I tried to hide from my race

Now I’m trying to find it

Race is a difficult term for me.

It throws up walls as soon as it’s spoken, separating and categorizing subgroups of humanity. For my first 25 years, I made it taboo to mention my race. It was a discussion I didn’t want, something that diminished me in a way that I didn’t want to think about.

Race reduced me to my skin color, to my black hair, and to the shape of my eyes. Race made me different from my friends in a way that nothing could change. Of course I wanted to be just like my peers — most young people do.

And what did I have in common with other Chinese? I didn’t even know any Chinese my age.

Well, for one thing, I’ll bet I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t find a crayon with their skin color. I’d learned that my skin is yellow, so when we were asked to draw a picture of our family in kindergarten, I confidently took a yellow crayon to fill in the faces. I remember my surprise at how wrong that was. I tried another shade, but it didn’t work either. Confused, I gave up and left the faces white. Later, Crayola came out with fancy boxes filled with crayons of all different colors. I remember thinking there must be something that matches my skin, but again none of the yellow shades matched.

Why would anyone say I’m yellow?

Kids make fun of each other and like to point out weaknesses. Apparently, my race was a weakness. Walking home from kindergarten, boys would sometimes pick on me. We all know what comes next: “ching chong, chop suey, wing the Wong number!” Most of the taunts were just dumb and didn’t hurt that much. After the first time, my mother taught me to yell back at the boys. I tried that, and the teasing usually stopped. The problem, though, is that I learned to expect these comments.

Growing up, I didn’t actually know any Chinese kids, but common knowledge was that a lot of them are nerds. They wear glasses, study a lot, play the piano or violin, and are lousy at sports. “Everyone” knew that. I didn’t want to be lumped into this category, so I avoided all contact with other Asians. I refused to go to Chinese school on Saturdays or to meet with other Chinese families. Instead, I played with my white friends. I also took piano lessons, read and studied a lot, and was lousy at sports. And when I was ten, I got my first pair of glasses.

As an adult, I have supported calls for a color-blind society and loudly condemned prejudice and racism. But when one day I received a letter from my college to join the “alumnae of color” group, I was not only surprised, I was insulted. Why would anyone want to be identified as “a person of color”?

What does race, and my race, mean to me now?

I don’t know. I’ve recently discovered the expression “common racial experience” and that makes sense to me. Chinese-Americans have a common racial experience in America. Asian Americans, too. And then there’s this statement by Celeste Ng:

“… ignoring race means ignoring longstanding problems and history, as well as ignoring important aspects of a person’s identity.”

Race is difficult, but it’s something I want to understand.