Living with Racism

I wanted to write a post in response to everything that I've seen over this past weekend. It's going to be a long one, so fair warning.

I'm a Japanese American. My mother was adopted, which means that as much as I wish, I don't have a strong connection to my Japanese heritage. I don't fit people's expectations. I love pasta and I love bread. I eat a lot of rice, not because of my mom, but because of my Bolivian husband. I watch a lot of cartoons, but until I married my husband (an anime aficionado), I'd never watched a single episode of anime. (Though I might have binged a whole series last week.) I was good at math in school, but I preferred English. I took Spanish in high school, and although I tried to audit a college Japanese course, I didn't learn much. At home, I speak Spanglish.

I feel like a fake. I feel like I'm not 'Asian enough' for the Asians that I meet. Yet, when it comes to the American culture, I'm too Asian for them.

I'm quite lucky, actually. My whole life, I dealt with very little racism. At least, that I noticed. Most of my friends didn't act like I was different, other than a few jokes here and there, and I think I was too shy to put myself in a situation where I met a lot of strangers.

That all changed when I became a nurse.

On a daily basis, I'm exposed to complete strangers, some of whom are incredibly nice. Others who aren't as much. But even when someone's nice, there's still an underlying difference in the way that they treat me. I would say probably about 80% of my shifts, I have at least one patient who asks me some version of 'who are you.' They may ask where my family comes from, where I come from, what my heritage is, or who my 'people' are. (That last one tends to be a little harder to take than the others.) I try and stay positive and pleasant. Usually, I just say Japan or let them know that my mom is Japanese and they drop it.

Then there are those that don't.

I've written a few posts in the past about things my patients say, but I'm going to condense this into things my patients say that refer to my race.

Are you here all night? And you're Chinese? Oh, Japanese, interesting. Well, we'll enjoy each other tonight.

There's my dark-haired beauty

How do you say pee-pee in Japanese?

Am I in a Chinese hospital?

Get out of here, Yoko!

There's my little Indian girl.

Oh, are you sisters with that other Oriental girl?

I see 'you people' didn't waste any time.

Good job, Short-round!

I had a vision I was going to marry a little Vietnamese girl.

Those are just a few that I've written down over the years. It's nowhere near everything I've heard.

I've had patients who have asked not to have me because I make them flashback to WWII. (A much older lady with confusion. Apparently, I scared her every time I went into her room.)

I've had patients be especially vulgar to me because of my race. One patient told me he had a 'vision' he was going to marry a 'little Vietnamese girl' and then attempt to get me to hold his hand.

I've even had coworkers unwittingly leave things for me because they assume that it will be easier for me. The moment when this was most apparent was one night when I came on shift, and the previous shift told me that they left an admit for me because the patient didn't speak English. When I asked what language he did speak, they told me Laotian. He was Asian, I was Asian, so obviously, it would be easier for me to communicate with him. (By the way, I don't speak Laotian, or any other Asian language, for that matter.)

I can usually laugh it off. In fact, I try and beat other people to the punch, so that they know that I'm not offended by their comments. I tell my coworkers that I work nights because my ancestors lived on the other side of the world, and that's what time they were awake.

Honestly, I don't get offended easily.

But it gets tiring. Being treated as 'someone else' isn't fun, no matter how you spin it.

Recently, I had a super sweet patient who was a little confused. She made a few comments, which were fine, and I even joked about them with my coworkers.

At first.

The comments never stopped. Every single time I went into her room, she referred to me as 'The Japanese.' When I went into her room while she was on the phone, she told them to wait because I was in the room. Except she didn't refer to me as her nurse. She referred to me as 'The Japanese.' Like I said, she was sweet, and she was confused. As a nurse, I try not to be confrontational with people, especially when I know I'm not going to see them again after a few days. If they want to ask about my heritage, I'll tell them. But this sweet lady was my undoing. After two nights of being addressed by my race, and not my name, or my profession, I broke down crying on my way home from work. I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see me as just her nurse. As just another person. It was always different, and she always had to point it out.

I'm a person. I'm a nurse. I'm a wife, and a sister, and a daughter. I play the piano and I hate to exercise. I've got a weakness for cream puffs and I'm terrified of ghosts. But when people see me, they don't see that.

That's what racism is for me. When no matter who you are, no matter what you do or what your interests are, you're classified by what you look like. Who your ancestors were. The stereotypes you fit into. 

Maybe that's why I joke about it with my coworkers. Why I write about it on my blog. Because it exists. Even if not everyone sees it.

Racism in Nursing

On Monday, I mentioned how I wanted to talk about Jodi Picoult's Small Great Things this week.

When I first started the book, I honestly thought it was from the 50's. The white supremist family felt off to me, because I don't deal with it on a regular basis. Ruth seemed to take offense with everything, and acted like people treated her differently because of her race.

The more I thought about it though, the more I realize that it still happens. I don't deal with the same kind of racism, just because I'm Asian, not black. Even so, I do deal with prejudice from my patients constantly. Not just my patients, but from my workplaces as well.

I honestly can't count the number of times that someone has said something that I've blown off. I heard them, and I always assumed that they didn't mean any harm by it. I've had patients call me the 'Little Chinese girl' and 'that Asian one,' and I even had one sweet patient call me his 'Little Indian' every single night. For me, it almost felt like a distinction. I am Asian, I'm not going to deny it. If they don't remember my name, then it's an easy way to describe me.

Then there's the ones who aren't quite so nice. I've been screamed out of a patient's room and as I left, her closing comment was "Get out of here... Yoko!" Which for me, didn't hold quite the same impact. I wasn't alive during the Beatles' time, and I have no idea if people actually hated Yoko Ono, or if it was the only Asian my patient knew. I've been called a Jap before, which, again, because I was exposed to very little racism growing up (I think in large part due to my parents), it doesn't sting the way I know it should.

I had one patient who was very sweet to me, but when I returned to work the next day, I was given all the same patients back -- except for her. Her family had stated that no Asians could take care of her. It wasn't put in the chart, I don't think, but it felt a little strange to me. She'd let me take care of her the night before, and I felt I had done a good job. Her family took me aside and told me that I didn't need to feel bad, because for some reason, seeing me gave the patient flashbacks to WWII.

Here's the thing. I never feel guilty. If someone has an issue with my race, or the way I look, I'm not going to apologize. I'm not going to assume that it's my fault. It's such an odd way to look at things, to think that the person who's receiving the prejudice might feel guilty.

Along with the obvious signs, there's also some odd things that have happened with some of the management that I've worked for. I remember very clearly arriving to work one night when a patient had been admitted. No one had started the admission, and they decided to give the patient to me. The reason? He didn't speak English. Which is fine. I speak Spanish, but it turned out the patient didn't speak Spanish, he spoke a very rare dialect from a South Asian country. He couldn't mime because he was blind, and it was assumed that I would have an easier time doing his admission.

Why?

Obviously because we're both Asian.

I'll admit, I joke about it a lot. I don't get offended. I tried, about a year ago, and it was exhausting. To assume that everyone has an ulterior motive, or to assume that everything that someone says is a jab at my race or said to be rude. My husband and I enjoy being different, and we accept that we are. I believe that's why, when I started Small Great Things, I was confused. I didn't see racism because I didn't focus on it, even though it's all around me.

I'm sure there's a fine line. I do need to recognize when it's inappropriate, but in the workplace, a lot of times, there's nothing I can say or do to change it. My patients... well, they still need care. In a day or two, I'll probably never see them again. Besides, I need them to like me, just so that I can get good reviews and avoid the situation that played out in small Great Things.

Small Great Things

This week, I want to try something new. In February, I started reading a book called Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. When I was in college, I read her book My Sister's Keeper, and I was quite fascinated.

My tastes tend toward fantasy and science fiction when I read or watch movies. I also like crime shows, like Bones and Criminal Minds. One thing that I don't tend to read or watch is anything medical related.

That's what I do on a regular basis. I've been a nurse for six years now, but even before that, I was a CNA and I was in nursing school. I know what it's like behind the scenes. I deal with death and sickness and on really difficult days, the whole spectrum of human emotions. I know what it's like to be talked down to -- by family members, by patients, even my coworkers at some point. I understand more than I want about the politics behind every decision made.

When I read, or when I'm watching a movie or TV, I want to escape. I want to leave the world that I know and enter a world that I don't.

When I read the description for Small Great Things, I was intrigued. It sounded like something I would be interested in, and after some recent misses in books, I wanted something I could connect with. I just didn't expect to connect quite so well. Small Great Things is a book about a nurse who is black and has to deal with prejudices of a family who is incredibly racist. At first, while I was reading, I thought the book was set in the 50's or 60's. Ruth speaks about racism in a way that made it feel real, that made it feel like it still happened. But then there were small references -- to Tiana from the Frog Princess, and even to Elsa from Frozen.

Suddenly, instead of reading an interesting book, I felt like I was reading about my life. I've been in her situation before. Not to that extreme, but I've been 'fired' by patients before -- just because of how I look. Because I'm not white. I've never stopped to think about what could have happened if an emergency had arisen like the one that Ruth faced.

I'm going to be honest, I had to stop reading. It was horrific to read, and mostly because I'm a nurse, I'm a minority, and I know exactly how she felt. I know what it's like to be treated like that by patients, and I've lived with the terror that maybe I didn't do enough, or that a family member would take me to court for something that I did. I didn't want to know how it ended. Good or bad, I knew that it could be me, and I didn't want to live it if I didn't have to. Maybe that's the coward's way out, but I'm okay with that.

But it made me think, which is exactly why Ms. Picoult wrote the book in the first place. It's supposed to make us reexamine our lives, and the society that we live in. So this week, I want to look at myself, at my race and at my profession, from the eyes of this book. I'd love to hear your comments, especially if you have stories to share as well.

Moana: Portraying Culture

A few weeks ago, my husband and I went to see Moana, the new Disney movie. I was excited to see it, mostly because I’d read so many articles from different people of the Polynesian culture who had spoken for and against it. I was curious to see how the culture was portrayed, and if the characters would feel natural, not forced.

I was pleasantly surprised. I’m not going to talk about the storyline, since that’s a completely different thing, but I’m going to talk about the culture, and Moana herself.

I was pleasantly surprised. Obviously, I’m not from the Polynesian culture, and so I can’t speak from firsthand experience, but I thought that they did a really good job of showing a new culture. Showing one that has history and background, and not making it feel like it was a anthropologic study of the culture. They had music, and food and even a portrayal of death, which I thought was fascinating.

It’s so amazing for me to see that portrayed in a movie, especially one for children, since it shows them that people come in all shapes and sizes. They all still have families and hopes and dreams. Counting through the Disney movies, there aren’t that many that portray non-European cultures, but there’s definitely been an increase over the past decade.

I’m excited to see what the next decade of movies brings. I want to keep seeing more and more cultures represented, so that my children know their stories, and understand the importance of accepting everyone.

Foreign Honesty

Growing up, my parents taught me about manners. About meeting strangers and being polite. Not saying what's on your mind. Not invading other people's space and not asking incessant questions. About avoiding topics and not getting offended myself. I thought I'd done pretty well with that...

Until I moved to Spain and none of that applied anymore.

I was shocked by how forward everyone was. They all said what they thought, and they didn't care if you were uncomfortable or not. It was a complete culture shock, but the part that really got me was how many times I had a guy follow me and then ask me out. On the subway, or sitting in the park. It was completely different from what I'd ever experienced.

One time, a friend and I were going to go see La Bella y La Bestia in Gran Via, which was a pretty big deal. We were so excited, and definitely dressed up so we could go to the theater. We arrived early, and the doors still hadn't opened, so we decided to walk down the street to one of the plazas and sit by the waterfall. As we were walking back to the theater, we noticed that two young Spaniards were following after us. We got to the theater and they came up to talk to us, and of course, my friend was gorgeous so they tried to talk to her first. Except she didn't speak Spanish. Then they turned to me. I was peppered with questions about where we were from, why we were in Spain, what we liked to do, if we had boyfriends, etc. They were shocked when I told them that I wasn't interested in having a boyfriend. They kept telling me that I needed one, and that they would be more than willing to accommodate. I was relieved once the doors to the theater opened and we could escape.

Another time, I was alone in a park, and a sweet old man sat next to me. He asked me what I was reading, and for a while, we just chatted. Finally, he asked me if I'd like to go to his house with him. I was slightly amused and asked what we would do there. He told me that we would share his bed. I was so shocked I didn't even know how to respond.

I've found that I actually prefer the honesty. It makes for some awkward situations, yes, but mostly with people who aren't used to saying whatever's on their mind. And it makes it so much easier for me to know what people are thinking. I don't have to skirt around issues anymore.

What about the rest of you? Do you prefer being PC and not offending anyone? Or do you prefer having honest communications with people?

Open Mind

My first year in Spain, I opted for the ‘cultural experience,’ which was a fancy way of saying that I lived with a host family. It was definitely an experience, for sure!

The woman I lived with was probably eighty years old, and she had a mentally handicapped sister who was just as old. My first semester, I had a roommate who lasted almost a month before she decided to live somewhere else. The women we lived with weren’t the easiest to live with, and I think that it made it easier for her to choose to live in student apartments, where she could do things with other girls her age.

My second semester, I had a unique roommate who didn’t seem to know anything about living abroad.

During that time, there was an orange alert out to US citizens abroad, meaning that we were supposed to be cautious while traveling. I honestly don’t know why anyone wouldn’t be cautious, but apparently it was slightly more dangerous. Maybe it’s because I look less ‘American’ than others, but I didn’t worry too much. I already knew that I used caution when traveling, and that I didn’t do anything stupid to peg myself as an unwitting tourist.

My roommate, however, went into full panic mode. She had a whole cover story where she was a Canadian who didn’t speak English, but if they asked her to speak French, she would tell them that she didn’t understand Spanish, because she also didn’t know French. Every time we went out, she would tell me that people would bump into her on the metro on purpose, or that some of the men were following her.

Even though she was living in a different country, and apparently attempting to appear from Canada, she didn’t do a good job of hiding her roots. After about a week, she started going to the American store and bringing food to the woman hosting us, asking her to make ‘real’ food. The food she brought were things like hamburger helper, macaroni and cheese, and cold cereal. Things that the woman had no idea how to cook, or what to do with. She made us fresh meals every day, paella, garbanzos, oh it was so good. But my roommate didn’t want that food. She wanted American food. Real food.

She didn’t last very long with our Señora either. Within a month, she had moved into student apartments.

It was amazing to me, every time she refused to adapt, or even try the culture she’d chosen to live in. And it was even more astounding how offended she would get when others didn’t eat or think the same way she did.

There’s so much we can learn from other cultures, if we’re only willing to adjust and adapt to new ways of thinking. 

International Care Packages

My husband is one of the best men I’ve ever met. I really admire him for the things that he’s done, and especially for being willing to leave his family and his country to be with me. It’s a sacrifice that I can’t even fathom. When I lived in Spain, I missed my family more than I imagined possible, but I always knew I would see them again.

We haven’t been able to see hubby’s family since we left Spain, and I know that’s been difficult for him. Every year we try and create a nice care package to send to them. It’s hard to think of different things that they might not be able to find over there. There’s a few things that we’ve found that they really seem to like. Things that we take for granted.

His parents always ask for Advil. Not just Advil, the soft gel capsules. We have those in any general store, even in random gas stations. But here’s the thing. Pharmacies in Spain are way different from the US. They’re under government control, which means that every single pharmacy is the same. And they sell the same thing. Not the nice stuff, but cheap medications that you can mass produce. Half of it is powdered and needs to be dissolved. Gel capsules are a luxury over there.

Hubby’s brothers always ask for a bag of Hershey’s chocolate. Amazing right? We always talk about the European chocolate, the real German stuff, but his family craves the American concoction. We try and send a pound or so of the minibars, just to give them some variety.

Speaking of candy, we try and send a whole bunch of that. America has such a unique variety. Last time we were putting a box together, hubby told me that we should get those really weird ones… Air Heads! Then of course, there’s circus peanuts. Those could confuse just about anyone.

Do any of you have friends from different countries? What kind of things do you put in care packages? We’re starting to get Christmas ideas going, and I’d love any advice!

Open to Diversity

I’m going to talk about something that’s confused me for a while.

Recently, as I research agents and brows the #MSWL, I’ve noticed a phrase that just sticks out to me. Seeking Diversity. Looking for Diversity.

That’s great, it really is. I’m really excited that there’s a push to represent other cultures and beliefs. And I have noticed recently that it feels like every world is the same. And it only occurred to me a few years ago that fantasy worlds could be from a different type world. That the characters didn’t have to represent Medieval Europe, and I could represent my own heritage. I’m so grateful for the awareness that’s been raised to the lack in not only books but other mediums as well.

I live diversity. I'm a daughter of a biracial marriage who married a Bolivian. We speak two languages at home, and we've brought little bits from each culture into our family. I wouldn't give that up for anything. And trust me, I have no qualms with the push for diversity.

Here’s where I have an issue with the phrase.

Wanting diversity. Open to diversity.

Is there really someone out there who isn’t? And if someone doesn’t put it, does that mean they only want white characters in Vanillaville? I wish that this could be a given, and that agents don’t feel the need to say that they’re open for it. I hope that we all want diversity, and that someday, it’s not something we feel we have to say just in case others aren’t aware.

Diversity is important, and we should all want it. I can’t count how much learning about other cultures and beliefs has changed my own worldview. Diversity should be a given, not a request.

Marriage Advice

I attended the wedding of my cousin this weekend. She was radiant, and they were both so happy, and it was exciting for us to see her start this next step of her life.

Watching her reminded me of the time that I attended her sister’s bridal shower. We had my aunts, cousins, and her grandma there. Multiple generations attended, and it was fun. During the festivities, we went around the circle, and each of us gave her some marriage advice.

One of our great aunts told her that she should never complain about him to other people. I interjected, telling her that if she does need to complain, to do it to his mom, because she already loves him. There was a short silence, and then they continued.

After that incident, I told my hubby that I wasn’t sure why the ‘traditional’ marriage advice seemed off to me. Or why everyone seemed shocked that I would complain about him to my Mother-in-Law. The more we talked, the more I realized that I had a specific reason for talking to her about our issues. Most of the time, I was verifying if this was normal behavior or not.

Hubby is from Bolivia, which means we come from two different cultures, and from very different expectations. Sometimes, he does something that’s so out left field for me that I don’t know how to respond. That’s when I talk to my Mother-in-Law. I’m basically complaining, but also making sure that this is something that isn’t normal for them either. Sometimes, she tells me that it’s how everyone in Bolivia does something, and I again remember how different we are. Other times, she supports me and tells him to shape up.

Cultural differences, as well as beliefs and attitudes can be wearing on a marriage. But before we jump to conclusions, we try and find out if it’s just personal differences or if it’s something cultural. It’s saved us from numerous unnecessary fights.

Obviously, I don’t complain to her about everything. But it’s nice to know that I can trust her enough to let me know if I’m worrying about nothing.

I love my Mother-in-law, and I appreciate the loves and support that she's shown me over so many years.

Real Immersion

When I first moved to Madrid as a new freshman, I had two options. First, I could live in a ‘host family’ environment, which allowed better immersion in the culture, or I could live in the university apartments, with multiple other girls. I chose the host family route. I knew my Spanish wasn’t very good, and I wanted to really experience the culture.

I took a basic Spanish class there, and my first day, I knew I was in trouble. My teacher didn’t speak English, and she gave a pre-test to determine how much we knew. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do in most of the sections. As expected, I failed the pre-test, and my teacher took me aside and tried to explain that maybe I should try an even more basic class. That probably would have been a good idea, but occasionally, I get a stubborn streak. I decided to stick with this class.

On my way home, I passed a large park, and I sat on one of the benches next to a fountain and pulled out my scriptures, and started reading out loud, in Spanish, to myself. I stumbled a lot, but I persevered. After two days of reading out loud to myself, a man started to relay the bricks of the sidewalk, and he and I worked side by side until he took a break.

He asked me what I was doing, and in my stumbling Spanish, I explained to him that I needed to practice. He then asked me what I was reading, and we continued our conversation. He was patient with me, and after he left, I realized that I’d carried on a conversation in Spanish. I immersed myself even deeper in the culture, attending church with a Spanish congregation, and religious institute classes with my friends from church.

Over the semester, I noticed a difference. Where most of the students from my university remained in their same circles, speaking English to one another, I forced myself out, making friends with Latinos and Hispanics. By the time midterms came, I got a C on my Spanish test, and I was ecstatic. On all of my homework assignments, I’d been acing them, with the help of my friends from church. I’m proud to say, I aced the final, and passed the class with a B.

The park where it all started

By the end of the semester, I was much more confident with my Spanish than most of my other classmates, and I could carry on conversations for hours (which I did, since I was dating a Bolivian at that point!)

The more you immerse yourself in the culture, the easier it is to learn the language, and the customs. And if you’re going to live in a different country, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to really experience the culture for themselves.

Salteñas

I think I’ve mentioned before that hubby is from Bolivia. We deal with a lot of difference from both culture and beliefs, and it’s taken years for us to truly understand one another. Even when we think we know each other, there’s always something new to learn.

Hubby hasn’t been back to Bolivia for several years, and we’ve talked about returning for a visit multiple times. Whenever I ask him if he would like to live there again, he always says no.

His response is always the same. The thing he misses most is the food.

I’ve tried some of the Bolivian food. It’s pretty good. It’s different than what I’m used to, but I still enjoy it. I’ve offered several times to try and learn how to make some of it, but he doesn’t want me to. He thinks that I’ll mess it up and it just won’t taste right.

A few years ago, we found a restaurant in a nearby town that made salteñas.

Now if you don’t know what salteñas are, you’re really missing out. The best way I can describe them is that they’re like empañadas, but instead of filling them with cheese, they’re filled with soup. One of the greatest challenges to eating them is trying to do it without spilling all over. It’s a process of eating, sucking and licking so that you can keep clean.

I know, it sounds kind of gross, but it’s not.

When we first found the restaurant, hubby wanted to go every day. Every time he had the car, he would come home with three or four salteñas, and he would share with me.

Some Salteñas my MIL made

Now, I said they were good, but not so good I wanted to eat them every day for weeks on end.

It took me a while before I could figure out why hubby loved them so much. They were his comfort food. The stuff that reminded him of home. He ate it because it reminded him of his family and his homeland. Of all the senses, I think taste and smell are the most potent, especially when they’re connected to memories.

I can relate. When I lived in Spain, I frequented the American store, and the things that excited me were always random, but reminded me of home. Things like Kraft Mac and Cheese. Or Pop Tarts.

What kind of food do you associate with home? I’m curious about all of your traditions!

Country of Origin

When I was a brand new nurse in Saint Louis, I had one of the best jobs ever. The facility was definitely better than most of the other ones I’ve worked in, and the staff quickly became some of my closest friends. I worked the evening shift, and most of my CNAs were from Africa – mostly from the Kenya/Zambia regions.

I had two particular CNAs that I became very close with. We used to have a lot of fun pulling pranks on one another, and keeping the environment light.

I quickly learned that our points of view were very different on a lot of matters, but the biggest one was marriage and country of heritage. They were both devout Christians and took a literal approach on the man and the woman becoming one during marriage. Since my husband is Bolivian, they would ask me about Bolivia as though it was my country of origin.

Questions like:

In your country, do you eat…

I was reading about your country and it said…

At first, I was confused. My country is the USA. I was born here, and I was raised here. But these two CNAs kept asking me about my country of origin, Bolivia, because in marrying a Bolivian, they believed that I had become a Bolivian as well.

It soon became a running joke for us, mostly because they realized that they could get me aggravated pretty quickly when they asked those kind of questions.

“In your country, do you have salad like this?”

“I don’t know. In Colorado, where I grew up, we ate it. So what do you think?” 

Merging Cultures

This month is my wedding anniversary month. You know what they say about June Brides.

Hubby and I have been together for quite a while. We’re coming up on a decade, which is crazy to think. I’ve spent close to a third of my life married to him. I’m not complaining. I like it a lot.

But after all that time, I guess I assumed that we’ve adapted to one another enough that we don’t get surprised. Yes, I was that naïve.

Recently, we had something come up that really made me realize how different we really are. I have a CNA at work who’s Bolivian, and we tease him a lot because his favorite phrase is “It’s okay.” About everything. He’s so easygoing that he really lives that way. Nothing ruffles him, nothing stresses him.

My husband is the same way. It really should be his motto too: “It’s okay.”

I don’t live that way. I get stressed a lot, and I’m a perfectionist. Okay isn’t good enough for me. It needs to be right, and it needs to be planned and prepared. Usually, my uptight manner doesn’t clash with his easygoing one too much. Then there are moments when they explode into something we can barely contain.

Recently, we had his cousin and his best friend over for a visit, and I realized all of them were the same way. They were able to go with the flow, adjust without sweating it. I’m sure it’s part of their culture, where they understand that they can’t control everything. In fact, that’s something my husband has to remind me more often than he should. In the US, we’re so focused on getting things done, on staying busy. We don’t really stop to relax, not like we should.

On our first date, he took me to a park. It was fall, and all of the leaves have changed color, and the ones on the ground crunched under our feet. After a little while, he grabbed my hand and asked me where we were going. I was surprised. I hadn’t really thought about it.

“I don’t know,” I said.

He gave me a sweet smile and asked, “Then can we slow down and just enjoy it?”

I’m glad I have someone who’s willing to teach me to enjoy life. Our differences in culture and background makes us a stronger couple, especially when we can find a way to make them work together. 

Immigration Heritage

My name is Krista. My last name is Quintana. And I’m Asian. Most people assume Quintana is an Asian name, mostly because of how similar it sounds to katana. (The Qu is like quesadilla, or quiche. Has a hard K sound. Also, it’s Spanish, not Japanese.) No one even questions my last name.

My first name is a different story. I can’t count the number of times people are surprised by it. I had a patient’s husband come up to talk to me, and after we talked about the patient, he looked at my nametag and said, “Krista with a ‘k’. That’s different.”

I replied with, “Yup. It’s because of my Swedish heritage.”

He laughed. “Swedish, right.” After that, whenever he saw me, he would say, “There’s that Swedish nurse.”

He thought I was joking. But aside from my mother, who was adopted from Japan, the most recent immigrant in my family heritage is my Great Grandmother who came from Stockholm, Sweden. In fact, after Japanese, I’m probably the highest percent Swedish.

I’m proud of that heritage. I love my Great Grandmother, and I’ve learned about her life. I even wrote an essay about her when I was in sixth grade. She’s one of my role models, even if I don’t look like her.

We are all children of immigrants. They all came to the US for different reasons, but they all gave us a legacy. I’m grateful for the sacrifices they made for me.

Living With Another Culture

My first year in Spain I had two options. Either, I could live in a university apartment with six to eight other girls, or I could really ‘experience’ the culture and live with a Spanish family. Of course, I wanted the experience, and I figured I’d be able to learn the language much faster if I lived with a Spanish family.

For a year, I lived with the most eccentric Spanish lady I’ve ever met. She was seventy or eighty years old, with big coke glasses and a shuffling gait. She and her sister were seamstresses, and they made my life interesting.

I wasn’t allowed to eat with them. They would make me a meal separate, and sit and watch me, to make sure that I ate it all. There were times like I felt like Hansel and Gretel, especially when she made comments about how skinny I was. I ended up getting sick because of how much food she forced me to eat, and the doctor had to tell her to listen to me when I told her I couldn’t eat anything else.

We had separate bathrooms, one was specifically for me, but at night, their bathroom was too far away, and they used mine. Every morning, I had to flush the toilet after them, because they didn’t want to wake me up in the middle of the night. Also, they didn’t like the fact that I used scented soaps, and at least two or three times a month, my soap would disappear, and it would be replaced with homemade soap that smelled like lye.

She also controlled when we had hot water, and most of the time, I showered with freezing cold water because it wasn’t time to turn on the water heater. The water heater was controlled by flame, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it.

During religious holidays, if I didn’t get home early enough, I’d be locked out of the house until Midnight Mass was over.

This woman was different, and more often than not, we didn’t have the same world views. But we learned to live together. I’m sure I have plenty of eccentricities myself, ones that she didn’t understand. When I came back after Christmas break, she was overjoyed. Apparently I was the first student who actually stayed the entire year without requesting a transfer. Over spring break, on my trip to Germany, I bought her chocolate, because I knew she would like it.

Too often, I think we see other people’s differences and assume we can’t get along. We aren’t willing to adjust for someone else’s lifestyle, or their little quirks. But if we don’t, we’ll miss out on so many opportunities, and so many friendships. 

Americans on Display

Last week, I talked about clichés concerning race and culture. More often than not, a cliché is there because there is a basis for it. I get to see it from all sides because I’m an American who looks Asian.

When I was living in Spain, no one knew what I was. I was obviously not Hispanic (usually) though I spoke the language fluently. Most people couldn’t even tell I had an accent. I looked Asian, but I spoke English. Most of the time, that meant I could blend in, and no one assumed I spoke their language.

You know that American cliché? The one of the tourist who talks really loud, wears ridiculous clothes and assumes everyone speaks English?

They actually exist.

I had a friend dress up as an American tourist for Halloween once. He wore a very bright Hawaiian shirt, a large camera, and socks with sandals. It was hilarious. Until I saw someone dressed just like that in Madrid, right down to the socks and sandals. He had his wife with him, and at least three or four kids. I watched in a strange mix of fascination and horror as he shouted to his family, “Come on kids! They’ve got trains underground here!”

 In the metro, American speak as loud as they want, assuming that people don’t understand what they’re saying. To tell the truth, probably sixty percent of us did. English is a language that most other countries teach their children to speak. If they don’t feel comfortable speaking it, I can guarantee that most of them at least understand it.

My husband told me that most of the videogames he played were in English, and he had to figure out what they were saying so he could advance. He understood me when I thought no one spoke my language. My friends and I were at a bar in Sol (center of the city) and someone came up to us, and asked in broken English why so many Americans hung out in the bar.

It’s a little scary, to think of the impression that we make on other cultures without even realizing it. From TV shows to travelers, we’re everywhere, and on display. Sometimes, I wonder if we know how much other countries watch us. 

Asian Enough

About a year ago, I read a book that I really enjoyed. It had all of the elements I loved, including diversity. There was one part that always seemed off though, and it was that the main character (half Japanese, half American) kept getting offended by the smallest things. At least, at things that seemed small to me.

Someone asked if she knew of any good Asian restaurants in town. She got offended, wondering why they would assume something like that. My first thought was, because you’re Asian? Plus, she’d already proved in the beginning of the book that she did know good Asian restaurants. Then she met the parents of her boyfriend, and they commented that her name was unusual. Both she and her boyfriend got offended. Again, my first thought was, but it is unusual. It’s a Japanese name.

It kind of bothered me that this book, one that I really loved, kept showing this person getting offended at every small comment someone made.

Oh how naïve I was back then.

Over the past few months, as I’ve been focusing more on diversity, and paying attention to how people treat me because of my Asian appearance, I’ve noticed that I’ve started acting the same way. I’ve started to get offended by small things that don’t matter, or jumping to conclusions that aren’t even there.

For example, I posed this to Facebook a few weeks ago:

Was that what the family meant? Probably not. In fact, many of my friends pointed out the flaw in my logic.

And that’s the moment I realized I’d fallen in the same trap. By focusing on my differences, I had a hard time realizing that not everyone is focused on that. Not everyone is out there, thinking about the fact that I look Asian. Of course it’s going to be something they notice, but it doesn’t mean that they’re going to be obsessed with it, or even given it a second thought.

Which means I shouldn’t either. I prefer living a life where I assume the best of people, rather than the worst.