Hello everyone! Welcome back to Week 2 of my blog!
Since we’re still getting to know each other, I feel as though we should talk about the people who raised me: my parents.
Let’s start from the very beginning:
My mom came to America when she was five. My dad came to America when he was 16. Therefore, they can be classified as 1.5 generation immigrants.
Because most of their childhood was spent in the States, they are fluent in English.
I actually asked my parents how it was growing up here.
My mom said she was constantly called “Ching Chong” and people would tease her by slanting their eyes.
My mom in a shirt I would probably wear today.
My dad posing with a fresh catch.
My dad said people would tell him to “Go back home, Chink.”
^That’s pretty harsh, America.
But that was a long time ago.
Years later, my mom went on to become an art director. My dad graduated with a chemistry degree but decided to pursue business instead (I was so relieved to know that my dad also did the whole pre-med switch. Made the process a whole lot easier).
The two of them met at a golf tournament that my mom was putting on. My dad won the tournament, they fell in love, and they had two (awesome) kids, Nicholas and Alexandra.
You would think that at this point, racism wouldn’t be that bad anymore, right?
Growing up, I thought we were the definition of a normal, American family.
- My dad signed my brother and I up for recreational soccer.
- My mom was the head of my Girl Scout troop.
- They straight up dressed me as Hermione one year for Halloween.
Yes, I went through my archives and found that picture of me as Hermione. The two gals to the left are my homies (if y’all are reading this, hello).
But I realized that those rituals weren’t quite enough.
One time, my family and I were in line at a restaurant. We had lived in Georgia for a little while, but I was definitely too young to be super cognizant of what was going on.
As we were waiting in line, for some reason, people kept cutting us in line. At one point, my mom stopped one of them, and was like, “Excuse me, we are in line.”
And the person looked back, startled at how my mom had called him out, and said, “Oh, sorry ma’am. Wow, your English is so good. You sound like you could’ve been born here.”
That was so surprising to me, that my mom, who had literally lived here her whole life, was told that she spoke English well.
As I was too young to completely comprehend everything that was going on during that interaction, I’m unsure of what exactly happened after. But I’m pretty sure, knowing my mom, she said some sort of snarky comment back to that man in perfect English. And knowing my dad, he probably had to hold her back.
This has been a recurring theme - that people are surprised that my parents can speak English. Or people will comment on how good our accents are. Or that racism still exists.
Now I know I may be too sensitive or that I may be misconstruing things, but they definitely affected me as I was growing up.
There were many Meet Your Teachers Day’s where my teachers would be surprised that my parents actually went up to go introduce themselves. There were many times when people would say they thought my mom was white when they spoke to her on the phone.
And yes, there were many times when people would call me “Ching Chong” and slant their eyes.
But that was a long time ago.
Or maybe it really wasn’t.
Maybe I just keep making excuses for America. Maybe I keep hoping that we know better. Maybe I keep saying that we’ll get better.
I’m not sure. But I hope that in the future when my kid is somehow reflecting on their life experiences, they won’t have to think about kids making fun of their eyes…
Here’s to hoping.