I'm a sucker for a good romance story. I love to hear the stories of how my friends met their significant others. I love the funny moments, the odd moments and the moments when they both figure out that they want this to last.
Of all the love stories I would like to hear, the story of my paternal grandparents ranks at the top of the list. Unfortunately, they have both passed on and when they were alive I never made the necessary connections to understand how amazing their romance was.
My grandfather was from Alabama and all that that implies. His mother was a WASP with her very own kind of sting.
My grandmother grew up in Hawaii, her parents being immigrants from Japan. They met during WWII when my grandfather was serving in the Air Force and my grandmother was a nurse. They married and had my father in May of 1946. No small feat.
Needless to say, they were both disowned when they got married.
My grandmother's family accepted them later on as they saw that my grandfather really loved her and was good to her. My grandfather's mother, his father had long since passed on, never took him back. In fact, she told my grandfather that if he left his family, he could come home. He never did.
I remember my grandfather as a very gregarious man at church and my grandmother as a no-nonsense kind of woman. They seemed to keep to themselves quite a bit. My grandmother would call my grandfather, "You old goat."
It wasn't until I was in my mid-20's though that I began to see this relationship for the miracle it was. For my grandfather, a good
ol' white boy from the South to marry a Japanese woman during WWII is amazing. I cannot imagine the response they received from the community around them. I find there are so many questions that I would love to ask them.
But the reason I bring up this love story is how it pertains to me. Eons ago (what can I say? I percolate.) John wrote some
posts about
race. I'm sure this topic weighs on his mind as he is a white man with a black partner. I think about race and all our current baggage on the subject in regards to this presidential election, in regards to the modern treatment of minorities and in regards to myself.
I always have a moments pause when filling out forms for myself or my children. I briefly entertain the idea of marking us Asian-Americans but I don't. I don't identify myself as Asian at all. I don't look Japanese. Every once in a while someone will look at my eyes and wonder if I'm more than a European mutt, especially after they hear that I grew up in Alaska; they typically assume that I am part Native Alaskan. I don't speak Japanese. I know very little about their culture, other than the fact that I love sushi. Love it. Oh, and I think Asian and
EurAsian men are totally hot. But that's about it. The biggest reason I even tell people that I'm part Japanese at all is because I love my grandmother and think she was an amazing woman and because it's cool to have something a little different than just a European ancestry.
So what does heritage mean to us? How do our ancestors help shape our identity? I wonder this in particular with African-Americans. In truth, there are probably many of the black community who are less African than I am Asian (1/4) and yet they claim to be different than just another Caucasian American. Does the question of race simple boil down to how we look and how we are treated because of this look? Does this mean that we should have a race category names, "
Smokin' Hot Caucasian?" Because I can guarantee you that Cindy Crawford, without the fame, would still get better treatment than I at a store or restaurant.
I went to New York City when I was 19 to see the sights. I walked through Chinatown and figured I should buy some lunch as the cuisine was probably damn good. I sat in this little restaurant surrounded by faces who looked nothing like mine. I've never felt so conspicuous in my whole life. This restaurant seated people in any open seat. I sat at a table of six, alone in my party, as people rapidly talked in a language I could not even identify let alone understand. When I paid for my meal and left, it was as though every one in the restaurant, and myself, heaved a sigh of relief. I had wandered where I did not belong and though I wasn't booted to the curb (which I thought was a possibility the entire time I ate my meal), I was not welcomed either.
I thought about this in regards to the links John posted about
white privilege. Is it so much white privilege or merely privilege of the predominant race/culture/force, which in America seems to be the
WASPs? In Chinatown, there was no privilege in being white. Amongst my friends, regardless of race, I extend every imaginable privilege. Race, then, in my thoughts boils down to our
instantaneous judgements about who will accept us the best and think most like us. We firstly assume that those who
look most like us will
be more like us. As we get to know each other, then other factors can take precedence. In Chinatown, I was
perceived as an odd woman, a threat(?). Clearly I didn't belong. If someone from that restaurant had walked into my dad's business, he would be welcome but there would be that momentary pause; that acknowledgement that we are different and we don't know what unknowns lurk in those differences. If it was a she, of any race, there would always be that pause (what's a she doing in a mechanic shop?).
So in the end, who am I and where do I fit? Quite frankly, I don't think I fit in the Asian-American pool. Mostly notably because I don't look like them but also because I find so little in their culture to identify with. Then again, I doubt an Englishman, Frenchman, Irishman or Scot would have much in common with me either. Where have I felt most at home? Alaska. When I went back, I felt like "these are my people." We dress with no style (believe me) and really just believe in "live and let live." I feel more comfortable in my own skin there than any where else. So my question is, and perhaps here is the naivete of a young white girl, why do we insist on being labeled as so many "
ites:" African, Asian, Latin, Whatever Americans instead of just being called Americans? Is white privilege so predominate everywhere in this country that we are excluded from doing this? Aren't there privileges, and disadvantages,
inherent in each race depending on where in the United States they are?
I can see some need to classify and to place ourselves with those whom we would most readily feel comfortable, but the thing is, there are many Caucasian Americans with whom I don't feel comfortable. How far down do we want to take these divisions? Slightly Pretty Mormon Liberal-Conservative Asian-Caucasian Americans Who Like To Twirl?
I don't know. Now I'm starting to feel like I should just keep my mouth shut. I know so little of what I am speaking as I have only ever lived, excepting a few moments, in white privilege.
I have been trying really hard to care and to reach out of my bubble but...I. don't. want. to. I'm in an odd state of being and I'm really trying to figure out my own head. I'm not sad or depressed. I'm not really angry. I'm empty and numb. But if I think about it too hard, I start to cry. And I have no reason why I'm crying. If my children don't walk on eggshells, they get snapped at. I can't figure out what the hell is going on. I feel like I'm floating outside myself watching some alien animate my body and I have no idea how to stop it.
