What are you?

I mean, where are you from?

This is the question that I have been asked most often by strangers. 

I’m not at the end of my journey and I don’t know if there is one. But it feels good to welcome you into the middle.

Part 1: The brave face: Who me, everything’s fine.

At first, I started with the shortest path answer. 

“What are you?”

“Oh I’m half-Chinese, half-Danish, first generation on both sides. Weird mix, I know.” 

Information dump, acknowledge their confusion and end it. That’s what they wanted from me right? I wanted to be on the “in”, like it wasn’t so big a deal, like I wasn’t some exotic bird to gawk at.  

Then after hundreds and hundreds of that answer, I realized I was angry. It felt so crass to make light of it and hand it over as if it was just an amusing fact to chit-chat about rather than my blood, bones and history. The stories and wounds born into my being. I wanted to protect the soft bits of me that felt so much more than a clinical curiosity.

Part 2: Foundation unstable: why does this hurt so much?

I became a contrarian. I wanted to make them ask again and see the magnitude of what they were asking. There was a reason they never said it directly, veiled in that question to make it seem innocuous. A simple curiosity. But really, before even knowing my name, they were asking for my racial heritage, my ancestry. 

I started experimenting with answers like: 

“What are you?”

“Hippopotamus” or “Human”

It was surprisingly satisfying to be self-righteous, but I started to sense that there was something there behind that defiance. Oh well, it was nice to avoid the pain for a little bit longer.

It wasn’t until I started to see how disconnected I felt from my roots, that the pain hit home. The last of my grandparents passed away in the fall of 2020 and the grief started shaking everything loose. I took time off from work feeling like if this wasn’t the time, there wasn’t going to be one. I needed to make space for what was moving through. At 30, I was starting to look back at my roots. 

Growing up, I always felt like the black sheep with my mother’s Chinese family. My electrified mullet bouncing as I ran laps in the house - often led to me relegated to the basement. I was too loud, had too much energy, was too emotional, and seemed to always get sick when I ate Chinese food. Not ideal. While there was love, I also had this nagging feeling that the way I was wasn’t quite what they wanted. While I’d spent my whole life around this family - I didn’t feel like I belonged.

But my Dad is a viking! I was so proud to be Danish, like him. Round hard-belly, obsessed with strawberries, and a devilish sense of humor. I felt so at home in his arms. But at six, my superhero came crashing down to earth when I found out he was mortal. It took a while to sink in that he died. Sometime over the next 24 years, I started doubting myself. I never questioned my Danishness when I was riding my Dad’s shoulders. But after almost 25 years of him being gone, I felt insecure. Was I still Danish if I didn’t speak the language, if the man who vouched for me wasn’t around, if I didn’t look like him? I wasn’t sure anymore. 

Hold on, I may not feel like I fit in with my Chinese family, I may not be sure of my Danish roots, but I’m definitely American, right? I have lived here my whole life. I talked fast, I loved hot dogs, I played sports. But then every single time I got asked that question, a little more doubt crept in. 

Here was someone from my home, asking me, “What are you?

All of a sudden, the three cultures I had come from all seemed a little shaky. 

Part 3: Excavation begins

I “unconsciously” found myself in Denmark to visit a friend in Sweden and BAM - a wave of grief knocked me off my feet. A week later, I realized I needed to see my Danish family for the first time as an adult. I had been 12 the last time we were able to visit and I didn’t know if they would remember me or want to see me. But I sent an email to every aunt and uncle - letting them know I would love to see them and would love to hear any story they had about my Dad. 

His only sister met me at the airport and the first thing she said was, “You look so much like your father.” Tears rushed down my face as I realized how I had expected never to hear that in my life. That people would only see the shape and color of my eyes and conclude I looked nothing like the blond, blue-eyed man. My heart cracked open just a little, hearing words I never thought I’d hear and seeing the warmth in her eyes. 

Each one of his hard-bellied brothers met me at their door and gave me a giant bear hug. They dusted off their English for me and poured out tales. They showed me the forest where my father played as a kid. They told me how brilliant he was and how much they miss him. They were brave enough to shed tears with me, these Vikings. They offered me rooms to live in, cars to drive, homes to stay in. After so many years, without a moment’s pause, they had me playing in the grass with their children and puppies. I felt so welcome - so at home. 

Surrounded with this much unexpected acceptance - all those times I didn’t feel like enough started floating up. Waves of grief of not knowing my father. Shame of feeling like I did not belong, of questioning my worth. Seeing all the ways I tried to be so that I wouldn’t lose loved ones. It pointed to a part of myself that wanted to come home…or wondered ever so silently, if there was a home to come back to. 

Each wave comes and I settle in a new place, seeing a little bit more of me. Feeling a bit more of the ground underneath my feet. That it’s okay to look, to see. To start believing that each part of myself I locked away might be met with love rather than exile. Finding peace with my father and myself. 

Part 4: No, thanks - this is a protected site.

My eyes are more open. I was craving to learn what the feeling of acceptance, home and security felt like. It’s so easy to beat myself up and say - “You’re an adult, you’re supposed to give that to yourself.” But it is not shameful to heal from the mirror of love around me. It’s okay for it to be hard. It’s okay for it to be easy. I’m learning how to love and be loved by those around me. 

I hope I keep believing and showing up. I hope I dare to stay. That I see how regardless of anyone’s acceptance, I still belong, right here at home with me. 

I’ve noticed as each wave that settles, I feel more settled in my experience - like my butt is wiggling into a couch that fits just me. While I don’t need others' welcomes so much, I find I still love them. 

I’ve started to see how much acceptance and love there has been all around me. How my incredible siblings love me more than anything. It was so much harder to see when there was so much pain. The more I see, the more I can see the love and the pain. I still get all indignant sometimes, but mostly I see the person who wants to connect and doesn’t know how. 

I think that my next step is to own my story and kindly say “No.” 

Now I’m playing with an answer that looks a little more like this: 

“What are you?”

“That’s personal for me, not open to talk about that right now.”

“Oh sorry, I didn’t know.”

“That makes sense, thanks for understanding.”