A Lesson in Empathy

Normally when people ask questions about my heritage and family, it's often the common and rather uninspired inquiries on what languages I speak and what foods I like to eat. I spent more than enough waking hours fielding questions about why I speak English well and why I don't smell of kimchi. I can't say I haven't answered my own fair share of "Oh, are you adopted, then?" questions with a trite "No."

In fact, the following includes such a story, but I'll get to that in a moment.

In college I was feeling rather smug about my identity and tired of being asked the same questions over and over. I speak English fluently, my name is very white, and if I go so far as to tell you that my parents are, indeed, white, it was very hard for me to not deliver a biting remark in response to not believing I'm adopted. I think I was losing bits of my faith in humanity as this progressed over the years, especially when it occurred multiple times in a week without the influence of alcohol. I couldn't help but roll my eyes and label it as another instance of people not understanding that adoption is real.

In response to my growing irritability, I opted to answer questions honestly and literally, regardless if I knew the true intention of the question. For example, when someone asked me where I'm from, I'd tell them honestly Wenatchee, even though I knew full well they were asking me if I'm from an Asian country or not. It retrospect my stubbornness actually prolonged and turned those conversations into something painful, but at the time I couldn't help but feel a little vindicated.

Right after undergrad I went to a nice salon to have my hair cleaned up. I had forgone haircuts quite a bit while being poor in college and now that I had some interviewers to impress, I felt it was worth shelling out some extra cash in order to look hire worthy. I found myself sitting in the chair of a chatty and a tad fabulous stylist. I'm not speaking of faboo~ men stylists, but one that I quite literally felt was indeed a bit fabulous. He looked polished and was articulate, perhaps that should have been the first tip off.

He was older and obviously experienced in more than just hair styling. He picked up immediately that my name certainly didn't match my face and asked how long my parents have been "here."

I knew exactly what he meant, he wanted to know how long my family had been in the country. Instead, I answered in confusion, telling him I didn't understand as my family isn't from Seattle.

He played along, asking if my parents had immigrated. I responded no, they were born here. He asked the same of my grandparents, and I answered that they were born here, also.

To this day I still find myself in awe about this man. It isn't very often that I'm asked a question with such acute knowledge and sensitivity that it leaves me absolutely floored.

He placed his hand on my shoulder and slightly bowed his head, and apologized for my family being in the internment camps.

Hilarity ensues as confusion and embarrassment erupted around the stylist chair. To his credit, he smoothed over the situation masterfully, laughing and sharing his own stories of coming from Hawaii and expectations from others based on his appearance. I leave the salon with a pretty cut and my mind abuzz from the encounter.

The rest of the story goes that I retell my experience to my friends and their mutual friend whom I was meeting for the first time. I like to say that I learned the importance of respecting sincerity from strangers from that point as the friend struggled to understand that I'm adopted, but I answered with my standard "no." It would still take me some time to practice tolerance in the face of someone trying their best to understand you-- that I wasn't being just a smart ass, but also an ass. If someone is going to take the time to understand me, I should take the time to understand them as well.

Of course, I went to work my shift at Blockbuster not long after the incident, still working hard to make ends meet after receiving my degree, and received the infamous answer that the whole situation was hilarious because internment camps didn't exist in Washington. "We didn't have any Asians, why would we have internment camps?"

In hindsight, I learned from this experience that there are many things to lose faith in humanity over, and people asking about my adoption is no longer on that list.