Rain in Vegas
I am multiracial—Japanese and German [hold the WWII jokes please (: ]—and I find the topic of multiracial people fascinating. I look like an Asian person and I’ve always associated with that identity more. People used to approach my white dad when we were out in public and ask if I was his, with that look of “Aww, you adopted a little Asian girl” and sometimes “Oh my God, this man abducted a little Asian girl.” Only as I got older, did I understand that I was denying the white side of me for a long time. I was living up to my skin color and facial features, to what society saw me as.
I’m a Social Sciences major, and it doesn’t particularly help my identity crisis that a huge perception in social science is the “White men are oppressors” view. I guess I never saw it that way. My dad is white, my mom is Asian, and my parents are madly in love. I never heard my dad say the words “Asian” or “Japanese” when describing my mother to others. He made no attempt to explain me to strangers either. I was simply his daughter.
I don’t experience white privileges per se, but I don’t feel oppressed either. Being multiracial is what you make of it. The same as you don’t see any black Barbies or representation in media, you see even less multiracial families and individuals represented. I have never seen this as a disadvantage, personally. I do have one comment to leave you with though…
When I was little, I loved the Power Rangers. If you recall, there were two female Rangers in the US show, originally:
The Pink Ranger - Kimberly Jo Johnson - (white)
The Yellow Ranger - Thuy Trang - (Asian)
I always wanted to be the Pink Ranger (my favorite color was pink), but my friends assigned me the role of the Yellow Ranger because I was “yellow”. This was the beginning of my identity as Asian. The power of peer influence is mighty morphin’.
Ransacked and alone
Chained in shame
Empty of its former glory
My bike waits in front of the student union for a rider
For a savior
My bike, having felt the exhilaration of wind breaking on its face
Having held my hand, steady and true
Is a bare skeletal carcass picked clean of value
My bike was degraded by strangers
Curled metal and hollow tubes whining with wind blown through
A basket in shreds, a bent bottle holder, and
I leave it there
Not ready to let go
Not ready to admit I can’t sit on a seat that’s not there