Color Me Twice: Hapa-style

"Hey...what are you?"

I've been asked this question countless times, and even though I'm quite used to it, there's still something awkward about the exchange.  What am I?  I understand that as humans we need to categorize our surroundings.  We see a person and begin to process what their age, gender, race, and class might be. It's how we make sense of the world.  I realize that when a person sees me, they're not sure where to check the race box.  I usually check "other."

Certainly, being an "other" has it perks.  I like that people wonder.  I'll get auditions for a "eurasian," or "mixed-race" role.  I've been told that I "blended really well," which makes me sound like a smoothie, but I'll take a compliment as readily as the next girl.  Despite all this,  my "other-ness" can still be a point of contention.

"Well, you've got a very exotic, ambiguous look...that's very two years ago.  It's not a bad thing, but the novelty has worn off." - Hollywood Agent

I didn't realize my face was out of style.

Recently, a casting director commented that my head shot looked "too white."  "You look more Asian in person, and you don't want to make the casting director look like an idiot when you walk in the room."  I don't know how to look more Asian or less white, or vice versa...Either way, it comes down to that question again: "What are you?"  

At various stages in my life, this question has affected me in different ways.  When I was in second and third grade, I lived on an army base in South Korea.  There were other kids with Korean moms and black or white American military dads, so I never felt like an "other."  It was only when we ventured off the base and into the city of Seoul that my appearance garnered attention.  What I didn't understand was that most everyone in Korea is...well, Korean... and because I looked different, I was kind of an interesting novelty. People would point at me and my brother and giggle, or they'd pinch my cheeks and say something I didn't understand.  "Why are they staring at me?" I'd ask my mom.  "Because they like you," she'd say.  But it didn't make sense to me.  I didn't feel liked; I felt embarrassed.  

It wasn't until a couple years later that I felt I had to define "what" I was.  My family was stationed in El Paso, TX where over 80% of the population is Mexican-American or Mexican.  I wanted what every adolescent wants: to belong.  However, there was dominate culture and language that I was not a part of..  Instead, I was "the Chinese girl."  I wanted to scream, "I'M NOT CHINESE, I'M NOT EVEN ASIAN!"  I didn't feel Asian.  In my mind, I didn't even look Asian.  My mom was Asian, not me.  So what was I?  White?  No.  I'm half...yeah, I'm half-asian.

It's funny to go through life thinking you're half of something.  It doesn't sound complete.    As I've gotten older, I'll often identify myself as Asian.  I make jokes about my Asian-ess and it seems to put people at ease.  Yet, when I visit my mom's side of the family in Korea, I'm the American cousin...I'm white.  And really, I AM that too.  There's a book by Kip Fulbeck that deals with this topic specifically.  It's called Part Asian, 100% Hapa.  "Hapa" is taken from the Hawaiian word for "half" and was once a derogatory term.  It's now a term of pride for many people whose mixed-race heritage includes Asian or Pacific Island descent.

ha•pa (hä’pä) adj. 1. Slang. of mixed ethnic heritage with partial roots in Asian and/or Pacific Islander ancestry. n. 2. Slang. a person of such ancestry. [der./Hawaiian: hapa haole. (half white)]


In Part Asian, 100% Hapa, Kip Fulbeck photographed numerous Hapas and asked the question: "What are you?"  Here's how some of them answered:

My mom was raised in a different culture than me, but because of her, I grew up differently than my dad.  When I look in the mirror, I can see both my parents. I no longer feel angry or embarrassed when someone asks, "What are you?"  I am not one thing or another; I am both; I'm different.  And I'm happy.

A Color of the Sky

My dear friend Michelle-Marie introduced me to this poem a few years ago, but it crosses my mind every so often... especially on a rare wet spring day in LA, such as today.  Enjoy.

A Color of the Sky

BY TONY HOAGLAND

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,

driving over the hills from work.

There are the dark parts on the road

                     when you pass through clumps of wood   

and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,   

but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize

for being so boring at dinner last night,

but can I really promise not to be that way again?   

And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing   

in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;

the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves

are full of infant chlorophyll,   

the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,   

and on the highway overpass,

the only metaphysical vandal in America has written   

MEMORY LOVES TIME

in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.

She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.   

Years ago she penetrated me

but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,   

I never got her out,

but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.   

What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.   

What I thought was an injustice

turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store   

and the police station,

a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,   

like a sudsy mug of beer;

like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.   

It’s been doing that all week:

making beauty,

and throwing it away,

and making more.

Tony Hoagland, “A Color of the Sky” from What Narcissism Means to Me. Copyright © 2003 by Tony Hoagland. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.

Are you there Blog? It's me, Audrey.

I used to write all the time, not only because I was an English major, but because I enjoyed it.  I guess writing something down gives it more weight, or at least packages it in a way that can be shared or held.  Plus, punctuation gives me a thrill.  Anyway, for whatever reason I haven't been writing as much in the last couple years so I decided that a web log might be the perfect venue to get me back in the habit (Sister Act 2 style).  Now I realize that micro-blogging is more a la mode, bu I find it hard to "tweet" without saying "excuse me" afterwards.  So here I go, without a theme or cook book to work through...just packaging my thoughts to hold and share.

To start the blog off, I thought I'd showcase some famous Audreys:

The ultimate Audrey.  Timeless.

Audrey Tatou.  Adorable French nymph who charmed the world in Amelie.

Little Audrey was a little brat.  A cartoon from the 1940's and 50's I actually watched on vhs as a child.

 Audrey Magazine.  A lifestyle magazine for Asian American women.  Fancy that!

 C'est moi!