Without their permission, I've taken the maternal liberty of including a photo of my son and daughter taken recently at a family wedding. As you may discern, they do not resemble me exactly and neither do they resemble their father exactly. They are, of course, in the middle. But since their father was Chinese and I'm Scots Irish, they have appeared in the world as a blend of both, which causes occasional confusion.
My daughter is short, dark, pretty, and freckled. She battles a tendency to plumpness with a food diary and exercise. My son is lanky, burns red in the sun, has strong, spikey auburn hair, inhales food with abandon, burning his calories efficiently, according to his own assessment. Both have the slender hands, feet and ankles of their father's family. Chopsticks were used before forks, and the first time my son ate a McDonald's french fry, he vomited.
Soon after we immigrated to the States, and when the children were still very young, my blue-eyed Pennsylvania Dutch neighbor, after a little too much wine, invited me to confess who the real father of my son was, because "it couldn't possibly be your husband". She even giggled over the bet she had with her husband that if they could only get me tipsy enough, I was sure to spill the beans. I'm not sure, nor did I care, actually, whether she believed me when I told her that, yes, indeed my red-haired, white-skinned son's father was the same as my dark- haired daughter's and the very same man I was married to. Innate people pleaser that I was at that time, I felt a little bad that I'd disappointed her, but a little horrified too, at her ignorance of the mysterious whim of dominant gene selection. Her own son had blond hair and blue eyes, despite the fact that her husband (and father of her child, which I never doubted) was from Iran and had black hair and dark brown eyes.
Nowadays, my daughter, never one to shy away from a moment of distinction, tells people who meet us for the first time that yes, she really is my daughter and not adopted, even though we don't look alike. Her pediatrician asked me at our first visit whether I knew if she had been breast fed as an infant. When I replied, yes, I had fed her myself, he blushed and stuttered a bit, realizing his misstep in presuming an adoption, based simply upon appearances. I suppose he just wasn't used to seeing mixed race patients unless the blend included African American, the most common, perhaps, at that time in the mid-seventies. Eurasian blends may have been a little exotic for that neck of the backwoods. The backwoods being a mere 20 miles north of San Francisco, by the way. I had imagined myself to be living in a progressive part of California and was shocked to learn otherwise.
With our president being bi-racial, the issue of mixed heritage has surfaced in a refreshing way and its about time. I bought two books on the subject recently: Mixed - Portraits of Multiracial Kids, by Kip Fulbeck, and a companion book by the same author, Part Asian-100% Hapa, published by Chronicle Books. They are small, easy to peruse like an album, with photo portraits of mixed race children and adults, with a few words of commentary by the subjects or family. I presented the one about kids to my daughter to keep her occupied while I had my turn at Scrabble yesterday. She usually has a hard time waiting for me, even though I cheat in her favor and keep the words very simple so she isn't overchallenged to the point of frustration. She struggles enough as it is. We stick to three or four letter words (only clean ones) and we're both less stressed that way. Last night, she couldn't wait for me to be busy with my rack while she seemed mesmerized by photos of kids who look alot like she does. She read the lists of each child's ancestry aloud, in her usual careful and deliberate monotone, which rose in pitch whenever it included Chinese, Scottish or Irish. "Just like me!" she crowed with delight. The book was far more engaging and relevant to her than our game of Scrabble, even though she was winning handily.
I remember the frustration of not finding her a doll that had brown hair and brown eyes when we lived in London for a year, when she was in kindergarten. She attached herself to what was available, a blue-eyed blondie. In later years, not surprisingly, she wanted to dye her hair blond, which I thought a shame as she has the most lovely dark tresses. One day, inevitably, she managed to sneak a dye job, and I have to admit she looked stunning ! She gave it up because of the expense, but not without pouting. She now has a reddish rinse on it, which these days is tame; I am only glad it's not the puce I saw on a young lady at church last week !
I know I can't and shouldn't control what she chooses to do with her appearance and mostly manage to keep my comments to myself. And it's not really her appearance per se that's a serious issue as much as what that represents to her and others of mixed race. Her main concern is having a sense of truly belonging and being accepted and I respect that. While few of us are truly satisfied with our appearance, we all long to know that we are viewed as equal members of society, and deserving of the respect and dignity everyone else is afforded. This becomes a bigger concern for those of mixed heritage whose experiences can often be alienating and painful. It usually starts when they are young and ill prepared to defend themselves.
Stereotyping is the culprit, fear and ignorance perhaps even more so. While statistics and studies reveal the fact that there are plenty of white drug dealers as well as black, and that numerous successful black business owners, living in large homes in safe neighborhoods with happy family lives do exist, or that indeed there are some Chinese kids who are hopeless at math, or who play in garage rock bands, ugly misperceptions persist.
Facts are supposed to be more powerful than fear, or so one would hope in a civilized society. When will we learn to look through appearances and see one another as part of the human race, each of us frail at times, strong at others? Maybe when there are more people like the president in positions of leadership, which might take a while. But sooner than that, when more mothers make playdates an opportunity to share with kids who look different from their own, or maybe when each person just decides to do it, it will happen.
