The Other Korean Chic

I finally met the other Korean woman in the neighborhood yesterday.

Ever since we moved in a few months ago our friends have been chomping at the bit to set us up. I'm Korean, she's Korean, a match destined to be, right? Never mind that they describe her as speaking broken English, while I on the other hand speak no Korean- once together we will form some sort of Asian Vulcan mind meld and begin reminiscing about the old country in no time.

I've never had a Korean friend- my entire life has been immersed in the white man's world. Hell, I didn't even know I wasn't white till I was about nine or ten. Believe me, no one was more shocked than I to find out the truth. Usually when I see two Asian women together it's in a porn. But, maybe this Mia chic, being the real deal and all, will cook me some authentic Korean food (love Korean barbecue). I see kimchi in my future. (One of the few ethnic traits that have survived in me is my love for spicy food- my husband says I have the stomach of a billy goat. He, on the other hand, gets heartburn just by eating ketchup. )

I was walking around the neighborhood with the kids when we approached her hopeful, smiling face at the end of her driveway. Although I generally make it a practice not to initiate contact with anyone new, even I wasn't cold-hearted enough to pass by her pitifully eager little form. "Hi, you must be Mia," I say. She's young and pretty and thin, everything a good little Asian girl should be. Unlike me, who must be descended from a line of people who resided on the border and sullied the gene pool by consorting with neighboring barbarians. It's one of life's many cruel jokes that I should have none of the desirable Asian qualities.

Shiny silky tresses? No. Coarse Siberian sled dog hair? Yes.

Petite, waif like frame? No. Husky frame that says hearty appetite/ champion contest eater? Yes. I'm more Romanian gymnast than delicate geisha.

The meeting goes better than expected- she isn't quite as straight off the boat as I had been led to believe. She's only lived in America for four years, but her English is surprisingly good. At least I don't think she'll be bringing me any live goats as a gift or anything. (Do they have goats in Korea? Not sure- will have to look that up.)

"I met the Korean woman," I say to my husband when he gets home from work.

"Is she Korean Korean, or is she like you?"

Now what is that supposed to mean? Okay, so I know nothing about my heritage. That doesn't make me un-Asian, does it? (Whatever "being Asian" means.)

The other day the Census woman came to our house (apparently some irresponsible, thoughtless person had forgotten to fill out the official government census forms and mail them back). She brought back memories when she asked about my race, etc. I remember growing up always being tripped up by the choices in the little boxes. When she asked me if I considered my children to be Caucasian or Asian, I had to think a minute. "Isn't there a box for both?" I finally asked.

I grew up with no idea of my ethnic identity, no group to associate myself with. I suppose it falls on my shoulders to teach my children what it means to be a proud Asian American (and I will as soon as I figure it out for myself). Growing up, our family photos always looked like posters for Christian Children's Fund, with my smiling brown face among the whitest white people in America. I could be some sort of study subject for the nature vs. nurture argument- I hate math, I'm not good at laundry, and I am not a delicate flower. As a kid I dealt with my ethnicity by trying not to draw any attention to myself and my differences. In my twenties I entered my righteous in-your-face phase when I saw discrimination around every corner. I was all about power to my people- as it turns out, there aren't any Yellow Panther groups or anything like that. Apparently Asian people as a whole are not a very angry group or prone to violent protests.

Now, at the age of 37, I'm trying to figure out my own identity (so existential). Time to decide who I am instead of trying to be what I think everyone wants/expects/ will accept. I guess that's the one upside about getting older- you stop caring as much what everyone else thinks. I'm not white, not really Asian. Guess I'll have to make up my own little box to check under identity.

Ohmygosh- I can't believe I forgot about my friend Jenni when I said that I had never had a Korean friend. But she doesn't really count because she's a half-breed and was born here in the states. She's a big girl like me- another shining example of Asian gone wrong when tainted with wicked American ways.