Friday, March 06, 2009
Change of Heart
It seems to happen every couple of months, regardless that we live in such a mult-culti neighborhood. Pho, tapioca and bulgoki places line the streets; Russians, Irish, Brazilians and Mexicans crowd the buses. Its fairly typical for me look around and realize that my boys look more like everyone else around here than I do. Maybe that’s why I have come to expect to be asked that one question so often: Is their mother Chinese?
Actually, it’s rarely a question - it’s presented as a fact, logically deduced. “Your wife is Chinese!” The boys have golden skin, and almond eyes as brown as their fine flat hair; my skin by contrast is pale pink, and my blue eyes set off a heavy Semitic schnoz. While we’re out walking together, we enjoy quiet conversation, silly games, and lengthy two-way Q-&-A sessions. We are so close and share so much with each other that the physical distinctions between us fade from my awareness. But the popos and ajumas marching with their shopping carts to the local fish markets and discount stores hone right in on those differences anyway. Something sets us apart and they’re bound and determined to find out everything they can about it.
I’m very used to the approach; I can sense it coming well before the question’s asked. I see the wrinkled gaze crinkle up with a smile at my (objectively) adorable kids as they toddle or ride their stroller, eyes wide with excitement, cheeks flushed with toddler energy. The woman’s gaze shifts from the childrens’ faces to mine, obviously their dad, obviously busting with love for my sons, and I see her throw the mental switch to make the connection she seems to think is the only possibility.
“So cute!,” she tells me. I smile and agree. “Your wife is Chinese!” My smile freezes. What do I say this time?
It’s not the eastern European babushkas who raise this issue; they just exclaim over the kids’ vibrancy and cleverness. The Irish nannies - when they deign to speak to me at all - discuss eating habits and nap schedules. Several African-American women have surprised me by confidently asserting, “Korean,” right off the bat. But it’s the Asian ladies who jump in with prying insinuation. Who is his father? So, he looks like his mom? Did his mother teach him English? The questions are barked out quickly, and my answers always seem to disappoint. Her searching, squinting eyes pick us over like cabbages at the greengrocer’s. The boys want to keep going; she’s making them uncomfortable. I don’t want to be rude to her, but that’s how I think she’s treating us. Then again, I don’t want to share our personal business with some nosy stranger. Her curiosity is couched in such a backhanded way that I feel I’m being called out. I feel defensive. My hackles rise.
We’re raising our kids with their adoption stories as proud parts of their personal histories. They retain their Korean names along with our chosen old-testament ones for them, and we take care to make Korean food and culture as much a part of their lives as we are able. But neither my wife nor I can claim that culture as our own, and we’re dogged by the knowledge that we could do more - learn the language, marinate the bulgoki, teach them to ride the playground swings standing up. We try to be good parents but there’s always room to improve. That said, the kids are happy and healthy, active and curious and gregarious. I think we are doing pretty well. I certainly don’t feel like being called on the carpet about it by some granny with an attitude about who my kids are and -how they’re being raised. Her inquiries, however they’re intended, force me to confront the differences in my family, when what I want to emphasize - to her, at least, at this moment are the bonds and commonalities that tie us to each other.
It’s easy to forget those differences, as easy with Zach who’s been with us three years as with Jesse who’s only been part of the family for a few months. A hug is a hug is a hug; when we all share a bed on a lazy morning, drowsing and lounging, no one feels distinctly Korean or not-Korean. The only feeling is that of being a family. But recently, none other than Martin Luther King Jr. forced me to address these differences head-on again, and maybe even gave me a strategy on how to deal with old popo herself.
It was January 19, 2009 - the MLK Day before Obama’s inauguration. I was out walking with Zach, trying to explain why it was a special day, the significance of this particular moment in history. He knew Obama’s name and that we were waiting for him to take up the presidency, though what exactly that meant and why we were so excited about it were still pretty vague to him. I told him, “Today is a holiday because we are remembering a very good man named Martin Luther King. Martin helped us understand that we should treat all people the same no matter what they look like. Martin had dark skin and back then people were mean to people with dark skin. People with dark skin weren’t allowed to go some places or do some things that people with light colored skin could do. It was wrong to treat those people that way; Martin Luther King helped us understand that. And now, tomorrow, Barak Obama - a man with dark skin - is going to be the President of the whole country, in charge of everything. That means we’re doing better, and that’s good.” It felt like a decent explanation for a three-year-old.
Zach replied after a quiet moment with a measured voice: “My skin’s the same as yours, dad.”
I took a breath before answering. “Not really, my boy. You have golden skin and I have pink skin. You’re from Korea, and people from Korea and China and the other countries around there, their skin"s like yours. And mine and mom’s is different. Martin taught us not to treat people differently because of that, but once it made a big difference. But not anymore, son. Not anymore.” His silence, I took for assent.
That’s a conversation I have never had with any of the popos, ajummas, or halmonis of my neighborhood. I’ve watched the process unfold so many times; I fight the temptation to prejudge, but it’s not like I can’t discriminate the difference between the AA auntie who gazes down at the angelic children beside me and immediately understands so much about them, and the popo who sidles up to quiz me on my spouse’s ancestry.
She is a charismatic, opinionated, possibly language-challenged matriarch, whose world and mine overlap far from completely. I see her take notice and come in for a closer look, sticking to a script I’ve memorized over repeated replaying of the same events. How should I handle it this time? Do I open up my life to her, my childrens’ lives, the private details that would undoubtedly oblige long explanations and possible misunderstanding? Or do I just smile and agree with whatever she says?
I want to be outraged at being put in this position - conflicted and anxious, my boys once again fending off extrajurisdictional interrogations, looking to me for protection and assurance as sons rely on fathers across all cultural lines. I want to be outraged, yes - but I know in my heart that for popo it’s not like that. She doesn’t mean to antagonize me. In a sense, I could almost take it as a compliment to be put on the spot like this.
I am willing to bet that she treats most everybody in her life this way. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she were an overbearing shrew at home and away, to friends and relations alike, and that she rules her household with talons of iron. If she had truly been antagonistic to me, she’d probably have kept it to herself; reaching out to me at all is an act of maternal solicitude even if it’s coming off like she’s sharpening her knives on my liver. She’s trying to be nice, because my boys are so engaging and I’m so clearly devoted to them. I might feel outraged and offended but that’s really not called for.
Maybe I can ratchet my response back a little, from “outrage” to “irritation.” And whatever answer I give her when she tells me that my wife is Chinese, I should make sure I keep a civil tongue in my mouth. I came from my own eastern-European clan that is still run by Grossie Lena from well beyond the grave; I know how matriarchies operate. There’s really very little difference, when you get to the heart of things.
