Prologue: Does Not Compute
Like most transracially and transnationally adopted children of my generation, I was renamed when I was adopted from Korea to rural Iowa.
My first name, chosen because it was one of my dad’s favorite girls’ names, had a Christian meaning to go along with my ELCA upbringing. It doesn’t particularly reflect my adoptive family’s Swedish-American heritage, nor is it one of those country- or ethno-specific names that one tends to associate with a specific origin — though it does derive from a male name of English origin.
My middle name had no special significance, except that my parents thought it sounded nice with my first name. It was my last name — my adoptive family’s surname — that made me out on paper to be a gleaming white Swede, or at least someone who was descended from a pack of ‘em once upon a time.
Imagine the incredulous looks of doubt and surprise that I encountered every time I stood up in the doctor’s office or at the DMV. Imagine the battery of invasive follow-up questions fired like rounds of bullets from machine guns as strangers interrogated me on just who I was anyway, where I came from, how I got that name, what language I spoke, what race my parents were, and other inquiries related to why I even existed in their white Midwestern space in the first place.
People were always laughing when it came to my name. As if my very existence was just that hilarious. We were all supposed to laugh on some mystery cue to diffuse whatever tension might have otherwise made things uncomfortable. Oh, no worries — things were cake.
But I quickly grew tired of laughing. I was wrung dry of motivation to find humor in my situation — at least my situation as they saw it. I began to feel impatient with these people because of the way they forced me to laugh along with their perception of me: I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t supposed to have this name. Asian face, why not an Asian name? What was up with me?
I was supposed to be (choose one):
* an anachronous caricature of a most cartoonish Asian coolie
* a fresh-off-the-boat immigrant with a thick accent or who “no speak English”
* a demure lotus blossom with bound feet and lowered eyes
* an exchange student with a deep, unrequited love for Ah-meh-lee-kah
These were my choices.
They laughed in surprise because that was who I was supposed to be, but wasn’t.
I’ve filed those scenarios away in small, airtight compartments where I believe I can’t be harmed by the feelings those encounters evoked. I tell myself I’ve mastered my emotions, neutralized the acidic quality of those particular memories. But at moments when I’m feeling especially vulnerable or worn down, they bubble back up to just beneath the surface, one by one by one. They tend to come in these three popular varieties:
1. The irritating, like a bothersome rash: The dental hygienist calls out my name in the waiting room. I put down the decade-old Family Circle magazine on the side table and stand up. She glances at me, then at the blonde woman a few chairs away, then back at me, and then back at the blonde woman a few chairs away. She waits. I am standing right next to her now. She looks back at the blonde woman, and repeats my name.
2. The repulsive, like an offensive body odor: The gas station attendant does a double-take at my credit card, which bears my name. “This yours?” he asks, squinting with doubtful eyes at my card, and then at me. “Yes,” I reply. “This your name?” He emphasizes each word slowly and loudly, holding the card up and points to my name. “YES,” I repeat. “That’s me.” He looks over the top rims of his glasses at me, and asks, “Can I see some ID?” My nostrils flare as I yank my license from my open wallet and practically toss it in his face. He checks and rechecks my ID, comparing it against my credit card about five times. “How’d you get that name? You marry a sailor back in your country?” He winks at me.
3. And the gruesome, like a nightmare in which you actually die: The night clerk at the bizarre gas station/fireworks supply/convenience store at the Tennessee/Alabama border bores holes through the back of my head with his stare. He wears a bandanna wrapped around his mullet. The bandanna bears a Confederate flag. I want one of us to disappear: him or me. I want to leave without buying anything, but I’m parched, and I’ve already used the putrid toilet on the premises, so I am obligated to purchase something. I pluck a bottle of Coke out of the refrigerated case and sidle up to the Confederate man at the cash register. He is glaring at me with accusing eyes. My crime was bein’ diff’rint. I wonder if he’ll even sell me the Coke.
Another man, wearing a frayed denim vest with no shirt underneath, sits upon a stool by the fireworks case. The two men exchange glances in the least subtle of ways. The one at the fireworks case speaks. “Konnichiwa, Miss Miyagi!” I want to light bottle rockets on his face. “Yer a long way from Tokyo, arnt ya?” I am silent. I grind my teeth together. He whistles, as if calling a dog. “You deaf n’ dumb, Missy? Miss Miyagi.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, what’s your name, geisha girl? I’m talking to youuuu.” If I don’t respond, he’ll keep on harassing me. It will keep getting worse. He’s steamrolling me flat.
My entire head is on fire. I answer without looking at him. “I’m not Japanese, and that’s not my name,” I mutter through clenched jaws. “Leave me the hell alone.” I grab my change and my caffeine off the counter and stomp out of the store, half-anticipating the two men to jump on top of me, or else shoot me in the back with the insane sawed-off shotgun that must be under the counter. I hear them yelling at me as I practically break into a sprint toward my friend’s blue Plymouth. Behind me, they’re laughing and making Bruce Lee sound effects, “Waaaaaaw!” I hear one of them call out, “Fuckin’ chinky slit!” My face is radiating as intensely as the blinding lights that light up the parking lot of this pitstop from hell. That night, I hate my white girl friends for choosing that place to stop on our Florida road trip, and for not even noticing my sheer terror.
Thank you, Ah-meh-lee-kah. I tip my coolie hat to you.
(Note: I’ve been struggling to write a coherent post about naming practices in transracial adoption for Anti-Racist Parent, but have found it tough to take time out from the The Game of Life and focus my scattered thoughts on such a loaded topic. It’s not just about names. Names have an impact on us that mean countless different things to us at age 1, 10, 20, 30 and beyond. I’m still plugging away at this. Please bear with me while I try to organize my thoughts. I shall return.)
