Race Matters

Jerry and I are still finding our footing in the new area. A week or so ago, while at the mall, we asked a group of adolescents if they knew of a Bank of America ATM nearby. “Don’t you mean ‘Bank of China,’” quipped one of the teens. I felt speechless at the time, but Jerry gave a mild reprisal: “Hey, be serious, please.” A different bystander behind us then stepped forward to offer directions, and we soon left. Later that night, I brought up the subject. “That girl was probably just trying to look cool in front of her friends; I’m sure she didn’t mean anything personal against you.”

“But I felt made fun of,” Jerry pointed out. I realized I was apologizing for inappropriate behavior, trying to minimize it rather than acknowledging what it really was—a form of racism. As part of a privileged race, I am still not quite sure sometimes how to admit that I have advantages to which I have so long been oblivious, but nonetheless enjoyed. I know a lot of Caucasians do not feel privileged, especially those in lower economic classes. But here is what I am talking about. Some experiences on this list have become apparent to me since marrying my sweet Asian husby. For example, I never knew how lucky I was to be able to go to any hair stylist and trust that she would be equipped to handle my locks. Jerry, on the other hand, has the minor inconvenience of having to search carefully for a new barber each time we move, enduring bad haircuts during the interim, until finally finding that rare American stylist who knows how to effectively use scissors and a razor on thick, coarse, straight black Asian hair. Imagine how much more trying that experience must be for African-American women.

I have had other issues in life, of course. But race has not been one of them--and so there will be this part of my children that I may not understand. Handsome as Little is, he will probably come home from school one day saddened by the naïve classmates who tease him for the parts of him that are Chinese. I hope at that time I remember not to minimize his feelings, remember not to tell him something ridiculous like, “I am sure they didn’t mean it that way.” I am prepared now to validate his experience. Actually, now that I think about it, I do know what it is like to be teased because of my face. I had abnormally bad acne for awhile in elementary school and junior high. Kids were cruel. I still feel a twinge of pain for that girl I used to be, remembering her self-loathing.

It is common for minority races to feel ashamed of their faces at one time or another during childhood, but it helps if they can relate well with their parents over the issue. This is one reason inter-racial adoptions can be tricky. At least Little Tam can see that he has the eyes of his father, and be comforted by thinking, “if dad feels good about the way he looks, then so can I.”


And I can learn to cut the hair of my sweetheart and sons. Last week I cut Jerry's hair, when he decided it sounded like a better alternative than salon-searching yet again. "At least you will listen to what I tell you," he reasoned. So he talked me through the haircut, and it turned out fairly presentable. We did have to special-order a size 12 clipper guide from the Wahl website.

The "Before" picture. Jerry was pretty nervous, and actually offered a prayer before letting me touch his hair. At one point I was holding the baby in one arm, and wielding thinning shears in the other. Sounds like it really was miraculous everything turned out okay...
Here is the "after" shot. Gels up nicely. Room for improvement, but we feel good for now.