It’s not just the eyes.
It’s not just the hair color.
It’s not just the skin tone.
It’s all of those things, and maybe more, that has always made it impossible for me to really accept the fact that I’m a biracial person.
But even more than that, it’s how people have treated me throughout my life: I’m half white, but no one believes me. And I’m not sure if that makes me happy or sad.
There’s:
- The time that two white prospective parents were on a tour of my previous school. They paused by my room (my door was open, so I could hear them), and looked at my name placard, which also indicated that I taught English. The dad, very loudly, exclaimed “Mr. Cho, teach English? I don’t think so.” He scoffed after he said it.
- All those times that people at my current school, from coworkers, to students, to parents, confuse me for the other Asian English teacher on campus. “You can see why that happens, right?”
- Those times after my dad died and I was at dinner with my white mom and people pointed and whispered.
- The time that the Border Patrol stopped my mom in San Diego, shortly after I was born, thinking she was smuggling a baby out of Mexico.
And I could go on and on. I’ve had a mostly non-white experience in my life, which means I feel far more affinity with non-white people.
But then there are those moments when Asian people gently remind me that I’m not full Asian, therefore I’m not totally an Asian, not really. And then I’m transported back to being in high school and stuck trying to figure out whether I need to sit with the white kids or the Asian kids.
I look Asian, there’s no doubt about it. But I don’t look Korean, which means Korean people sometimes have a hard time accepting me.
I definitely don’t look white, so white people always assume I’m full Asian, and then I get to ride on the merry-go-round of “What are you?” questions.
So that brings me to questions of privilege. I know I’ve accessed some levels of privilege (cis privilege, male privilege, and socio-economic privilege, at least before my dad died and our family finances died with him, and most). But despite the fact that I’m half white, white privilege has never existed for me, except for when other Asian want to make me feel bad.
I think multiracial people add a perplexing element to discussions of race and identity. Within the world of multiracial people, there’s so many subcategories that there probably is no good answer.
I have a close friend from college who is also half Asian, half white. He, like me, had an Asian father and white mother. Unlike me, though, he can totally pass for white, no problem. And as a result he gained some kind of ultra-privilege, where he can switch freely. If he wants to access his privilege and be a part of white society, he can do that. If he wants to hang out with his Asian friends, he can.
I can’t.
No white person will ever confuse me for white; therefore, despite the fact that half of my genetics come from Caucasian stock, I’ll never be treated as such.
I suppose the real question is — do I want that? Do I want to access white privilege? I know that the younger me definitely did.
When I was a kid, there was a spate of anti-Asian hate crimes that swept through Orange County. Orange County is famous for its conservative poltics, but beyond that there are strong anti-PoC feelings that are steeped in the history of the place. Sometimes this explodes into violence.
My parents were talking about these anti-Asian hate crimes, and I began to feel afraid.I think I must’ve been six or seven at the time.
“Dad? If one of those groups comes after me, should I tell them I’m half white?”
My dad half smiled, patted me on the shoulder, and said “No, that would only make it worse.”
But the older me knows better. I don’t know how I would’ve turned out if I looked whiter, but I do know I wouldn’t be me.
I may still be living in Orange County, and maybe I would’ve been one of those people who cut off access to my Korean culture,instead of awakening in my 20s to a desire to be fully Korean, instead of fully white, as I felt in my younger days.
But in the end, I am neither; I’m not Korean, and I’m not white. And I’m still looking for my place in the conversation.
