Weird but Normal Read online

  I panicked, initially thinking she was calling me out on my “Has Good Ideas but Needs to Participate in Class More” vibe. That panic lasted about five seconds before I realized . . . this bitch who makes five times my salary is so confident that I am Latinx, she just asked me about it in a work meeting.

  I did what any girl and her Racially Ambiguous aura would do in the situation: I took out my proverbial top hat and tap shoes and went into my “Oh, Actually I’m Asian” song and dance. I finished out strong with “It’s Okay, a Lot of People Think Filipinos Are Latinx. You Aren’t the First and Won’t Be the Last (The White Audience Reprise).” I took a bow (probably literally because I’m Asian), and she giggled away any guilt. White female boomers breathily laughing away their racial biases is my personal version of white noise.

  This was nothing new. My white maternal great-grandma, a woman I was related to by blood, thought my siblings and I were Cuban literally until she died. I remember my mom recounting stories in which she, a white woman, was out for a walk with me and my three siblings, all half-Asian, and passersby would ask, “Where did you get them?” I am far more familiar with being the only nonwhite face in a room than I am being around people who are Asian or even racially ambiguous. My identity was developed in the context of always, always being in the minority.

  “How Asian do I look?” is a question I often ask the people closest to me even today. I used to stare at pictures of me and Ana, my younger sister, panicking about whether she looked “more white” than I did. This was, in hindsight, me panicking about me not being as pretty as her.* I now realize neither of us is particularly white-passing. We are both equally hot.

  Sometimes I check “Other” on forms that ask my race. While I’ve never just marked “White,” sometimes I only mark “Asian.” I still don’t know if, in the hypothetical yet somehow seemingly imminent Race Wars, I will get to be Team Asian or Team Racially Ambiguous. Regardless, I know I am not Team Passably White.

  I am, admittedly, still unlearning childhood reflexes. I know that Chinese and Asian are not one and the same, but I need to actively remind myself that neither is synonymous with “bad” or “ugly” or “you must know kung fu, right?” I hope, in the process, I don’t unlearn every strange part of myself. The parts that are naive and not self-hating, the parts that are simultaneously innocent and knowing.

  I don’t feel an active need to separate myself from my parents, to choose White or Asian or Both or Neither. At least not all of the time. I no longer wish to be Molly, a brunette with freckles, at least not on a regular basis. I’m starting to be okay with being Mia. Hopefully, someday soon, everyone else will get there, too.

  White Friend Confessional

  WHITE FRIEND: Forgive me, Designated Friend of Color, for I have sinned. It has been two Macklemore singles since my last white confession.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Go on.

  WHITE FRIEND: I maybe did a racist thing.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Did you say the N-word during karaoke again?

  WHITE FRIEND: No! I was definitely tempted to do “Formation” by Beyoncé but did “Single Ladies” instead.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: That’s growth, I guess. What did you want to talk about then?

  WHITE FRIEND: So, the other day I couldn’t tell the difference between two Asian women. But that’s not necessarily racist, right?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Who were the women?

  WHITE FRIEND: Does it really matter?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Who were they?

  WHITE FRIEND: I realized my mistake right after!

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Who did you think you saw?

  WHITE FRIEND: Constance Wu at Target.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: We live in Topeka.

  WHITE FRIEND: She could have been filming her show or something.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: In Topeka? You know what, never mind. I was expecting it to be a lot worse.

  WHITE FRIEND: Thank you. Also, that cashier looked just like her.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Are you talking about the cashier who’s in her midsixties?

  WHITE FRIEND: I don’t know. Don’t Asian people never age or something?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Explain the science on how that would work.

  WHITE FRIEND: I’m joking. I’ve seen old Asian people before. They’re adorable. If I saw one holding a baby, I’d die from the cuteness.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Babies are cute. That’s basically their whole thing.

  WHITE FRIEND: Especially Asian babies. Ugh, I wish I could have an Asian baby.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Was that all you wanted to tell me?

  WHITE FRIEND: Oh and last month, I tweeted a joke about Trump’s disaster of a Black History Month speech.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: And?

  WHITE FRIEND: I spelled Frederick Douglass’s name wrong.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: You forgot the second “s”?

  WHITE FRIEND: And the second “e.”

  FRIEND OF COLOR: The important part is you remembered what he did.

  WHITE FRIEND: . . .

  FRIEND OF COLOR: You had to google it, didn’t you?

  WHITE FRIEND: I remembered immediately after I looked it up!

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Your penance will be to read something by or about Frederick Douglass.

  WHITE FRIEND: Does it count if I just retweet Ta-Nehisi Coates a couple times?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: What? No.

  WHITE FRIEND: But what if I quote-tweet it and put #BlackLivesMatter?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: You can do that too, I guess. But also, read something about Frederick Douglass.

  WHITE FRIEND: Oh, I actually already did!

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Was it a satirical piece about Frederick Douglass that was actually about Trump?

  WHITE FRIEND: Maybe.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: I guess that’s better than nothing.

  WHITE FRIEND: Okay, good.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Anything else?

  WHITE FRIEND: Wanna hear something so crazy?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: I told you I don’t want to hear about the number of people who aren’t white you matched with on Tinder.

  WHITE FRIEND: No, it’s not that. But I do swipe right on a lot of black guys, and I even swiped right on a guy who’s Chinese yesterday.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Did his bio say he’s Chinese?

  WHITE FRIEND: What?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Just tell me what you were going to say.

  WHITE FRIEND: Someone asked me if I’m Hispanic the other day.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: And?

  WHITE FRIEND: That’s it. I just wanted to tell you. Isn’t that so crazy?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Why would that be crazy?

  WHITE FRIEND: I don’t know. I thought you’d appreciate it.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Because?

  WHITE FRIEND: Because you’re Hispanic?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: . . .

  WHITE FRIEND: Sorry, I mean Latina?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: . . .

  WHITE FRIEND: Half-Mexican?

  FRIEND OF COLOR: I’m Filipino.

  WHITE FRIEND: Oh my god, I’m so sorry. That was totally gonna be my next guess.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.

  WHITE FRIEND: I feel so awful. I can’t believe I did that.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: It’s okay. I’ve heard worse things.

  WHITE FRIEND: Oh my god, that’s so true. You probably get stuff like that all the time.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Yeah, it’s basically routine at this point.

  WHITE FRIEND: It just makes me so sad to know racism still exists. I get so upset when I hear about it. And here I go thinking you’re Mexican! I’ll never forgive myself.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: You can donate to the ACLU as an act of contrition.

  WHITE FRIEND: I’m already a card-carrying member, but I guess I can always give a little more this month.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Feel better?

  WHITE FRIEND: So much. Thanks.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: Of course. This confessiona
l was built to make you feel better.

  WHITE FRIEND: I’m so glad I can come to you for this kind of stuff.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: I mean, I’m not an expert on all nonwhite people, but no problem.

  WHITE FRIEND: Right, of course. It’s still such a relief to know I’m not racist.

  FRIEND OF COLOR: You know I can’t actually absolve you of that, right?

  WHITE FRIEND: You just did. See you next week!

  The Happiest Place on Earth, God Dammit

  The year was 2003: scientists were obsessed with cloning animals, the US invaded Iraq and eventually captured Saddam Hussein, and I went to Disney World for the first and only time. It was a significant year for all of us.

  When my family and I went to Disney World, I was deep in the throes of being twelve, almost thirteen, and didn’t want to be around my family even a little bit. At least, I didn’t want to look like it was something I wanted. This was the same summer I competed in a preteen beauty pageant, in case you needed further proof I was the most important thing in my life at the time.

  I suppressed my excitement about going to Disney World, I’m sure. I probably told people I was more excited for my younger siblings to go because it’d be so fun for them. Not me, though. My taste was too sophisticated to care about teacup rides or meeting Mickey or general whimsy. I cared about real culture, like memorizing Avril Lavigne lyrics and wearing clothes that made it look like I knew how to skateboard.

  I don’t remember any part of the journey from Wisconsin to Florida. I’m sure traveling as a family of six was a nightmare I’ve managed to suppress deep, deep down in my brain next to where I keep my memories about having bangs. I know, at least in hindsight, that taking a family trip was a big deal. Most of our family vacations up until that point were going “camping” at my grandparents’ house. They lived on a lake in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, where all the grandkids spent summers cutting the shit out of our ankles on zebra mussels while jumping off the dock, getting yelled at by our parents for not wearing water shoes (a necessity for swimming in a lake), and sleeping in a tent in the yard and calling it “camping.” That or we’d go to the amusement park in Green Bay that was affordable and where I barfed on a ride called the Scrambler, obviously.

  In Florida, we arrived at the cabin where we’d be staying for the week—camping-themed things were big for us because they were usually less expensive. Eager to please and easily impressed, my siblings and I would gleefully eat a lukewarm hotdog outside or piss in a bush if we were told we were camping. I remember each of my three siblings and I getting “signed” pictures of whichever Disney character our parents had told the resort was our favorite. Mine was Jasmine. So, sitting on the cabin’s kitchen table was a Sharpie’d autograph from whatever racially ambiguous nineteen-year-old got to pretend to be Jasmine that summer.

  My affinity for Jasmine was/is complicated. A part of that love comes from my deep, deep horniness for Aladdin, the hottest Disney prince. (He wears a PURPLE VEST with NO SHIRT underneath it. He is a bad boi turned good boi. “A Whole New World” is an endlessly erotic song. “Unbelievable sights”? “Indescribable feelings”??? I’d continue but then I’d need to take a cold shower.) Another part of that love came from a deep, deep need to disassociate from Mulan, the more Asian princess.

  It wasn’t until college that I started desperately clinging to any small shred of Asian representation. (And I’m only now starting to grapple with the impulsive need to declare how “seen” I feel when Hollywood tosses me the slightest hint of Asianness or anytime someone whispers “Sandra Oh.”) In middle school, I was most certainly trying to lean into racial ambiguity rather than anything overtly Asian, and Jasmine was as close to a racially ambiguous Disney princess as I was going to get. That should 100 percent be read as a burn on how Disney’s animated Jasmine reads less as Middle Eastern and more as “white girl with a tan at Coachella,” at least visually. She wears a crop top and a bejeweled headband and has a pet tiger. You can probably see her popping Molly in the background of a scene if you watch closely.

  Mulan, however, was definitively Chinese. She was unabashedly Asian. Twelve-year-old me took her Asianness extremely bashedly. Twelve-year-old me had already spent years being referred to as Chinese by both peers and adults with an unmistakable tone of name-calling. Asian and Chinese were one and the same to much of the very white suburban town where I grew up. Likewise, “Asian” was synonymous with “foreign” or “different in a bad way” or “ugly” or “if you wear your hair in a bun someone will definitely call you a sumo wrestler or a geisha because who can tell you all apart anyway?!?!?” The Venn diagram of people who can name thirteen different dog breeds but think all Asians look the same is just a circle.

  But Jasmine! Jasmine was definitively pretty! Jasmine was kind of exotic! Jasmine was different in a hot way! She was brown but in a white way! Middle school me had found her white-adjacent savior. And now, I had Jasmine’s autograph. I was old enough to know this wasn’t Jasmine’s actual autograph but young enough to still feel like I had a tangible connection to a fictional character.

  The week we spent at Disney World was hot and humid and very Florida. It was also summer, and I was also almost thirteen. With these circumstances combined, I chose to wear a bikini I bought off a clearance rack underneath a white ribbed boy’s tank top I bought in a pack of six. It was my pubescent female horniness channeled into a single outfit. The bikini was red and patterned with big, white, tropical flowers. It was one of those cheap and terrible bikinis with the plastic loops connecting the straps to the triangle top, a feature that was both uncomfortable and not functional. I remember getting it and thinking, “This is what being sexy is.”

  At some point between water rides and Florida humidity and seeing a much older teen walking around in shorts and a bikini top, I took my tank top off. “I’m hot,” I probably told my parents. I’m hot, I most definitely thought to myself. We continued walking around the Magic Kingdom, and I pretended not to frantically check if my areolas were showing every two minutes.

  Despite the fact that I was actively frowning in every picture my dad took (being twelve is fun!!!), we all stood in line to get a picture with Baloo from The Jungle Book. We were next in line when a staff member walked up to me. My personal brand of delusion is the combination of thoughts I had when this happened: I am either in very, very, extremely bad trouble, or they are about to ask me to be the next Jasmine. The staff member, a college-age woman, gently said I needed to put my shirt back on because they didn’t want the characters posing in any picture that could be read as “suggestive.” I was twelve. There is nothing so definitively female and pubescent as desperately wanting to be seen as sexual while simultaneously being humiliated by your own sexuality.

  My seven-year-old sister, Ana, who was years away from knowing what puberty was let alone going through it, asked earnestly, “Do I have to put my shirt on, too?” She had also taken off her shirt earlier, likely because she saw me remove mine, and had been bopping around in a Limited Too tankini that covered the entirety of her torso. Everyone laughed. I put my shirt back on.

  I remember doing lots of very Disney things afterward. We did the tea cups. We saw the line to see Mickey (none of us cared enough to wait in it). My dad, the self-designated photographer of the trip, took pictures of us eating giant turkey legs and standing with the Epcot ball in the background and being hot and flushed and dehydrated. For being the happiest place on earth, Disney is packed to the brim with screaming children, crying toddlers, begrudging teenagers, kids barfing, adults barfing, parents complaining about the cost of lemonade, children complaining about not getting the particular plastic trinket that they want, and very forced smiles.

  After sufficiently shitting ourselves at the Haunted Mansion, we walked toward Aladdin’s magic carpet ride. I stood in line with my mom and Ana while my dad and brothers quickly split another turkey leg or something. If you aren’t familiar, the mechanics of the magic carpet ride are
pretty straightforward: you pick a carpet like you would an animal on a carousel; the ride goes around in a circle, rotating around a giant pole, while you control how high or low your carpet flies using a lever in front of you. Magic is nowhere when you are twelve and someone just told you to put your shirt back on.

  My mom and sister rode together in the carpet ahead of me. I rode alone, likely by angst-driven choice. However, even in my preteen angst, I was a sucker for an amusement park ride. I remember being at least a little excited to pick a carpet and loudly hum “A Whole New World” to myself. I remember allowing myself to stop stifling a smile and making the carpet go up as high as the lever would allow. I remember Ana turning around and waving and feeling more happiness than embarrassment. I remember the moment, about midway through the ride, when I caught a whiff of something bad and looked down at my feet to see that I had picked the carpet with an actual human shit in it.

  My dad captured the moment shortly after this realization. It is a perfectly framed picture. My mom and Ana are in the foreground, smiling together in a gleeful embrace. I am in the background, riding in my magic carpet alone, with the kind of aggressively indifferent expression you can only make when you are twelve and just realized you are riding the magic carpet someone shit in.

  I let the carpet mechanically float back down, trying not to let anything other than my butt and feet touch the ride. I got off the ride and met up with my mom and sister who were windswept with whimsy and also actual wind. They asked me what was wrong as my grimace was more grimace-y than usual. “My magic carpet had poop in it,” I said. I bet Jasmine never had to put up with that shit.