Growing up with a Korean mother and a Pakistani father, I had an interesting childhood. Do you remember watching Russell Peters say during one of his stand-up acts that, in a couple hundred years, everyone was going to be beige? I remember those words so clearly, because I was thinking to myself at the time, “That’s right, I’m already beige. This is totally going to happen.”
I’m so ethnically ambiguous that I’ve had people come up to me, asking me to confirm their guesses of where they thought I was from. I’ve literally had random people ask me questions varying from, “Is yo daddy black?” to “You’re definitely part Swedish (say wutttt).”
My Iranian grandmother would always tell me, “Your eyes are so tiny. Your nose is so small. Everything about your features are so small-small — like a Korean.”
But my Korean grandmother would say, “You’re so dark like your father. That nose is huge. No wonder no one thinks you look Korean.”
Who said old age makes you boring? My grandmothers were constantly making (what they thought were) hilarious comments to point out all the ways I looked different. They loved me, but I guess a part of them never got over the fact that my parents decided against a “traditional marriage” by marrying a foreigner.
So basically, if I was ever walking around with just my mom, people weren’t able to tell that she was my mother. They just couldn’t make that connection.
Meanwhile, it was much worse with my dad. If I was walking around with my dad, everyone would immediately assume that we were a couple.
My dad is 6-feet tall, has a pony tail and loves suits. White suits. Meanwhile, back in my teenage years, I used to dress up a lot. The problem was that I enjoyed dressing up a little too much for a 14-year-old. My wardrobe back then embraced the motto “if it ain’t tight, it ain’t right.” I always wore heels that spelled out shoeicide, and I topped my everyday look off with heavy eyeliner and copious amounts of perfume (ugh, why).
Obviously my parents loathed the way I dressed, and maybe that’s part of the reason why they shipped me off to a conservative boarding school in the Himalayas when I was 14. But living apart from my family made them appreciate me more — with or without the slutty outfits.
My parents and I missed each other so much, that whenever I’d come back home for breaks, we would always hold hands everywhere we went.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
Whenever my dad and I spent time together, we used to hold hands. On this particular day, we were on our way to the restaurant that my dad took my mom out to for their first date. He wanted to show me how he won over my mom back in the day. Being the hopeless romantic that I was, I was so excited to see where the magic all happened. After all, that amazing first date is what led to me being born.
We were on the subway, and across from us were a couple in their fifties. The lady started glaring at us in a disapproving manner. She started loudly whispering, “She should be ashamed of herself. All these South East Asian girls are coming to Korea and making other women look bad.”
Her husband started nodding profusely. “What can you expect from gold diggers? She probably flung herself at the dark man because he looks rich. He looks like he’s part of the mafia.”
The whole subway car became hushed. Everyone started acting busy, pretending they weren’t totally listening to this ridiculous conversation.
“I don’t feel safe. If he’s in an Arab mafia, do you think he could be a terrorist?”
I felt uneasy, as I started noticing people looking around us — possibly checking for unusual packages? I was relieved when I realized that neither of us were carrying bags of any sort. The only thing my dad was holding were his sunglasses.
Other concerned passengers started joining in on the speculation, none of them realizing that I was, in fact, Korean too.
“I don’t think he’s a terrorist. He just looks like a sugar daddy. Which is just as despicable.”
I was so glad that my dad didn’t speak a word of Korean. He had no idea what any of them were saying. Completely oblivious, he continued to hold my hand, sitting in silence.
After what felt like an eternity, my dad must have sensed that something was wrong. He leaned over to me, wearing that big stupid grin of his, and asked me, “What are those silly Koreans talking about?”
“The couple across from us thinks we’re a couple. And they think you’re too old for me.”
It took him all of 10 seconds to process what I just told him.
He grabbed my hand and held it up really high. While holding my hand up, he said, “They’re idiots. And the only message we need to tell these idiots is this.”
He started shaking my hand, while it was still held up high and folded down my fingers one by one… until only my middle finger was raised over my head.
Everyone in the subway car looked completely shocked.
After all, I was shaking a middle finger at everyone who was staring at me.
My dad started laughing, and I joined in.
That’s when I felt a lot better. With my middle finger proudly pointing high, I announced to the other passengers:
(ง ͠° ͟ل͜ ͡°)ง “He’s not my sugar daddy. He’s my father.”
