I have been reading "Yellow: Race in America Beyond Black and White" by Frank Wu.

There was a passage that hit home for me besides his reminsicing of steamed fish with ginger and soy sauce.
He talked about how from time to time, whites would say to him, "Oh, I think of you as white" or "Oh, I don't think of you as Asian."

I have probably been through that for as long as I can remember. Except it was: "Oh, I don't think of you as Asian, you're really black" or calling me "blasian" or "chigga."
And I never really thought about it. Because I think I took comfort in the fact that I belonged. I never really reached out or could sincerely connect with other Asians, specifically Chinese.
Here were people that said, "You're not different, you're one of us." As if it is the "ultimate compliment."

But why should I allow people--friends--imply that it's better to be something else besides Chinese? The only reason why they could connect with me is because my mannerisms were similar to theirs, and that I listen to R&B and hip hop, and that I have rhythm, and that I wasn't well-off like the white students. And if I were to be "typically Asian" they would most likely not talk to me.
Wu talked about how it is like distinguishing a good minority individual at the expense of the bad minority group.

I know my friends did not intend hurt or harm, and that they just did not know. And I never showed that it bothered me.
But it now bothers me. I am Asian. I am Chinese. It is not a bad thing.

I'm glad I was able to struggle with this, because I think this was one of the factors that had held me back from embracing my identity.

Railroad

I remember when we went to the California State Railroad Museum in Sacramento. We went through the trains and saw wax figures. There was a display of a wax figure resembling a Chinese man in a wicker basket dangling off a cliff. The excerpt described how they had to put explosives at the bottom of the cliffs and had to be pulled up before the gunpowder went off. Many did not survive.I remember reading this statistic: "4 Chinese men died for every mile of railroad track."There was a painted picture at the end of the museum in celebration of the completion of the CPR. Every person in the picture was depicted as white.

"The white foreman, thinking that all of the dynamite had gone off, ordered the Chiense workers to enter the cave to resume work. Just a that moment the remaining charges suddenly exploded. Chinese bodies flew from the cave as if shot from a cannon. Blood and flesh were mixed in a horrible mess. On this occasion about ten or twenty workers were killed... I am proud if the fact that we Chinese contributed much to the development of transportation in Canada. Yet now the government is enforcing forty-three discriminatory immigration regulations against us. The Canadian surely must have short memories."-Reminiscences of an old Chinese railroad worker, Wong Hau-hon(1926)

Charles

Let me tell you about someone I love.

He's 22 years old born May 12, 1986 in Chicago, Il. We have known each other since high school. It's been 5 years that I have known him.
He loves cars. He buys cars like I buy shoes.
He is the hardest worker I know. Graduated from high school at the top of his class. Went into trade school because he wanted to be a mechanic. After graduating from trade school, he became a car mechanic. Since then, he achieved a greater goal, something he's wanted for a long time. He was employed by Union Pacific. He has obtained his career goal at the age of 22.
He loves his family despite their flaws. He will never admit he's a momma's boy. He is the youngest of four. He acts like he's the oldest of three. He is the father figure to his nephews and niece moreso than their actual fathers.
He is more financially responsible than I am. He is more responsible than I am period.
He laughs at my lame jokes and counters them with more lame jokes.
He does not like to fight or yell and would rather listen to me yap than yell at me.
He is a kid at heart. He got me into spending more time than necessary in the toys department in every Target we stop by.
He's never let me win at anything if he can help it.
Even after a long day at work, he still comes home to me asking what we should cook tonight.
He thinks of me every day by lunch and texts me with my daily loves and muahs.
He is one of the best friends I've ever had.

He is African-American.
And when we're in public, there are times when I still wonder what people think of when they see an Asian woman holding the hand of a Black man.
My Chucky answered this last statement: "Wow, she's pale."
And that's why I love him.

Light

"My parents say: "Get a real job!", I answer: "I have a real job, it's called living."" -Eirik Ott