For the sake of this narrative, let’s call my partner Mike. Mike, who is Italian and Irish, grew up just outside Boston, thus firmly placing him in the realm of whiteness. In his day-to-day life—dropping the kids off at school, commuting on the subway, and enjoying the perks of the Anglo-Saxon system—he frequently encounters individuals who mirror his background. As far as I can tell, there’s no special handshake or secret nod among them, but I could be mistaken.
As someone who is half-Asian and half-white, I’ve noticed an unspoken connection with others like me. There’s a certain understanding, a subtle acknowledgment—it’s like saying, “I see you and I can relate. My white relative once made an awkward comment about my ethnicity too.” I refer to this as the Hapa Moment.
“Hapa” originates from the Hawaiian term “hapa haole,” which means half-white, but it generally refers to those of mixed Asian descent. Back in the 1970s, being half-Asian was a rare occurrence. As a child and a teenager, I often faced questions like, “Where are you from?” and “What are you?” My personal favorite was, “Ni hao. Can you cook Chinese food?” (I’m from California, human, and no, I can’t).
When I was younger, I felt a mix of discomfort and pride from these inquiries. They made me feel unique, as if my differences were being recognized. With so many people around me being white—the norm, if you will—I found them rather mundane. They frequented the sugary cereal aisle and enjoyed tuna casserole. My family, in contrast, explored Chinatown for dim sum while also grilling steaks and preparing spaghetti. We were undeniably more interesting. Plus, my love for my Chinese-American relatives made it all the more special.
Then puberty arrived, and things became complicated. Male strangers often used my “slanted” eyes as a conversation starter, typically following up with, “My last girlfriend was Japanese.” The sexual overtones were jarring and infuriating—not to mention the sheer absurdity. I vividly recall one instance where an elderly man asked if my boyfriend “liked Chinese food,” which made me want to scrub myself down with lye.
When I first met Mike, it never crossed my mind to ask if he could whip up a mean potato dish or if he had ties to the mob (although I can’t deny my fair share of drinking jokes). He has never experienced being exoticized or fetishized, except that one time during a trip with friends to Montreal, which he prefers not to revisit. His name is undeniably Irish, yet he identifies more with his Italian roots—and yes, he makes a fantastic marinara sauce. The key difference is that he can choose when to share these facets of himself, while those of us who are half-Asian had narratives imposed on us before we even spoke.
When I meet another half-Asian adult—perhaps a fellow parent at school—my thoughts don’t fill with idiotic questions. I don’t assume they speak another language or have a childhood filled with tropical storms. Instead, I think they probably grew up in places like New Jersey or Michigan, resembling my other friends. Yet, I still feel a sense of camaraderie, a shared experience. Maybe they’ve had a high school boyfriend ask if they wanted to “order some slope chow” for dinner. Perhaps they’ve had a Vietnam vet lean into their car, calling them a “gook” (to which I would have resisted the urge to correct him about the term).
Nowadays, it seems less significant. Hapas are commonplace, and believe it or not, in some Caucasian couples, the man is the Asian partner! Cab drivers, who used to be the worst offenders, hardly pay me any mind anymore. This change could be due to my aging out of the “subservient Asian nympho” stereotype or perhaps a sign of a broader societal shift. My children, for instance, perceive their mixed backgrounds simply as math. They’re just like their friends—a delightful mix of ethnicities. They enjoy claiming their fractions, saying things like, “I’m a quarter Chinese, a quarter Italian, and a third Martian,” as if it were a game in Minecraft.
Recently, we spent a week with my extended Chinese-American family. Afterwards, a (white, Jewish) friend jokingly asked my kids if they encountered many Chinese people during their vacation. My son stared at her in utter confusion and replied, “Huh?” He hadn’t even noticed. To him, everyone was simply Auntie Something or Cousin So-and-So. He couldn’t tell the difference between full Chinese relatives, hapas, or Indian and Filipino cousins by marriage. It was all just one big family melting pot.
Isn’t that progress? My son likely won’t hear jokes about “no starch, please,” and my daughter probably won’t be subjected to crude “Oriental massage” remarks. However, their diverse genetic makeup has made them almost…neutral. They lack a singular identity marker that would make them feel special beyond their achievements and personalities. While we’re certainly gaining something in this melting pot, it feels like we might also be losing a part of our individuality.
For further insight into the journey of home insemination, check out our post on this topic here. For those interested in artificial insemination kits, Make a Mom is a great resource. And for more information on in vitro fertilization, you can visit this Wikipedia page.
In summary, the experience of being half-Asian has evolved over the years, moving from a source of pride mixed with discomfort to one of understanding and neutrality. While my children’s mixed heritage may offer them a broader perspective, it also raises questions about identity and the uniqueness that comes with it.