Coming out as Fasian

     When Yani was in high school, she was part of a group of students who called themselves Fasians. They were of various Asian stripes, either second or third generation, raised in this country. Each of them felt strongly about their Asian heritage, as does Yani, but also felt a bit sheepish about it. Like they were claiming Asian roots, enjoying that identity, but also felt a bit like fakes. Hence Fasian.
     If you were to show me ten paintings -- landscape or still life -- of different cultural origins, and asked me which most soothes my heart, which belongs on my walls, I would pick the Chinese one without hesitation. I grew up learning that those inky watercolor strokes defined beauty, just as another child grew up learning that Mozart's  music is sublime. Or that mashed potatoes (my dad always thought it was "smashed potatoes") is comfort food. Or for someone else, that whale blubber was a delicacy. Or for someone else, that bagpipes sound pretty. This last one is merely a hypothetical possibility.
     I carry that Chinese sensibility within me, that sense of what is lovely. And I feel a connection to my Chinese ancestors that I cannot articulate, but feel deep in my bones.
     However, I cannot speak Chinese, save for a few phrases here and there, a few body parts, some social howdy-dos (hau di du, maybe), and extremely colorful curses. I have always felt bad about that. "Come eat," "tastes great," "want some more?" and "no, thanks, I'm full" can only carry you in a pretty fixed conversational context.

     I also am not a great Chinese cook. Though my dad was a fabulous cook, I have come to see that, save for the simplest of sous chef tasks (rinse the jiotsai, for example), he wasn't really interested in our "help." He could make a paper-thin dumpling skin in about 4 seconds. For me, it took ten times as long and came out the texture and thickness of an earlobe. When Pop died, I took his bright red apron and edited it as you see here.
    So when Laura, who is delusional and wildly optimistic enough to think that maybe I can cook, volunteered to offer a "Chinese meal for 6" to the Fieldston School parent auction, the Fasian in me freaked out. Though she retracted the offer with an apologetic phone call to the school right away, that message got lost (or auctioned off, maybe) and the school offered a home-cooked Chinese meal for 6 with the new Principal. 
     Imagine our surprise when, at a recent reception, a delighted parent chirped to Laura, "I'm the one who bought your Chinese meal for 6!"
     I have been unreasonably freaked out about this, and I think it is a complicated thing about Laura and me on one level (more on this later), and about my sense of identity on another. Blog followers of color may understand this the best, I am thinking. Though I appreciate that being "white" in our culture has its own complexity, I think most white people don't worry about demonstrating that they are adequately white.
     Fortunately, we have in our lives a fabulous "white" ex-sister-in-law, Holly, who is an amazing "Chinese" chef. I called her first to rant, then to cry, and then to plead. "Help me, Obi-Wan," I said into the phone. "You're my only hope." Holly is going to swoop in, Jedi (jie dai) Chef fashion. I still feel bad, though, and so does Laura.
     Life sometime seem very complicate.