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(Disclaimer - I write in the first person. Badly. And somewhat infrequently. So anything I say here is basically a general departure from the quality of journalistic intelligence and inteigrity that you otherwise read here at Blogher. Which is why a lot of times I feel like a total tool in this communitiy of brilliant gals. Anyway - feel free to read on if you like.)
My memories are riddled with awkward and odd snapshots of first generation Korean women who would sit in the last row of my church while growing up. They sat alone, in the back row of our church. These were my mother's best friends. Auntie Dina and Auntie Monica were quiet and stoic martyrs. They wore lace over their heads in church, were devoted volunteers, and exceptionally lovely and giving human beings. Their manners and demeaner were impeccable - as if they wanted to avoid any reason to stand out or cause scrutiny.
They were un-escorted by their respective husbands, who as white American men, while not unwelcome explicitly in our community, were seen and treated with a curious and none-to-subtle disdain for being outsiders. This circumstance of having the Korean half of a biracial couple go as second class and silent citizens within this otherwise tightknit and homogenous ethnic community was treated as normal and justifiable growing up in Michigan in the 80s.
So how now, do I feel as I'm encrouching on my impending nuptuals to a white American?
Myself, I've always been exceptionally proud to be a Korean American woman. Having been involved an a wide array of Asian specific community organizations - from my Asian interest sorority, to being president of the Korean Students Association in college, and being now involved with the Asian American Theater Company -- not to mention having had my own column for 6 years at a nationally distributed Korean American magazine -- has put me squarely in the bracket of "Non-white washed" and yet non "Fobby'. (White-washed being the term to describe Asian Americans who eschew any part of their ethnic identity and FOB describing fresh of the boat or v. recent immigrants).
Earlier in the month I ran into an old girlfriend of mine whom I'd not seen in half a decade. I briefly introduced her to my fiancee outside the restaurant that we'd bumped into her at.
Her: "Wow. I never thought you'd wind up with a white guy."
Me; "Yeah, go figure. I used to write essays or blogged on why white guys needed to exfoliate more, were kinda more shaggy than I liked, smelled different, and that I wasn't generally, of my own volition, attracted to them."
Her: "So what happened?"
Me: "I fell in love with him. Nothing else really mattered."
And in that respect, it's absolutely true. But it took me an extraordinary long journey to come to this point.
Boyfriend 1: Korean Christian Harvard Premed Acapella singer - aka my parent's wet dream.
Boyfriend 2: Chinese American fellow that had the best hair ever and would trace the alphabet with his mouth on my knee.
Boy I kissed: A cute white guy who I referred to as my farewell college fling. I told none of my Asian American sorority girlfriends about him.
Boyfriend 3: Chinese American fellow that had the worst wardrobe ever.
Boyfriend 4: Adopted Asian American of White parents with more issues than you could shake a stick at - even if you were having epileptic seizures and had a venti of starbucks
Boys I kissed - oh - it's a benetton advertisment at the end of the day. Actually, maybe it's more like that "I'd like to teach the world to sing" Coca Cola ad from the late 80s. I admit too much.
Bi-racial couples are not as uncommon in this day and age as they used to be while I was growing up -- quietly observing and inadvertantly indoctrining myself for bias against that possibility.
"Oh him -- total Asian fetish. Gross"
"Her? She's only into white guys. Kind of a sell out."
"He only dates FOBs with funky teeth and don't know any better. All the American (and by American we mean Asian American, White American, Latina America, etc.) chicks realize he's a tool - he's lucky for the language barrier."
In fact, it's a running joke amongst my friends that to be a true bay area hipster god you have to move to san francisco, work in
