CaucAsian

CaucAsian

Part 1

CaucAsian Complexion

As I write this, the United States is in turmoil. Everything in this country is, at minimum, a point of contention, and on average, one political movement from casualties. The public and the politicians question and debate every topic from those that shape individualism to those that shape grocery purchases. It’s scary and it’s dangerous. In so many ways. Recently, I’ve found myself reminiscing about the way I grew up. I realize now how naive I was at the time to not have noticed how different I am. And what a wonderful gift it is to be different.

To set the parameters for my background, I will tell you that I am a born female, heterosexual, spiritual but non-religious, and of mixed Caucasian and Asian descent. I was born and raised in the United States and come from a lower-middle class family. Most of my mother’s family has lived in the United States since it was still Colonies. My maternal ancestry is mostly English, Irish, and German. As for my father’s side, they come from Dutch, Indonesian, and Chinese descent. My father was born overseas and became a Naturalized U.S. Citizen as an infant. He was raised primarily in the United States and even served in the U.S. military in his 20s. My parents met as teenagers, married young, and raised three kids in the Southwestern United States.

As the youngest child and only daughter, my childhood was that of a spoiled little girl who had both parents wrapped around her fingers. Of course, I didn’t know this at the time, but looking back I can admit I was spoiled to the best of my parents’ ability. Damn do I miss it! I attended public schools, participated in Girl Scouts, and went on family vacations that mostly consisted of camping trips every summer. Nothing exotic or luxurious, but simple and fun.

My first encounter with race and ethnicity was in fifth grade. I should clarify, this was the first experience where I realized other people think race and ethnicity have connotations. We had recently moved from a large city to a small town and I transferred to the local public school mid-year. During my first few weeks, one of our class projects included drawing pictures of our families. I drew my family as I saw them. My mother with strawberry blonde hair, green eyes and pale skin that would burn in the sun every summer. My father: black hair, brown eyes with thick glasses, and his naturally dark brown skin. Oldest brother: blonde hair, green eyes, and pale like my mom. Second brother: black hair, brown eyes with glasses, and skin almost as dark as my dad’s. And then there was me, the even blend: brown hair, hazel eyes (that looked brown or green depending on the light) with glasses, and skin with a medium tan complexion. If I stay out of the sun, I am almost as pale as my mother, but I happen to tan extremely easily and never burn (much like my father). So while my skin never got as dark as my dad’s, time spent in the sun gave me a complexion that looked the perfect blend between my parents.

And so, using my deluxe pack of crayons, I set to work drawing my family for the class project. Of course, I used the pale crayon to draw the bodies of my mother and oldest brother. I found a tan crayon for myself. Then I used a medium-dark brown crayon to draw my dad and my other brother. A girl sitting next to me saw my drawing and loudly exclaimed, “Your dad’s black!?” Here I am 30 years later and I can still hear her voice crystal clear in my head. Her tone was a mix of disbelief and disgust. What she said and the way she said it just made me want to cry and I didn’t even know why. My dad’s skin is a different color from the rest of my family, so what? What was wrong with that? And why was it so shocking? It confused me. I told the girl that no, he’s just really dark because he’s Asian just like my mother is really light because she’s German and English.

At an early age, I was aware of my diverse heritage because my family is very open and proud of where they come from. So what’s the big deal? What if my dad was black? Everyone in my family is a different color and has different features. My mom’s family members vary in height, hair and eye color, and family traditions. My dad’s family members all share the same dark hair and eyes (with glasses) with varying complexions. The traditions of each side of my family are different, but those contrasts were completely normal for me growing up. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner with the maternal grandparents. Satay, peanut sauce, and lumpia with the paternal grandparents. Wasn’t everyone’s family different like that?

Later, I went home and told my dad what happened. I asked what had caused that reaction from the girl. He explained to me that some people aren’t used to people from different cultures becoming a family. And that some people either dislike or distrust people that are not like them. For the first time, I learned what prejudice is. Whether it is caused by mistrust, misunderstanding, or just hatred - it exists. It is multifaceted and it lives in every corner of the world - even a fifth grade classroom. That was 30 years ago. Today, the climate in the United States is exponentially worse. The prejudice fueled by greed, hatred, and ignorance has taken over the country. That’s not to say all people are bad. There are people and communities filled with love and acceptance and I am thankful for them. My point with this little walk down memory lane is this: my fifth grade experience was minor at best, but it was the first of many to shape how I view myself, my family, and others.

The color of someone’s skin invoked such a strong reaction from that girl it shocked me, almost to tears. It was my first lesson as a CaucAsian. I am different. My family is different. Racially, ethnically, culturally, even dietarily I grew up diversely. And that’s a good thing. Having culturally different family members and family traditions taught me to be open to the unfamiliar. It taught me to see the benefits of diversity. I may not agree or like everything that’s different from what I am used to, but I respect that everyone has a different background and perspective. How boring would life be if we were all exactly the same?