For this piece, let’s refer to my partner as Jack. Jack is of Italian and Irish descent, raised just outside of Boston. In other words, he’s your quintessential white guy. Throughout his daily routine—whether it’s dropping the kids off at school or navigating the subway—he encounters plenty of folks who share his background. They don’t seem to have any secret handshake or nod of recognition, but who knows?
As someone who is half-Asian and half-white, I’ve discovered there’s an unspoken connection among people like me. It’s a shared understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that says, “I see your mixed heritage, and I relate. I’ve been asked if I can cook Chinese food too!” I like to call it the “Hapa Moment.”
“Hapa” is derived from the Hawaiian term “hapa haole,” which means half-white but is often used to refer to those who are half-Asian. Back in the 1970s, being half-Asian was quite uncommon. As a child and teenager, I frequently encountered questions like “Where are you from?” and “What are you?” My favorite, though, was the classic, “Ni hao. Can you whip up some Chinese dishes?” (California, human, and No, not in a million years, my friend).
As a young child, these questions were awkward, yet they also instilled a sense of pride within me. They made me feel unique, like I was being noticed in a sea of sameness. Surrounded by predominantly white peers, who seemed so ordinary, I began to wear my diverse heritage as a badge of uniqueness. My family enjoyed Chinese dim sum in Chinatown, but we also savored grilled steaks and spaghetti. We were far more interesting, and I adored my Chinese-American relatives.
Then came puberty, and things took a turn. Male strangers suddenly felt it was acceptable to comment on my “slanted” eyes, often following that up with, “My last girlfriend was Japanese.” The sexual undertones were revolting and infuriating—not to mention outright ridiculous (like that one time a scruffy old man asked if my boyfriend “enjoyed Chinese food,” leaving me itching to scrub myself raw).
I never thought to ask Jack, when we first met, if he had a knack for boiling potatoes or was part of the mob (to be fair, I do share my fair share of drinking jokes). No one has ever fetishized him—except maybe during that one boys’ weekend in Montreal, but he’d rather not revisit that… His name is distinctly Irish—missing the “O’”—but he identifies more with his Italian roots. And yes, he makes a killer marinara sauce. The difference is that he can choose to share these aspects of his identity, while many half-Asians have had their narratives constructed for them before they even spoke.
When I meet another half-Asian parent—say, at my kids’ school—I don’t find myself bombarded with silly questions. I don’t presume they speak a different language or grew up on some tropical island. Instead, I assume they likely hail from places like Jersey or Michigan—like my other friends. But there’s still a connection, a shared understanding of experiences. Perhaps they’ve had someone ask if they wanted to “order some slope chow” for dinner. Maybe a Vietnam vet leaned in and hurled a slur at them (to which I would have been tempted to respond, “Actually, I’m a chink, but thanks for your service”).
These days, being half-Asian isn’t as rare. In fact, it’s almost common; shockingly, in some Caucasian-Asian couples, the man is the Asian partner! Cab drivers, notorious for their offensive comments in the past, barely acknowledge me now—perhaps a reflection of both my aging out of the “exotic Asian” stereotype and a broader societal shift. For my kids, it’s a simple math equation; they blend perfectly with their friends—a delightful mix of ethnicities. They proudly share their fractions, like, “I’m a quarter Chinese, a quarter Italian, and a third Martian,” treating it like a fun math game.
Recently, we spent some time with my Chinese-American family. Afterward, a friend (who is Jewish and white) jokingly asked my kids, “Did you meet a lot of Chinese people on your trip?” My son looked utterly bewildered and replied, “Huh?” He hadn’t even noticed. To him, everyone was just Auntie Something or Cousin So-and-So. He couldn’t differentiate between full Chinese relatives, hapas, or even the Indian and Filipino cousins. It was all one big, beautiful family stew.
So, is this progress? Maybe. My son won’t hear anyone saying, “No starch, thanks,” thinking they’re cracking a joke. My daughter likely won’t be subjected to crude “Oriental massage” innuendos. However, with so many mixed backgrounds, they’ve come out feeling almost… neutral. They may not have anything, other than their achievements and personalities, that makes them feel truly special. We’re gaining some things, but perhaps we’re losing others too.
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Summary
In this reflection on identity, the author shares her experiences growing up as a half-Asian individual in a predominantly white community, navigating the complexities of belonging, stereotypes, and self-identity. Through humorous anecdotes and a thoughtful examination of societal changes, she illustrates the evolving landscape of mixed heritage families while pondering what may be lost in the pursuit of a more blended world.