Twisted Custards and Identities
There is not a more majestic moment than when sunlight graces the red and white striped awning of Rita’s Water Ice signalling the entrance of spring. Just as everyone in the area was doing, I too was flocking to the entrance of this water ice kingdom. My short hair swinging and tiny body hurtling towards my desired destination as I dragged my mother behind me. It was one of the many traditions held in my youth, that after school upon the arrival of spring, my mother would take my siblings and me to Rita’s. I had my order down pat, ready to recite my desire for a chocolate-vanilla twisted custard with a dash of rainbow sprinkles. Upon ordering I watched as the employee pulled the lever freeing the custard, which spiraled gently from the bottom of the cup upwards. After being handed my beloved custard, my idealistic world was shattered by the argument that had arisen between my siblings.
“But what flavor is the chocolate-vanilla twisted custard?” was the question which arose. I paused in my happy munching and pondered the issue. What exactly was the flavor of my favorite custard? The argument between my siblings quickly intensified as they discussed whether it counted as its own flavor or simply the combination of two. Soon they bickered over the superiority between the two flavors as my mind drifted. How did one categorize the merging of two flavors? I shrugged my shoulders and ate my custard; however, that question would plague me for years to come.
On that sweet spring day I had easily dismissed the conflict over the merging of two flavors in holy matrimony to create twisted custard goodness. However, while I could easily allow that question to go unanswered, as a young child I was quickly forced to confront a similar concept: how does one define a child of parents of two different races? Initially there was no conflict; I was fortunate growing up as all my friends were biracial, and I went to a diverse school which sheltered me from the worst of my situation. In second grade that reality rippled- it was the journey into uncomfortable questions and attempting to explain my reality to people who wished to neatly categorize me into a single box. In second grade one learns about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but it is no longer just the “I Have a Dream” speech, it is the horrible realization that today we still strive for that dream. Suddenly, I was confronted with questions pertaining to what I was? The question was always asked with pursed lips and bright eyes as if my identity were something to be scrutinized- no answer was ever good enough.
The struggle composed of cruel critical analysis of which one of my siblings was “more asian” or “more white”. It was the occasion when two of my teachers discussed how biracial children were the most beautiful not realizing one was sitting in front of them. When I heard another teacher stereotype biracial children as she spoke of the perfect “blasian” (black-asian), I wondered whether she was describing another person or creating the perfect build-a-baby? It was sitting down to take standardized tests and battling between picking which side to mark for my ethnicity when there was no option for both. In a world where culture reigns supreme, I’ve had to straddle the line, between two different worlds with a laugh on my lips and skin toughened by the assault of ignorant comments. “What are you?” people ask with bright eyes and sharp smiles. I ponder the question and think about a crisp winter day and the merging of two races in holy matrimony that would one day create beautiful biracial children. Sometimes the answer is a snarky “human” but most often the response is “biracial” as I recall the taste of sweet twisted custard and the joy of spring.
