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?"?

Who's a Jew? Are you?

Tonight is the beginning of Yom Kippur, which is a day of atonement for the Jews.   Those who practice the faith will fast and ask for forgiveness for their sins.

I will be eating plenty, maybe even bacon (gasp!) and might even commit a sin or two.

But, here is my secret identity:   I am half-Jewish.

So, what does that mean?

I have been trying to figure that out my whole life.

My kids are half Korean and this is obvious to the whole world.   They can't deny it.

My brother is half Jewish too (duh!) and he has blond hair and blue eyes.    He fits right into his adopted Scandinavian homeland.   His heritage doesn't make him stand out in any way.

Judaism is a religion, so how can you be half?   I don't think I have ever met a person who called themselves "half-Catholic" or "half-Muslim", so how can you be half-Jewish?   I have met many, many people who call themselves just that.    Is it a race or a religion?

I suppose they talk about the Jewish identity in Temple, but I wouldn't know, because I don't go to Temple.   Are you allowed to call yourself Jewish if you don't go to Temple?

I know people who grew up Christian, married someone Jewish, and converted.   Now they celebrate the Jewish holidays, study the Torah, and have banished the Christmas tree from their homes.   They are considered, by some standards, to be Jewish.

I am married to an Asian.   I can cook a mean Kimchi Jiggae.   I have celebrated Chusuk and the Lunar New Year.    I have worn a Hanbok.    But no one would ever consider me Asian.  "Honorasian" is the best I will ever do.

                                       


I suppose it would be easier if all Jews came from one place, like Israel.   Then, I could say I was half-Israeli.   It would separate the "people" from the religion.  However, my family came from Hungary and Austria, so it would also be a lie.  

I grew up with a Jewish grandmother (although she was, strangely, kind of anti-Semitic), and a Jewish mother.   I love bagels, lox, gefilte fish, matzoh, matzoh ball soup, latkes and noodle kugel.   I have celebrated Chanukkah and Passover. I utter familiar yiddish phrases like "Oy!" and "Vey!"    Do I qualify?

I can't read Hebrew.   I never had a Bat Mitzvah (although I do know the difference between a Bat Mitzvah and a Bar Mitzvah).    I never went to Temple as a child.    Do I fail?

My kids cannot deny their Asian heritage, they cannot hide it,  but I can.   I can choose to be one of the Chosen.   If race cannot be seen, is it still there?

I know that in my heart, I feel Jewish.   It is somewhere deep inside me, there is a connection that cannot be denied, a sense of cultural and culinary, if not religious, belonging.    So, I will call myself a Jew and if that is a sin, I am sorry.

Have a wonderful Yom Kippur!

Who said what?

Funny or offensive? 

Would it be funny if it was a gift from one Asian to another?

Would it be funny if it was a gift from a white person to an Asian friend?

What if they were selling it at the Gap?  Would it be funny then?

Yesterday I ran into a friend and we were discussing my blog.   She said she wanted to post a comment about my blog but didn't want to register with blogger just to comment.  This is a common complaint I have been hearing.   I am trying to set up a facebook page that is linked to my blog that will make it easier for people to comment, at least for people who are on facebook.   No one else really matters, do they?

In the meantime, she shared her thoughts about my latest blog post, and I found her thoughts interesting enough that I want to share them with you.   I hope I do her justice, if not, maybe I will inspire her to register with blogger so she can correct me :)

She said that when she read the story about my daughter and the idiot in her science class, she was left wondering about one missing tidbit of information.   She wanted to know what "color" the boy who made the offending(?) statement was, and whether or not that would matter.   In other words, is it more offensive for a white kid to say, "I can see you as a doctor because you are asian," than if another asian kid had said it.   Hmmmmm.    I asked my daughter, and she confirmed that he was indeed white.   I won't include the other adjectives she used, but you can assume that they were less than complimentary.

In my discussion with my friend, she brought up that in many groups (not just racial) it is okay to poke fun of your own people.  For example, women call each other "chicks" all the time, but if men call a group of women "chicks", they are read the riot act.   We all know that a woman can complain that she is crazy with PMS, and she can commiserate with her friends about this, but pity the man who even hints that a certain mood might be attributed to a certain time of the month.   He is a dead man for sure.

So, is it okay when one Asian says to another, "Of course you'll be a doctor, you're Asian!" (wink, wink)?   And, by allowing and contributing to this kind of behavior, are we giving the message that sometimes, in certain circumstances, racism is okay?

We were discussing this topic at dinner and it led to DD1 sharing some new information about something that had happened to her this summer.   An event that we had all heard about before, but with a new twist.

This past summer DD1 went to visit my brother and his family in Scandinavia.    When she returned home her flight arrived at the airport at the same time as a plane from Tokyo.    When she came out of customs she told me that one of the airport workers had been insisting that she should go into the foreigners line instead of the US citizens line.   She kept telling him she was American and eventually had to show him her US passport so he would let her get in the right line.     When she told me that story I was outraged.    How could someone working at the airport be so racist?   Couldn't he see that she was wearing sweats from Hollister, and a t-shirt from her high school.   She might not be white, but on that day, she was the poster girl for "typical American fifteen year old."

Yesterday at dinner, she told us for the first time, that the man who had given her such trouble was Asian.    She also said that in retrospect he was probably not working for the TSA, but for the Japanese airline that had come in at the same time as her flight.    I have to admit, this changes things for me a bit. First of all, assuming he was ethnically Japanese, it means he wasn't labeling her as an outsider by pushing her towards the foreign-born line, but instead, he was including her as one of his own.   He was being inclusive, not exclusive.   Also, if he was ethnically Japanese he might not have recognized her extremely American outfit as such.   I do think he was a bit racist, or idiotic, to not believe her the first time she told him she was American.   But, somehow this new tidbit of information made the situation seem a little less awful?

So,what is it called when someone from a certain ethnic group, makes certain assumptions based on his or her own race, is it still racism?  And, is it benign?

Racist, Idiotic, or Blissfully Ignorant?

Racism has many shades of grey (maybe 50? ha,ha ) Many things that people say are really just idiotic, and not racist at all.    For example, when people came up to me and asked if my daughter was adopted, I really don't think those people were racist, they were just insensitive nincompoops.   In fact, most of those people had a little Asian person in their lives(that their daughter, sister, aunt had adopted) that they loved very much.    They would probably be mortified if they knew how much their comments hurt me.   I think racism, and hatred in general, is more about intention.    If a girl says, "All Asian men are ugly dorks that no one wants to date!" It is intentionally mean and therefore, racist.   Unless said girl is talking about her brother.   Then, it is just an ugly sibling spat that will probably result in the girl spending some "thinking" time alone in her room.   Another category of seemingly racist people to be considered is the "blissfully ignorant".   There are some people who say things with such complete naivety that you just can't be mad or hurt.   I usually put old people and children in this category.    Children say things out of curiosity, such as "Why are your eyes like that?"   or "Do you eat lo mein every night?"    There is no malice in these questions at all.  They are just figuring out their world and want some answers.   I have always seen these as teaching moments and I try to answer kids as honestly and kindly as possible, so they will go out into the world a little more enlightened.   There are also old people.  There was a time when it was considered okay to call Asian people "Oriental".  And,  they don't always get the memo about what is the currently politically correct term so they slip and say things like "Oriental" or "Negro" or "Indian" (referring to a Native Americans).   They grew up in a different time, with different values, and sometimes it doesn't seem worth the trouble to correct them.   Does it?  Of course, there are some really mean, totally racist old people too, but that's a different story.

I am hoping to have an on-going series of posts on this blog called, "Racist, Idiotic, or Blissfully Ignorant?" where situations in these grey areas can be discussed.   I even hope people will offer some of their own experiences.   It's not going to solve any big world issues, but it might give some interesting food for thought.

For my first, "Racist, Idiotic, or blissfully ignorant?" post, I would like to discuss an episode that happened to dd2 (dear daughter 2, for those of you who know my family, I am trying to keep real names out of this blog, thank you) just yesterday.    She was in her 8th grade science class and was having fun doing an experiment with a friend.   A boy was working with them.    The girls were discussing the fact that they both wanted to be doctors when they grew up.   The boy looked at them and said to the first girl (who happened to be caucasian), "I can't see you as a doctor, you are too stupid."(ouch!) Then he turned to my daughter and said, "I guess I could see you as a doctor, after all, you are Asian."   My daughter was mildly upset by this incident.   I think she would have preferred him to say, "I guess I could see you as a doctor, after all, you are smart."     Clearly, from what he said to the first girl, this kid is a jerk.   But, is he also a racist?   This certainly doesn't fit into the blissfully ignorant category.   Or does it?

The new "Norm"

There are two sides to every coin.  

Racism stinks.   People say mean, hurtful things all the time and after a while it can really have an impact on your ego.

But, there are also those times, when the color of your skin gives you certain advantages.

When the girls were little there was a Chinese restaurant down the street from us.   We were regulars.   I could not believe how friendly the owners were.  We were treated like royalty every time we walked into the establishment.   The service was always fantastic, our favorite dishes were always available (even if they weren’t on that week’s menu), and at the end of the meal there were always extra fortune cookies.   When we walked into the place, I felt a little like “Norm” from Cheers.

One day I decided to take a group of friends there, to show them how great it was, and maybe to show off how well they treated me.  When we walked in, the hostess I knew so well from our family visits just stood there like she didn’t know me at all.   I gave her a big smile and a familiar “Hi!” and she replied, “How many?”

Wait.  Was this the right place?  Was this the same woman who pinched my daughters’ rosy cheeks?   Or, was this her evil twin?

“4”  I said suspiciously.

She nonchalantly showed us to our table and gave us our menus.    The restaurant wasn’t that busy but it took a while for our server to come to our table.   I knew the server.   He made silly faces at my girls, and put tiny umbrellas in their water glasses.    “What would you like?”   he asked, without a hint of recognition in his voice or his expression.

“How about the Chinese Broccoli with oyster sauce?”  I asked, it was one of my favorites.

“I’m sorry ma’am, that item is not on the menu.”  he answered, in an uncustomary formal fashion.

Really?

The rest of our lunch was unremarkable.   The food was okay but the lackluster service kind of ruined things for me.

That night I asked my husband if we had done something to upset them, like maybe not tip them enough.    He shrugged his head and said, “I don’t think so.”

Shortly after that we visited as a family again.   I was a little nervous, and told my kids to not expect the kind of treatment they were used to, but I had nothing to worry about - we were “Norm” at Cheers again.  The girls were given umbrellas in their water, and my favorite Chinese broccoli in Oyster sauce was suddenly available again.

Had I been on a trip to the Twilight Zone?

Over the next couple of years, I kind of figured things out.   When I was with my Asian family, we were absolutely given preferential treatment.   When I was alone, or with other white friends, I was nothing special.

This restaurant is not unique.   I know that when we go to Asian restaurants, especially Korean ones, we receive certain perks.   I’m sure it is the same for any ethnic restaurant.

It is a kind of reverse racism, I guess.   I could get angry.   I could get upset.   Or, I could get my Chinese broccoli in Oyster sauce and enjoy it.

How it all began Pt. 2

I'm going to skip a bunch of years here and jump to when we became a family with the birth of our first child, DD1 (dear daughter 1). At the time, we were living just outside of Cambridge, MA, a city that likes to consider itself forward thinking, open-minded and liberal. It is a city where people don't blink twice at mixed race couples or any other kind of non-conventional union, a sort of utopia for idealists I guess. However, even Utopia has its village fools.

When my daughter was just a month old, a visiting relative and I took her to Harvard Square for one of her first big, public space outings. We were having a lovely day strolling around the city. At one point, we sat down and I took my daughter out of her stroller and held her in my lap. A woman walked up to us and started making conversation. For twenty minutes, she entertained us with the story of how her sister had just adopted a baby from China and all the minutia of that experience. 

She didn't stop to take a breath the whole time, and when she was done she just left. I burst out laughing, "That woman was crazy! Why was she telling us all that?" 

My relative looked me square in the eye and asked with a serious tone, "You really don't understand, do you?"

My laughter subsided. "Understand what?"

She looked at the baby and said, "She thinks your daughter is adopted."

I looked down at my dear, dear baby that I had suffered through fourteen hours of labor to bring into this world and thought, "Really?"

Then, through newly enlightened eyes, I looked at my baby. I looked at her shock of black hair that stood so straight up she had been dubbed "Don King" by multiple family members. I looked at her sweet, almond shaped eyes, her button nose, and her ivory skin.

I'm not sure that even now, fifteen years later, I could adequately describe the emotions that I felt at that moment. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Total Dismay. I wish I could tell you that it was an isolated incident that would never happen again. Sadly that is not the case.

I am a proponent of adoption. I think it is a win-win situation for all parties involved. There are so many children on this planet with no one that I think it is wonderful when a family embraces a child and says, "We are yours. You are ours. We are a family."

However, even when I talk to friends who are adopted themselves, or actually have adopted children, they identify with the same feeling of dismay and sadness when someone makes a point of saying in their own clueless way, "You don't naturally belong together." 

The first year of my daughter's life, I heard countless adoption stories, mostly when I was just minding my own business walking around the mall. Many times, I heard about the heartbreak people experienced when they couldn't conceive a child. I heard way, way too many details about that. I heard about children saved from all over the world. 

It always amazed me how willing people were to unload their stories. Actually, most people were unloading other people's stories. It was always about a daughter, cousin, aunt, friend, or friend of a friend. 

The actual parents of adopted children were in the same boat as I was, the boat of bewilderment. Many people would ask me where my daughter was from, usually after they had unloaded their own diatribe. Usually, I was far too polite and I would kindly explain, "Actually, her father is Korean-American and I am her mother." 

Some of the really clueless people I met would actually reply to this comment with, "Her real mother?" and I would shake my head "yes" and walk away in shock. "Her real mother?” Who says that?"

By the time, my daughter was a year old and becoming more cognizant of her environment, my level of tolerance for stupidity was waning. I remember that one fateful day when a woman came up to me at Sears and started telling me her daughter's adoption story. It was long, and my own child was wiggling, cranky and ready to go home for a nap. When the woman finally came up for air, she asked the inevitable question. "Where is your daughter from?"

This time I was prepared. I had had a year, and many sleepless nights to think of the perfect comeback.

I looked her straight in the eye and answered, "My uterus."

I will never forget the image of her standing slacked jawed in the handbag section of Sears as I walked away with MY daughter.

How it all began Pt. 1

When I first met my husband, I didn't look at him and think "Wow. That Asian guy is really cute." No, I just thought HE was cute. I didn't really think about race at all in the early days of our budding relationship. 

I guess the first time I thought about it was when I brought him to my parents’ house for the first time. I was trying to consciously decide if I was going to tell them that he was Asian.

I mean, I had never introduced any other guys as "Frank the Italian-American" or "Joao the Brazilian-American" (never happened, but a girl can dream) so why should I preface his introduction to my family with a mention of his race? So, I decided not to say anything.

When my mother answered the door, I could see some surprise register on her face. Clearly, she was not expecting him to be of a different race. To her credit, her initial surprise subsided and she was perfectly polite for the rest of the evening. My father reacted the way he reacted to any new person in the house; he ignored him by hiding himself with the newspaper. 

My mother immediately started peppering him with questions about himself, as any mother would, "Where are you from? Do you have any siblings? What do you do?" When my suitor started talking about working towards his Ph.D. my father's newspaper slowly started to unveil his previously hidden face. 

When my suitor mentioned that he was studying biology, the newspaper came down completely. That's when I realized that my Dad was not at all a racist, but an intellectual snob. It did not matter to my dad what race he was, as long as he was a hardworking, intelligent kind of guy. My mother was just pleased that he had manners. He knew how to say "please" and "thank you" and "that dinner was delicious!" and that was all that mattered to her.

After that evening, when they inquired about him, it was always, "How are things with the scientist?"

That was all that mattered