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.

Korean = Chinese

I wasn't sure what to write for my first entry. I'm sure the people coming here are wanting to read and relate to experiences growing up adopted in America, and I started to cull through the depths of my memories, pulling for something insightful, poignant, and entertaining. Recently it's been difficult to think of anything but the present. My Chinese boyfriend is about to rage quit his family and live a life of exile with his bad American girlfriend, sure to shame his family for generations to come.

But here's the thing, I wasn't considered the American girlfriend until things became "bad." Until their son began to exhibit a free will and an opinion different from their own. Instead I was the Asian girl that just needed to learn to be more Chinese, some day I'd learn exactly what they expected of me without them having to go through the trouble of asking. Surely an Asian can learn to be of another Asian culture, right?

This is an idea I think many of us can relate to, even beyond a race issue. Being identified as something we're not based on the assumption of our appearance. Because I am physically Korean, I was expected to just be Korean in conjunction with being American. Recently my coworker was taken aback that I gave her the most confused look when she said old Korean phrases to me. Even though she knows I'm adopted and she has met my very white parents, she still expected me to know Korean phrases. She promised to teach me all about them because I ought to know.

This is where I reminded her that I'm American, and while I appreciate learning about other cultures, I shouldn't ought to know cultural peculiarities of a country I was exported from as a baby.

The expectations don't stop there. People often assume that being Korean means I understand and identify with all other Asian countries and their cultures. Aside from being a pro Star Craft player, I should also understand the intricacies of making sushi and the traditions associated with Chinese New Year.

The nationality I do identify with seems to take a backseat to my appearance. Did my boyfriend's parents know that I'm American? Definitely, he told them well before they met me and didn't reveal that I'm Korean until later (whether or not they actually listened to him is debatable). I'm obviously fluent in English and my vocabulary is expansive enough. My mannerism are very American and Western, fork flipping and all. Perhaps I threw them off by being able to use chop sticks?

Yet I'm still offered tea that I decline every time I visit. His family gasps when I remind them I don't like fish. And don't even get me started on everything I didn't know about Chinese New Year.

The biggest lesson here is no matter what you identify yourself as, someone is always going to make an assumption about your identity. Not always do I correct people when they're wrong as some battles are not worth engaging, and sometimes I partake in the assumptions about myself. I wouldn't say assumptions are always harmful, it's just good to be mindful that you are, indeed, making an assumption. At the end of the day it's most important that I know I'm American and won't force myself to eat fish.