Stories indexed with the term ‘Asian-Americans’

Called my girlfriend Nina to see if she would play hooky with me one recent Sunday afternoon. Alas, she’s off with her latest beau somewhere, no time for me. So I sit on the sidewalk outside Sweetwaters café downtown, soaking in the sunshine on this glorious spring day. My laptop sits unopened at my side.

Instead, I steal my friend Rich’s New York Times and I guiltily and gleefully read the entire thing, from arts all the way down to business and even, ugg, politics (which I generally try to avoid). Just one day to stop. One day to sit in the sunshine. One day to visit with all the friends who walk by – Kenji-san with his big brown dog; Diane with her latest middle-aged man from Match.com; Arthur with yet another joke from his old Jewish uncle. There is nothing like the beginning of spring in the Midwest. [Full Story]

“I’m not your ‘Mom!’” my girlfriend finally exploded at her kids.

The teenagers looked puzzled, “Then, whose mom are you?”

I know what she means, though. She does not want her children to call her the English word, “Mom,” but to call her by the Chinese term, “Ma Ma.” The dictionary may give the same meaning for both terms, but “Mom” does not have the same feel, the same nuance, as “Ma Ma.” My children are not allowed to call me “Mom,” either.

The question of how to address people often comes up in our family. I teach my children to always address adults as “Mr.” or “Mrs.,” “Auntie” or “Uncle” – never by their first names. In our local Asian American communities and in Hawaii, it is common to address one’s elders as “Auntie” or “Uncle,” even “Grandma” or “Grandpa.” It creates instant familiarity, instant respect, an instant family-style relationship where adults look out for children and children look up to adults. [Full Story]

At a recent five-year-old’s birthday party at Jungle Java, after the children all gathered together and sang ”Happy Birthday” and cut the cake, a friend of the family burst out, “What, no Arabic? We’re supposed to sing the song in Arabic now!”

She and I started talking about how our families do the same thing. First we sing ”Happy Birthday” in English. Then we sing it in Chinese (or Arabic). Then (at our house), we open it up to other languages, and I have been thrilled to have various kids at times lead the group singing “Happy Birthday” in Spanish, Korean, Japanese, and Arabic. [Full Story]

My family went to an art exhibit opening and reception last summer at Wailoa Art Center in Hawaii. Afterwards, my son – “Little Brother” – pouted all night because he saw me kissing the artist, “that man.” He cannot kiss me ever again, he says, and he rubs and rubs his skin with his shirt, to wipe off every last kiss that I give him.

I try to explain that, actually, I was kissed by the artist, that sometimes people kiss hello on the cheek just like others shake hands. But he will have none of it. This is not the first time we have had this conversation, but what am I supposed to do? The artist, the man in question, is over 80 years old! That is a really funny (and completely irrelevant) distinction when you think about it from Little Brother’s point of view. He is four years old, and I am ten times his age; I would gain nothing by pointing out that the artist is (only) twice my age. So I explain that in Hawaii, it is part of the culture to hug and kiss hello, that even my parents now hug and kiss hello (although this took them a few years to get used to). [Full Story]

It all started when my husband first asked me to marry him.

I said, “Under one condition, that we never live in the Midwest.”

I knew from experience how hard it can be to grow up as a minority, and I knew I wanted my children to grow up on the West Coast or in Asia so that they would not have to grow up as minorities, and so that they would not always be “the only one.” I hoped to spare them the angst of wrestling, as I did, with who they are, what they are, and how they fit in, and make sure that they develop a strong sense of identity, culture, and pride. [Full Story]