I grew up in a tiny Midwest town. And yes, I do mean tiny.
Population: 3,000.
We had one elementary school. We shared our middle and high school with 3 other towns. It was the Midwest- this was normal. We had school buses that came to pick us up. We lived on back roads and in forests.
But anyways, 3,000 people.
My elementary school year had a little less than 100. Everyone knew everyone.
There were four other people of color in my grade. A girl adopted from China. Two black kids from the city. And my best friend, an Iranian everyone thought was white.
I am biracial. I am Chinese and Irish.
I was considered extremely Asian. I was the Asian.
I was fine with that. I was Cho Chang. I was Mulan.
I dressed up as Mulan for Halloween two years in a row- once as the male dressed, fighting one, and once in the dress she wears to meet the matchmaker (love that dress man).
This was all fine to me. I like my heritage. I like owning it. And yeah, they didn’t give me a choice, but that’s fine too.
Sometimes it was annoying. I’m more than just Asian.
But generally it was fine.
Then I moved to California.
Newsflash: there are a lot of people of color in California.
I got told I wasn’t Asian enough to consider myself Asian.
(I am 50% Chinese. What is enough?)
I was not enough. I was just some stupid white girl pretending. I think my favorite thing I got called was Fasian (fake-Asian). And well, no one ever said I wasn’t adaptable.
So I adapted again. I owned my fake-Asian white girl-ness.
But I wasn’t happy.
This wasn’t who I was.
A couple months ago I moved to Arizona.
I still constantly feel the need to justify my ethnicity to people. I feel the need to constantly make comments about the fact that I am Asian, despite what people say.
But now my friends just laugh. They comment on the fact that they never would’ve assumed I was anything but Asian.
And I’m happy.
blooming despite 