For the sake of this story, let’s call my husband Jake. Jake is of Italian and Irish descent, raised in a suburb near Boston. In other words, he’s your typical white guy. While he goes about his daily life—dropping the kids off at school, commuting on the subway, and enjoying the privileges that come with being part of the Anglo-Saxon majority—he interacts with many who share his background. I’m not sure if they have a secret handshake or anything, but hey, who knows?
As for me, I’m a mix of half-Asian and half-white. There’s an unspoken understanding among people like us. We share a vibe, a subtle acknowledgment that says, “Hey, I see your unique blend, and I get it. My white uncle has also dropped a questionable remark about my heritage.” I like to call it the “Hapa Moment.”
“Hapa” comes from the Hawaiian term “hapa haole,” originally meaning half-white, but it’s now often used to describe those who are half-Asian. Back in the ’70s, being half-Asian was quite the novelty. During my childhood and teenage years, I frequently faced questions like, “Where are you from?” and “What are you?” My all-time favorite, though, was “Ni hao. Do you cook Chinese food?” (For the record, California, Homo sapien, and No, definitely not).
As a kid, these questions were awkward, but they also sparked a sense of pride. It made me feel special, like people actually took notice of me. Since most of the folks I encountered were white—who, let’s be honest, were rather ordinary in my eyes—I began to wear my Asian heritage like a badge of honor. My family had dim sum in Chinatown but also enjoyed grilled steaks and spaghetti. We were interesting!
Then, puberty happened, and things got complicated. Strange men felt the need to comment on my “slanted” eyes as a way to break the ice, often following it up with, “My last girlfriend was Japanese.” The sexual undertones were unsettling and infuriating… not to mention downright absurd (like that time an old white man asked if my boyfriend “liked Chinese food,” which made me want to scrub myself down with bleach).
It never crossed my mind to ask Jake if he was skilled at boiling potatoes or if he had ties to the mob (though I do enjoy a good drinking joke). No one has ever told him he’s exotic or objectified him—except for that one weekend in Montreal, but he’d rather not talk about that… On the other hand, his name is unmistakably Irish, yet he identifies more with his Italian roots. And yes, he makes an amazing marinara sauce. The key difference is that Jake can choose to share these details about himself, while hapas like me had no such luxury—people created their own narratives about us before we even introduced ourselves.
When I meet another half-Asian parent at my kids’ school, I’m not bombarded with foolish questions. I don’t assume they speak a different language or grew up in a place ravaged by natural disasters. Instead, I think they probably grew up in New Jersey or Michigan, just like my other friends. Yet, there’s still a kinship, a shared experience. Maybe they’ve endured someone asking if they wanted to “order some slope chow” for dinner. Perhaps an older gentleman once leaned into their car and called them a derogatory term (to which I would have fought the urge to retort, “Actually, I’m a chink, but thanks for your service”).
Today, it’s not as significant. Hapas are everywhere, and—surprise!—sometimes in interracial couples, the man is the Asian partner! Cab drivers, who used to be notoriously awful with their comments, hardly acknowledge me now… which could be due to me aging out of the “exotic Asian” stereotype or a broader societal change. For my kids, it’s all about fractions. They’re just like their friends—a medley of mixed backgrounds. They love to list their ethnicities, saying things like, “I’m a quarter Chinese, a quarter Italian, and a third Martian,” treating it like a playful game.
Recently, we spent time with my Chinese-American relatives. Afterward, a friend of mine jokingly asked my kids, “So, did you see a lot of Chinese people on your vacation?” My son just stared at her, confused, and replied, “Huh?” He hadn’t even noticed. To him, everyone was just Auntie Something or Cousin So-and-So. He honestly couldn’t distinguish between full Chinese relatives, hapas, or even Indian, Filipino, or redheaded white cousins by marriage. It was all just one big melting pot of family.
So, is this progress? My son won’t hear anyone say, “No starch, please,” thinking they’re being clever. My daughter likely won’t face many inappropriate comments about “Oriental massages.” But with so many diverse backgrounds mixed into their genetic makeup, they’ve turned out almost… neutral. They may not have anything unique about their heritage—other than their achievements, personalities, and skills—that makes them feel particularly special. We are gaining something, but perhaps we’re also losing a part of our identities.
In conclusion, while the landscape of racial and ethnic identities is evolving, there are both gains and losses to consider. On one hand, we celebrate a more inclusive society; on the other, we wonder if the distinctiveness that comes with diverse backgrounds is fading away. It’s a complex balance, and navigating it will be an ongoing journey.