What Are You?

As a kid, a classmate told me, “Jewish and Asian? You’re like a combination of the most hated races.” I still remember the shame, guilt, and emptiness that welled beneath my sternum like hot magma. That comment led to the first of many confrontations with my racial identity. In hindsight, two lessons emerged from that event. One, any action, regardless of intent, can change someone’s life. Two, some questions, once posed, do not fade away.

Around that time, I started to wonder if I were a fugitive robot or Martian. I looked nothing like my parents or even my brother, so my mind grabbed hold of a simple explanation. I was different and exceptional. I felt free to imagine a category where only I belonged in perfect solitude. I retreated within the growing vacuum chamber in my chest where silence drowned the echoes of my mind. I pretended to be an empty, unfeeling robot.

Through those supernatural years, anything could stir those same feelings of shame and emptiness. “What are you?” many asked, jarring me back to that childhood memory. I joked that the racial identification question was the hardest on the SAT. I still remember bubbling in “Other” the circle with my number two pencil. Dealing with these identity conflicts mirrored my strategy for dealing with conflict in general. Retreat to that safe, hollow place within. A place I had deemed the coldest in the universe. A place where such questions ceased to exist.

Naive solutions could not snuff out those persistent questions. “What are you?” “Where are you from?” “Where are you really from?” As nature abhors a vacuum, my soul rejected the strategy of embracing emptiness. Some part of me could not accept that I was alone in the universe. The question of identity filled the void itself, pushing forth a desperate search for a real answer.

I searched on. The next steps toward answering the question coincided with the rumblings of teenage self-awareness. I felt a strange new desire to belong. I started learning Chinese. Joined Asian heritage “cultural” clubs. Embraced the stereotype of robotic, video game playing math nerd. When asked, “What are you?” I would reply, “half-Asian.” Whereas before I refused any category, now I tried to let the category define me.

Half-Asian. If I could take inventory of my traits, half of them would count as Asian and half would not. Asian Eyes, white mouth, Asian hair, white last name. Yet the power to classify lies not only within me but also within those around me. Within that childhood classmate. Within that skeptic who says, “no you’re not” when I tell them I’m half-Asian. Within that friend’s relative who tells me, “You’ve got a little something in you, don’t you?”

With the observations of those around me, came doubt and uncertainty. Half-Asian or 50-50 all the way down? Down to my DNA, at which point, does race even exist? Others met my attempts to fit into existing categories with skepticism. Once more, the constant tension of fitting a category churned without resolution.

Attempts to reduce my identity to Asianness or Whiteness balance atop a thin tightrope. An amorphous line gatekept on either side by fickle race guardians. “No, you’re not!” I’ll be Asian one day and White the next. Relative to a real Asian person, I will be considered White. Relative to a real White person, I will be considered Asian. Two categories in a constant contest like a never-ending game of garbageball. At some point, I wondered if either side wanted me at all.

I continued to search. Neither choosing other nor picking sides could satisfy the ever-burning question, “what are you?” Another option appeared: try to play both sides. I turned to science and genetic testing. I am happy to report that my genetic material does seem to originate from this planet. A fact that once and for all disproves my childhood imaginations: 51.3% descent, 48.6% European descent. The most accurate answer ever to “guess my mix.” If only I hadn’t labeled myself half-Asian instead of 51.3% Asian, all would be in harmony.

Our society has thrust our conception of race upon DNA, the molecule at the core of identity. I could finally answer “what are you?” with incredible precision. However, I still had a nagging doubt. What does it even mean to be 51.3% Asian? I had been thinking about this “what are you question?” wrong all along. Through the tinted lens of a society that treats race like a single-select multiple choice question. The lens of a society that treats race as the presumed answer to the question of identity.

After all this time, I finally understood that the doubt and uncertainty lay within the model. I don’t fit into a racial category because the categories were not designed with me in mind. By fixating on well-defined boxes, I started becoming invisible to myself.

I have felt all these ways, at one time or another, so I am finally ready to answer the question, “What are you?”, with no shame: I am both, half and neither.