away for the duration, but other times they weren't and dd1 returned home feeling defeated.    Also, after she learned to ride a bike (see last post), as great as that achievement was, it was not so great when she rode her bike into a parked car when she saw a dog in it's front yard.   We needed to do something.    So we started going to pet stores and other places that sold dogs who were safely in cages.    DD1 went on these outings with great trepidation and most of them ended with her running to the car and us chasing after her.

Then, one fateful day, when my husband was out of the country on business, I took the kids to a puppy farm.   There was this one little ball of fur that was just curled up in a corner sleeping and dd1 asked, "Can I hold him?"   Um.  Sure.   Next thing I knew I was buying the damn dog.    How could I not?     My husband found out about the dog through an email with an attached picture of our daughter holding the little ball of fur.   His reply was something like "Who's the dog? and, who is the girl holding the dog?"

As I drove home, I made the vow to myself not to become a crazy dog person.   Afterall, "He is just an animal".

My daughter's doctor warned me not to expect our dog to solve our daughter's extreme animal phobia.
When he was a few months old we took him on his first family trip to one of those parks that had caused us so much trouble in the past.  Before we even got out of the car I could see other dogs romping around the trails.    My heart stopped.  But, my daughter was already out of the car with our dog on his leash.  "C'mon!" she yelled to him as she went skipping down the trail oblivious to the other dogs.   As she walked past labrador retrievers and german shepards she didn't bat an eye.  My husband and I were dubious every time we passed another dog but she just kept on going.   It seemed too good to be true.   But, it happened.  We had an uneventful trip to the park.   Then, shortly after,  she went on a play date at a friend's house that had a dog.  The dog came to greet her at the door and she brushed right by him to go see her friend.   Time after time it became clear that our little ball of fur had worked wonders on her, her fear of dogs and other animals seemed to vanish into the wind upon his arrival.   Mind you, she wasn't, and never will be, a great lover of animals other than her own, but the lack of fear changed her life, and our lives, in unfathomable ways.

When the dog came into our lives the girls were 9 and 11.  They were on the cusp of the tween, teen years and it wasn't long after the dog came to live with us that the girls lost total interest in us, their boring parents.   Whereas once upon a time they would come yelling and screaming down the stairs when their dad came home from work, now they would come down to the dinner table and merely grunt to acknowledge his prescence.    But, not the dog.   The dog showed excitement worthy of a "welcome home from the war" return, every single time the dude came home.  It was like he was saying, "Jeez, I never thought I'd see you again.  I'm so glad you came back!"  every. single. day.    As my husband mourned the loss of the excited faces of two little girls, who were not so little anymore, he salved his wounds by petting the member of the family who was shaking his butt so hard in excitement that sometimes we thought he'd take off like a helicopter.   If one of the girls happened to be around to witness the affection being shared by the boys of the house, they might even saunter over to give their dad a hug, to show the dog the proper pecking order of the household.   Neither the dog or my husband ever objected to extra hugs and kisses being doled out.  They still don't.

When the girls became teenagers, life became more complicated for them.   They were changing and so were their friends.  Suddenly, lifelong friendships dissolved, and many tears were shed over this.  They would come home from school sad and distraught and when I reached out to comfort them, I would be told that I didn't understand, no one understood the "unique" pain they were going through.  They would disappear into their rooms for hours sometimes, and many times they would bring the dog.  Oh!  the things he's heard.  He's heard of heartbreaking betrayals and snubs and exclusions.   He's heard the names of all the boys that did (yeah!) or didn't (boo) look over their shoulder with a smile during math class.  He knows it all.   And yet, he never gossips. He is the perfect friend. Their secrets are safe with him, and they always will be.

As for me, the dog is my mostly companion (nod to Eloise).    He and I spend our days together in a very ordinary way.   In fact, as I write this, he is lying at my feet with the scar of a large incision running down his back.   Yes, about a month ago he had life saving, yet very expensive, surgery.    Yes.  The very kind of surgery we said we'd never do.

As many of you know, December was a very tough month for our family.   Right before Thanksgiving my FIL was fatally injured in a traffic accident.   He was in the ICU for about 10 days before he fell victim to his injuries.   It was truly awful, and to be honest, I am not really ready to write about all that transpired during this time.

I wish I could report that our dog was like Lassie, saving my FIL just in the nick of time.  But sadly, that was not so.    However, I can say that our dog slept next to me while my husband was away at his dying father's bedside, providing me with the needed comfort of a warm body.   His fur seemed to absorb the countless, mournful tears of sad teenage girls who are at a time in their lives, when expressing their feelings can seem like insurmountable task.   And, when my FIL passed away, and my husband sadly returned home, it was the dog who first greeted him at the door with his unbridled enthusiasm and his ever wagging, helicopter butt.

The day after my husband's return, the dog started acting funny.  It was clear that he was not well.  We went to the vet, first on a daily basis, and then on what seemed like a hourly basis.   Eventually, he became paralyzed and surgery was offered as the only solution to save his life.  We would have to go to a special surgical hospital, our local vet did not have the necessary equipment.

As I drove the half an hour to the hospital I thought of the promise we had made almost six years ago when he first came into our lives.  The promise to not become crazy dog people.   I also thought about how much he had changed our lives, how he had saved my daughter from a life doomed to being a homebound recluse, how he gave his love so freely without any expectation, how he kept all our deepest, darkest secrets, and how he had comforted us in our darkest hour.   He had done all this and yet,

"He's just an animal."

And, yes, I kept my promise.  I never forgot exactly who he was.

Stay on that Bike!

The day after she learned to ride her bike

When my daughter was about seven years old I taught her how to ride a bike.

I had imagined this moment for years, and in my mind this would be a Norman Rockwell worthy moment with me running behind her, holding the back of her banana seat (a throwback to my childhood, it didn't exist in hers), and then cheering her on while she pedaled away from me not realizing that I had let go ten long seconds ago.   In this dream/fantasy I would have tears in my eyes and a smile on my face as I realized what a big girl she had become.

This isn't exactly how it happened.

We were at my parent's house, her grandparents.   They live on a dead end road so there isn't much traffic.   My Dad had decided to buy the girls bikes so they would have something to do when they visited their "boring, old grandparents".    The bikes came with training wheels but on this fateful day my daughter decided she wanted to learn to ride a two wheeler.

Anyone who knows my oldest daughter, knows that she came into this world with three extra helpings of anxiety.   At this point in her life, she viewed the world with fear and trepidation, so when she wanted to try something new, we did everything we could to encourage her.

When she first swung her leg over her two wheeler, the whole family was outside to document this iconic moment.   Cameras were aimed and ready to shoot.  She had a big, proud smile on her face and it seemed to be every bit the Rockwellian moment I imagined.

And then she tried to ride, and she fell.   I don't even remember if we were holding her seat or not, I just remember the tears and the screams.   She tried again.   She fell again.   The wails were getting so loud that I was worried neighbors might be calling the department of social services to report child abuse.   My parents, my husband, and my other daughter all ran inside in fear that my daughter might pick up the bike and hurl it at them.

I was the sole survivor.   I stayed outside with her.    There was no smile,  her dirt smudged face was streaked with tears, her hands were covered in grit from the pavement and her mood was less than cheerful.

Here's the thing.   She stayed on the damned bike!   She didn't run inside.  She cried, she screamed, she cursed me (in an appropriate seven year old way), but she stayed on the bike.

I made a vow to myself that no matter how much she protested I would stay with her as long as she stayed on that bike.    If she bolted for the house, I would know she was done.   But she didn't bolt for the house.

I don't know how long we were out there, but I do know that it was starting to get dark.   The family was all watching us from the window with looks of concern, fear, and maybe just a little bit of hope.  

I ran up and down that street with her so many times, holding the back of that seat, while she screamed, "don't let go, don't let go" and I didn't, and I didn't, until I did.

There is something magic about bike riding.   There are so many components one needs to remember, you have to pedal, steer, and balance all at the same time.    You have to think about it all, and yet to ride, really ride, you have to think about nothing.   It's the only way it works.  

As I held the back of her seat I could feel the weight of her body shifting.   Too much to the left.  Too much to the right.  Not enough speed.  "You can do it!" I shouted with encouragement.  "No I can't!" she screamed with puffy, red cheeks.   "Yes you can." I replied.  Through the day I heard her say things like, "I hate this bike!" "This bike is stupid!"  "I'm stupid!"  "You're stupid!"  "You're so mean!" "Why are you making me do this?!"  But I wasn't making her do anything.  She was doing it.  She was staying on the bike.

I could see the pleading eyes from inside the house, "Let her come inside", "You've done this long enough", "It's time to call it a day".

I was questioning it all myself.   Then all of a sudden it all clicked.   I was holding the back of her bike, but I wasn't.   I could feel she had control, the balance was right.   The force was with her.  I let go, lightly at first, and then completely and she rode away.   I stood there with tears in my eyes just like I imagined, but so very different.

At some point she realized she was riding solo and she stopped about 100 feet away from where I stood.   She straddled the bike and looked forward and then slowly turned her head around to see me standing so very far away down the road.   Her first look was of anger and betrayal and then she suddenly realized what she had done and she smiled, one of those big, gapped toothed smiles that only seven year olds have to offer.   It was beautiful.  

I looked at the window and saw my family staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed.   All wondering, "Did we just see what we think we saw?"

At this point, my daughter turned around and rode back to me.   And that was it.  She was a bike-rider. For the rest of the weekend, if she wasn't eating or sleeping, she was riding her bike.   She even took one really, nasty spill but she got up, brushed herself off, and got back on.

We were all so proud and happy.   Even now, almost ten years later, we frequently recall the day she learned to ride a bike at family get togethers.  We discuss the fear, the worry and ultimately the pride that were all felt that day.

But, there was something else that happened that day, that for me was more meaningful, and the real reason I cried as she finally rode away from me.

The single most important thing that happened that day was that she stayed on that bike.   She might have kicked and screamed but she never gave up.   I am not trying to be egotistical, but I know if I had gone inside, if I had given up, she would have too.  It would have been the end.   After all, she was seven years old, so that was okay.   What I realized that day was that if I was going to be a successful parent, and if she was going to be a successful person, she would have to learn to stay on the bike without me there.

To speak metaphorically, eventually I would go inside, and she would be left out there alone, on her bike, and sometimes it would be getting dark, but she would have to persevere.  She would have to force herself to try over, and over again until the "magic" happened.

I have thought of this moment many times over the past ten years with both my kids.   There have been many times that I have witnessed them make the decision to get off the bike, "I don't want to take piano anymore", "I've decided I'm done doing swim team", "this homework is too hard, I don't understand".  Don't get me wrong,  I have spent much of the past ten years, holding the back of the seat, encouraging them to keep going.    They still say things like " "I hate this!" "This is stupid!"  "I'm stupid!"  "You're stupid!"  "You're so mean!" "Why are you making me do this?!"

Then just this past week my bike-riding daughter, now sixteen, came home from school with a sad, droopy face.  "We got our math tests back today and I got a really bad grade," she said.   I held my breath.  Before I could even react to the news she continued, "But I am going to meet with my math teacher,  I have already made plans to study with someone in my class, and I am going to go to my room right now to figure out what I did wrong."

"Okay." I said, trying to hide my smile.   Stay on that bike.


Note:   I started writing this blog post earlier this week and then I stumbled upon this from TED talks:

What predicts success

She is much more eloquent than I am, probably gets paid a lot more, but it all boils down to the same thing, stay on that bike!

So Much for Cheerleading

A few days ago, I went a little off topic, and mused about getting over some personal prejudices and letting my daughter be a cheerleader, if she so desired.   I even went as far as making up a fictional son, who I was ready to go to battle for and it made me see everything more clearly.   Except, this week, as fate would have it, a battle line was drawn and I'm not sure I'm willing and ready to cross.   My pom pom hungry daughter may have to find another passion to explore.

This week our little town made headlines when a football "hazing" incident was made public.   A hazing incident that happened over a month ago.   A hazing incident, that by all reports, is not really hazing, but if the non-confirmed reports are true, more likely assault, and possibly rape.   The kids involved were known bullies, one of them was even the reason for another child having no choice but to leave the school system.   But, despite their many misdeeds, they walked the halls of the school, while others fled in fear.   There are all sorts of allegations about the coaches too.   This incident happened at a camp.    These are kids.   Where were the adults when all this happened?  Why didn't they know what was going on?  Why didn't they stop it if they did? And, why aren't they being held accountable?   I know a teacher who told me that if she went on a field trip with her students and something bad happened she would expect to be fired.    Yet, from what I understand, all the coaches who were at the camp, have been actively coaching, and were at last Friday night's game.

You hear things about the "all boys club" and how administrators turn a blind eye to things going on with the football team because it is the heart and soul of the school, but you really, really hope it's not true.

There were articles about all of this in the paper.   In one article, I came across a comment that said,

Good luck getting any answers or actions from the school. I contacted the Athletic Director back in June on why he allowed the Cheer Coach to bully, degrade and terrify the CHS Cheerleaders. Other parents approached him and some of the cheerleaders even approached the Dean. Guess what.....SHE IS STILL THE CHS CHEER COACH!!!
see the whole article here

Oh.  So, now we're back to cheerleading.

Silly me, I thought the issue surrounding letting my daughter cheer was about feminism, gender roles, and, ultimately, letting my daughter pursue her dreams without judgement.

Here's the thing.    She might hate me for a while if I say she can't cheer.  She might hate me for years.
But, she will move on.   She will find lots of things that "float her boat".   She is a pretty happy kid, and she is at an age where the world is her oyster.
There is something I know through my own experiences in life and being a parent.
You don't easily get over being bullied, or degraded, or terrorized.
It follows you for a long, long time and takes many hours of work to get over, but you never forget.

That's why we expect the adults in the schools to provide a healthy environment.   And why, someone needs to be held accountable when something goes horribly wrong and when four young lives, and many more unaccounted for, are forever altered.

So, I think for now, as things stand, I will say a firm "no" to cheerleading.
I will keep her out of the lion's den. (pun intended)
I will let my daughter hate me, if she so chooses.
I will let her hate me with a beautifully intact spirit and healthy self-esteem.
It's worth it.

Real Girls

Everyone has prejudices.   Yes, even me, even you.   I'm not even talking about racism here, just some basic "He's too fat" ,"She's too loud", "She doesn't exercise enough", "He shops at <insert generic chain store>" kind of stuff.   We walk around with this all the time but every now and then it slaps us in the face and we have to deal with it.

On Friday night I was at home with dd1 while dd2 went to the local high school football game.   During the game, dd1 was checking her social media apps fairly frequently to get updated on scores, etc.  At one point she came over to me to show me a picture.   It was a picture of a football player in the foreground with a cheerleader, pom poms up, in the background.   Seems pretty ordinary, right?  It actually wasn't because that particular football player was a girl, who earned herself a spot on the team. The caption to the photo was "Who's the real girl here?"   The response was all in favor of the football playing girl, who is greatly admired at the school for her athletic ability and her tenacity.   There were even several slightly derogatory comments about the cheerleader.   DD1 and I laughed and agreed wholeheartedly with most of the comments.   How great was it that a girl was playing football?   It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling.  Go Girl power!

A couple hours later, my younger daughter came home from the game.  She had a great time (this was her first game as an official high school student) and was brimming with excitement.   Then, quite unexpectedly, she burst out with, "I think next year I might want to try out for cheerleading!"

What?

Did she really just say what I think she did?

But, didn't we just decide that "real girls" play football, and don't just stand on the sidelines and cheer?

I have to admit I was dumbstruck.  I couldn't think of anything to say good or bad.   I just kind of stood there.    My sudden muteness didn't phase dd2 and she merrily went up to bed.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a girly girl.  Before I had kids, I imagined myself with a houseful of rough and tumble boys playing football in the living room.   Of course, the universe doesn't work that way and the powers that be blessed me with two of the most delightfully feminine girls that one could have.   I couldn't love them more.   We have lived with a pink cotton candy-like aura for the past 16 years and I wouldn't have it any other way.   When they were first born I thought I could raise them as little pony tail sporting, jockish feminists who wouldn't take "girls don't do that" for an answer.   It turned out they were not athletically inclined.   From such an early age, no matter how hard I tried, their world was about sparkles, fairies, and the aforementioned PINK!  Eventually, I succumbed to it but have always managed to keep female objectification activities like beauty pageants and cheerleading off their glitter encrusted radar.   Until now.

What do I do?

I've always tried to be the parent that supports the girls in whatever activities they want to pursue.   Is cheerleading so inherently evil that I need to put the Kibosh on it?   Do I say, "No!  I won't let you!"

I gave it some thought over the weekend and came to the most startling conclusion.   I thought about how great it was that a girl was playing for the high school football team.   Then, I thought about the reverse of that, a boy cheerleader.    I know myself well enough to know that if I had a son, who was sensitive and feminine, and desperately wanted to be a cheerleader, I would fully support him, even encourage him.   I know that I would be the kind of parent who would enjoy walking into the athletic director's office and insisting that he let my son be a cheerleader and there better not be any bullying!

So, why could I do this for my non-existant, totally fabulous son but not for my very real daughter?
It's strange when you realize that your own uber "liberal" thinking has put you in a rather awkward spot.

I know I need to support her, just like I would support the fictional, possibly gay, but also possibly straight "him".    If she wants to cheer, so be it.   I'll even go to the games and watch.

As I sit here I can't help but think of that picture again, the one captioned, "Who's the real girl?"

Truth is, they are BOTH real girls.  Nothing less.  They are both on the field, both twisting and turning their bodies in support of their team, and in support of their school.   They are both pursuing their dreams, whether they are non-conformist or cliche, whether supported or.......not.

Isn't a feminist just someone who doesn't let their gender define them?   Isn't a feminist someone who pursues what she wants even if others, including overly liberal, non-conformist, but well-meaning mothers, think that a "real girl" is defined another way.    Isn't a feminist someone who doesn't take "girls don't do that!" for an answer.   Even when "that" happens to be cheerleading?

Hmmmmmmm

All I can say is,

Go Team!

Note:   After reading this after school today dd2 wanted me to add that she had told her friends at the game that she wanted to play football and they all laughed at her and told her she would get completely crushed.  Thus, the new cheerleading dream was born.

Shiny eyes

I read this article  today about how parents of white children should start talking to their children differently about race and racism.   But, the interesting thing about the article is that it didn't given any real suggestions as to how to have these conversations, or what to say.  The article stated that most non-white families start talking to their kids about race when they are about 3, the average for white families is 13.  But the article also states that ALL kids start noticing racial differences around 3 or 4 but most white children are told, when inquiring about race that "we are all the same inside".  Which, it turns out, is not such a great answer.

I have a memory from when I was about 10 or 11 years old and we went on a family trip to the Virgin Islands with another family.   The other kids and I became friendly with the bartender from the bar on the beach and he would make us wonderful virgin cocktails and give us presents of beautiful conch shells.   I remember that his skin was the darkest brown of anyone I had ever met, and it fascinated me. One day, when he was serving us our "cocktails", I noticed that the insides of his hands were extremely pale compared to the rest of his skin, with a pink undertone that wasn't so different than my own skin.
So, I innocently asked him, "Why is the inside of your hand so white?"   He smiled at me but before he could answer I was pulled away by one of my parents and told,  "You don't ask questions like that!"

Why not?

I wasn't being racist, or mean, I just wanted to know.   Then I felt embarrassed and ashamed and never, ever asked a question about racial differences again.   Ever.

In biology class, many years later, I had a satisfying moment when I was learning about pigment and melanin and my question was finally answered.   Because, in truth, I still wanted to know.

The shame of this question lived with me for a long time.   I also always wanted to know, for example, why Asians had no eyelids.   But, even after I married an Asian, I was too ashamed to ask him this question.  Then a few years back, before the world had easy access to google, my father-in-law, the chronic professor, who likes to give academic lectures even when not in the classroom, offered the answer without me ever having to ask a thing.   One day at dinner he just sat back and explained that Asians have extra fat in their upper eyelids to protect their eyes from the harsh cold of the Mongolian climate that was the place of origin for most Asians.  Seriously?  I quickly looked at my husband's eyes and saw them in a new light.  He didn't LACK eyelids.   He had more eyelid! with extra fat!   Fascinating.  ( Please don't share this fact with any skinny, Asian models, they might try to come up with a new, eyelid diet :))

I remember when my kids were little, sometimes their friends would ask questions of a racial nature.  One of my personal favorites was when the son of a friend asked why my daughter (who was about three at the time) had Chinese eyes when I didn't.    He was satisfied when I explained that her father was Asian/Korean-American(not Chinese) and that she had his eyes.   He was five and he didn't need to know more.   Later my daughter asked why he thought she had "shiny" eyes.   She had misunderstood him.   For the longest time after that I would hear her tell people that she had "shiny" eyes and that she had gotten them from her father.   How cute is that?

I haven't even mentioned the two most important things about this story.  The first is that I was not mad at the boy's question.  It was a natural observation and he was curious.  There is nothing wrong with that.   The other thing was that the mother of the boy was SOOOO embarrassed at the question and shamed him in much the same way that I was shamed with the hand question.  Her embarrassment made everyone in the room feel more awkward than his question had.   He never asked another question about race again in our presence. It is possible he didn't have any, but if he did, would he have felt comfortable asking?   There is a happy ending though.   This boy is in college now and has an Asian girlfriend, so he must be a fan of "shiny" eyes.

You know, like the author of the article I mentioned above, I don't know how white parents should talk to white children about race and racism.   But, here's what I do know, many, many years ago, when a small island boy looked at his hands and observed that one side of his hand was a different color, he probably asked his mother or father "Why is this?" and I'm most confident that the answer was not "We don't ask questions like that!"

Note:  It is not my intention to be critical of my parents or my friend for their behavior in these situations.   At the time, they really believed they were doing the right thing for all parties involved.   Like all parents they were simply "doing their best".

Rice

When I was growing up we always buttered our rice (usually Uncle Ben's or Minute Rice).

When I met my husband, an avid rice eater, he taught me that Asians do not butter their rice (and never eat Uncle Ben's or Minute Rice).  In fact, such a thing is considered sacrilege, so I have spent the last 20+ years of my life eating my white rice unbuttered.   It's healthier and I've gotten used to it.

However, I must admit to the occasional cheat.   Sometimes, when we are having a non-Asian meal, such as pork chops or chicken, I sneak a little pad of butter* onto my rice.   My family has always looked at me like I am a circus freak when I do this.  "Butter on rice?  How strange.  Why would you do that?"

Then they all watch me eat it, heads cocked in curiousity, as if I am a cannibal eating a finger.  "How interesting.  She seems to like it."

Recently, my oldest daughter has discovered that she kind of likes butter* on rice from time to time too.  I mean, let's face it, anything acting as a butter delivery system can't be all bad.   My husband was not happy with this development and I could almost hear her Asian ancestors rolling over in their graves at the sight.

But, it made me wonder.

I have spent the last 22 years of my life coupled with an Asian man, adopting some Asian culinary ways.  I can honestly say that I no longer know if any families, white or otherwise, still butter their rice.   And perhaps, my family was the only family in American that buttered their rice in the 70s?  Do other people remember buttering their rice?   Were we an anomaly?  

Please discuss.

*butter in our house is not usually actual butter but Olivio a healthier, non-dairy alternative because the Asians in my house don't process dairy very well.  So, saying we "butter" our rice is not entirely accurate but sounds infinitely better than we "Olivio" our rice.