Third Culture Kid(s)

In the first few months after I started dating M., I became an almost insufferable advocate for handicapped accessibility. M. kind of laughed at it, to the extent that he paid it any mind at all, because, in the end, it wasn’t me who was disabled, it was him. He told me that “normals” often get that way when they make a disabled friend, because it’s the first time they (we) see the world for the entirely inaccessible place it really is. It’s nothing for me to pop a couple of steps up into a cute little shop tucked away in an old house, filled with cute, breakable objects all placed on tightly arranged shelves; for M., it’s next to impossible. Even if he can get his scooter in (and, in this kind of shop, it’s a near-impossibility), maneuvering is another story entirely. And if he can’t get his scooter in and has to use his cane, there’s often no handrail to help him in, no seating for him to take a break when his legs ache, and it only takes one fall on a cute, trendy area rug to demonstrate that most of the shelves in places like this are made of balsa wood.

It took me a long time to kind of back off and realize that: a) it’s not my fight; b) my perspective is different from M.’s; c) I will never, ever know what it’s like to be born with a physical disability, and I can’t presume to speak for M. or other disabled folks. Since M. is an adult, it’s not such a hard realization to have, but I’ve slowly learned that, even if it affects my life as well, it’s not about me. I can be an ally, I can try to share my perspective, but that’s about the extent of it.

There’s been a lot of talk on the weblogs lately about the challenges of parenting bi/multiracial children, much of it from parents who are of one or another racial group. They recognize the challenges - and, let’s face it, obstacles - their children will face as they grow older, and they’re struggling to find ways of making it easier. I know the feeling. We don’t know whether we’ll stay in the States for the rest of our lives, or whether we’ll wind up overseas, but there’s no guarantee that MM will always be in a community that accepts her for who she is. She may have white kids pulling up their eyes at her; she may have black kids asking her if she knows Jackie Chan; she may have Asian kids telling her she’s not “really” Japanese or “really” Korean. Or she may get along swimmingly with everyone. Who knows?

The only thing I do know is that I’m not biracial. M. - while bicultural, so to speak - is also not biracial in the strict sense of the word.* In our family, only MM is biracial, and only she will know firsthand what that’s like. I can see the potential problems a mile away, but she’s the one who’s going to have to experience them, should they arise. All I can do is be a teacher, an advocate, and an ally. I can nurture self-confidence and empathy in her. I can be there when the hard things happen, and help her decide how to deal with her problems. But I can’t stop them from happening, no matter where I move, no matter how carefully I try to control her environments, no matter how well I equip her with the knowledge and experiences she needs to move freely between cultures. There will always be obstacles, there will always be injustices, and there will always be people who just don’t get it.

We middle/upper-class ‘whiteys’ (to borrow Johnny’s term) have a hard time accepting this, I think. The world seems wide open to us - we’ve internalized the right to go anywhere, do anything, be anyone, and feel justified in our choices. We have a hard time accepting that it’s not always that easy, and - when our babies are involved - we’re often overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. But the best we can do is take our awareness of the injustice and make others like us aware. We can’t protect our children - all we can do is teach them how to protect and fight for themselves.

*In Japan, M.’s biracial. Here, it’s more bicultural, since there’s not so much distinguishing between the Japanese and Korean parts in the States.