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Paine Proffitt
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Dining out at the Six Chilis
Café, Chaynor and I sat side by side, across
from our best friends, Mark and Jie—another interracial
couple. When two unsolicited forks arrived with our
Mongolian beef, I knew one was for me and one for Mark,
the other Caucasian. I could tell the waitress assumed
Mark and I were dating, so I planted a kiss on Chaynor’s
cheek, noting the surprise of many Asian patrons. Their
response was nothing new.
Born and raised in a predominantly Asian community
in the Bay Area, I have dated only Chinese men, and
each of my four relationships drew the same stares.
I’m commonly branded a “rice chaser”
and accused of having an “Asian fetish,”
labels that—even though I’ve learned to
laugh them off—prompt a sinking feeling in my
stomach. But in spite of every discouragement, I know
the reality: my heart beats fast when I pass an attractive
Asian man on the Quad, I can listen to a boyfriend speak
Mandarin for hours, and since age 12, when I’ve
pictured the man of my dreams, he’s been Asian.
A week into seventh grade, a cute kid named Derek Chu
folded me a paper crane. Our torrid romance lasted six
months and basically consisted of holding hands. At
the time, race meant little more than liking different
food.
Now, however, the interracial dating game isn’t
as simple. Upon arriving at Stanford, I was stunned
by the relative isolation of the Asian community. They
had their own organizations, clubs, sororities, parties
and dances. Before college, my best friends, boyfriends
and boss were Chinese, but none of us had dwelled on
race. For the first time, I felt a widening divide.
At Stanford, I have heard both Caucasian and Asian
people contend that American culture does not view Asian
men as sexually attractive. Ironically, I found myself
feeling undesirable as more of the young Chinese men
I encountered confessed they were only interested in
dating Chinese women, that white women didn’t
fit their standard of beauty. I wonder who is more shortsighted—these
men for rejecting me on the basis of skin color, or
me for automatically discounting white men.
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I wonder who is more shortsighted—Chinese
men for rejecting me on the basis of skin color,
or me for automatically discounting white men.
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Self-imposed segregation isn’t the only obstacle
to interracial dating. I remember Chaynor telling me
about the time his parents asked if his girlfriend was
white. When he nodded, he saw sadness spread over his
mother’s face. When he added that I went to Stanford,
his father responded, “Well, that’s something.”
I made a point of wearing my Stanford sweatshirt when
I first met them, almost as compensation for my whiteness.
Sitting around the dining room table with his family—including
his 12-year-old sister, who twice asked me for my last
name—I tried to show off my refined chopstick
skills and limited knowledge of Mandarin. At one point,
Chaynor’s father asked me if I knew anything about
Hunan province, and I was stumped. More than that, it
felt like there was no place for me in Chaynor’s
future, that I would always make his life more complicated
than it had to be.
As difficult as that was, my boyfriends have had to
submit to my dad’s quizzes about the infield-fly
rule to prove they weren’t athletically inept.
While my parents have tried to be accepting, they’ve
said they don’t know how to talk to my Chinese
boyfriends, as if they really don’t speak the
same language.
When Chaynor and I broke up, we agreed we didn’t
have enough in common to make it work. In truth, we
knew our relationship had been a casualty of parental
expectations.
My Chinese friends will be the first to say that I’m
just as Chinese as they are—I was even invited
to rush Alpha Kappa Delta Phi, Stanford’s Asian
sorority. But recently I’ve found myself drawn
to Asian men who pride themselves on being more American
than Chinese. Maybe I’ve given up trying to fit
impossible cultural ideals. I wonder whether I’ll
eventually decide to date Caucasians—and if this
will necessarily mean I’ve surrendered.
Either way, I’m glad I’ve had the chance
to live and love on the fine line of racial difference.
It has allowed me to grow into myself, learn about others
and recognize the traits I desire in a potential partner.
I’ve had the chance to appreciate the tremendous
influence of culture, even as I struggled against it.
And when a waiter brings me a fork, I still pick up
the chopsticks.
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