A friend wrote on FB today that the daughter of his Filipino girlfriend had been wanting a Barbie doll. When he went to buy one for her, he was faced with a wall of “blonde perfection.” Not wanting to perpetuate the myth that blonde (i.e. white) is better, he chose a brunette Barbie for her. As we all know, there are no Asian Barbies, at least, not that I’m aware of.
When I was a kid, all of my Barbies were brunette. Some had bendable arms and legs; some didn’t. I also had a Skipper, who was Barbie’s younger sister; she was definitely blonde. Then there was Stacy – a redheaded (?) cousin/friend/stepchild from England or whatever story they were selling to us at the time. Neither my 3 brothers or I had a Ken doll. They did, however, have G.I. Joes, but those were also available only in white/Caucasian versions.
Now for a little of my background for those of you who aren’t that familiar with me. For those who are, you may be surprised by a few things as well. My mother is of Filipino/Hawaiian/Chinese and who knows what else descent; I just stick with the first 3. She was born and raised in Kauai and has memories of Pearl Harbor and the war. My stepfather is 1/2 Swiss and 1/2 German; thus, my last name is Swiss. I grew up in a small town in Kansas where EVERYONE was white, except my mother, brothers and sister. I’m not exaggerating in saying that my childhood was rife with racism, misunderstanding and straight-up ignorance. I got tired of kids asking me where (i.e. what country) I was from. Whenever my reply was “The United States,” (thinking “you moron” the entire time), they would say “You can’t be from the United States ’cause you’re not white!” Imagine how that fucks with a kid’s head. I always understood exactly what I was and exactly what my situation was. More importantly, I never, ever, ever wanted to be either white or blonde. Here’s a little aside – my real father is 100% Filipino, but I wasn’t even aware of that until I was well into my teens. Yet, when I was a kid, I always wondered what it would be like not to have ANY white blood at all. I was actually thrilled to find out! That’s when it dawned on me that my stepfather always blamed my mother for me (though, in actuality, he should take ALL of the blame) and she blamed ME for her mistake (if it even WAS a mistake). Those bitter memories are part of the many, many reasons that I don’t speak to either of them to this day. I don’t have forgiveness in my heart for those horrible memories of the way they treated me and I never will.
When I was in college, my first roommate was black. (Another little aside – you can tell people’s ages by what they refer to various ethnic groups as. First, it was colored, then negro, then black and now African-American. Just like it used to be Oriental and now it’s Asian.) I hung out with the black students all the time. In fact, they wanted me to join BSU (Black Student Union), but I told them that I wasn’t a BS (Black Student)! My socializing with blacks upset my stepfather. Since he was neither my biological father and had never been a true father to me at any point in my life, I really didn’t care. I also remember during my college years being asked by other students if I was Mexican, Iranian, Egyptian or other ethnicities. Mexicans would speak to me in Spanish all the time. When I would tell them that I didn’t speak Spanish, they’d ask me why my mother didn’t teach me. My response – “She doesn’t speak Spanish, either! We’re not Latino!”
Towards the end of my freshman year, I ended up with a Thai boyfriend. He was from Bangkok, Thailand and had been sent to a Catholic boys school in Kansas by his father! It was funny to me that he knew the words to songs like “Rock of Ages.” He had a host of friends from other countries, too, who I also hung out with. I remember being with my Thai boyfriend, a Vietnamese guy and an Israeli guy in a taco place having lunch. Two white guys at another table started throwing things at us. The Israeli guy tried to ask them politely what the problem was, but they basically ignored him. When the Vietnamese guy tried to ask them why they were throwing things at us, one of them said to him “I can’t even understand what you’re saying. Learn to speak English!” That pissed me off so much! I got right in his face and said “I speak English perfectly well, probably better than you do.” That’s when the Israeli guy and my Thai boyfriend dragged me away. If there was going to be a fight, they didn’t want me to be in the midst of it. In the end, the 4 of us just left. Their ignorance wasn’t worth fighting over.
Years later, I moved to Los Angeles with my Thai boyfriend. We were together for about 9 years, 5 of those living together in Los Angeles. Los Angeles opened my eyes to many, many cultures and foods and more Thai things than I’d ever imagined! Our first apartment was on the edge of Koreatown. Korean people were NEVER nice to us, but we continued to eat at their restaurants regardless. Even so, I usually only ate curry. I don’t like pickled vegetables, which are highly popular with Koreans. When my Thai boyfriend and I eventually broke up, I started hanging out at a French place called Louis XIV. The owner, Jean-Louis, always invited my friend and me to their private little soirees at other places. That must have been the start of my love affair with French things. In 1991, I went to France for the first time and have returned as often as possible ever since. After several trips to France, I ended up marrying a French guy that I’d met here in San Francisco. That only increased my love for all things French.
Before marrying my ex-husband, I’d also finally torn myself away from France long enough to go to Italy. I’ve now been to Italy several times, too, and love Italy and Italian things almost as much as France and French things. I speak basic French and can get by in my very bad, childish Italian.
That brings us to the flip side of things. Unlike people in the Midwest, people in Cali pretty much ALWAYS peg me as Filipino. If they don’t, they might think I’m Thai or Indonesian. I’m a particular favorite of men who’ve served in the military and have been to the Philippines. They always approach me and speak to me in Tagalog. They think/hope I’m F.O.B., or maybe F.O.P., in this day and age. I assure them that I was born and raised in the U.S., am NOT the type that will fetch their slippers for them, then tell them that I’ll be happy to converse with them in English or basic French.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m an Asian/Pacific Islander who grew up in a white environment. Even so, I don’t quite fit the Asian/Pacific Islander mold, either. I’m an enigma, yet I’m happy with who I am. More importantly, living in San Francisco, I no longer have to answer those ignorant questions or deal with unpleasant situations. So even though I’m not thrilled with San Francisco, it’s easy to be me in my own skin here.
