2018 #MinneAsianStories: Hello, Neighbor

Really, You’re Asian?

By Aara Johnson, Blaine

I thought that eating half a plate of white rice with a few vegetables and fried fish was normal. I thought my slimy, red hands after peeling shrimp was normal. My mother’s stick-straight black hair wouldn’t shake much as she laughed to her Filipino shows—ones I never understood. I thought it was normal to have turkey, mashed potatoes, and green beans at Thanksgiving or Christmas. It did not phase me as a child that my mother was the only Asian person at these holiday family parties on my dad’s side. I have always called Minnesota home. And, I have always said that I grew up Asian because my mother was the main child-rearing parent. But, different experiences have challenged my dual-identity.

Every first day of school or a new class, I knew when my name was coming up. I could see the struggle in my teacher’s voice when they tried to pronounce it. “Aah-rah?” “Area?” “Aria?” I’d joke and tell them not to worry because my last name—Johnson—made up for my first name: Air-a. I’d always get questions, too, like “what are you” or be met with disbelief when I told them I was Asian—like I was lying or something. I visited “the motherland” for the first time when I was four, the time I first remember visiting was in 7th grade. Because I didn’t know tagalog, I studied from a book to have a decent handle on some vocabulary and phrases. But, the fast-paced conversation flew through my ears without comprehension. And still does. The next four times I visited felt like home even though I couldn’t fully communicate: passing the colorful, smoky jeepneys or the small corner shops selling beer by the bottle. Or, feeling the hot, sticky sun constantly without the refuge of air conditioning.

Whenever I’m in a group of white folks, I tend to feel—deep down—a sense of disconnect. I used to wonder if I were a “real Minnesotan” because I didn’t have a cabin up north or spent my weekends at hot dog and burger barbecues. When hanging out with other people of color, I felt more comfortable and realized how white I wasn’t. But then, when I was at Filipino parties, or even other pan-Asian events, I’d feel the same disconnect but from the opposite perspective. Although I recognized and enjoyed tangy pancit, crunchy lechon, and smooth leche flan, I sometimes feel like some white girl visiting The Philippines and appropriating the culture. Like I can’t actually claim it as my heritage even though it runs through my veins.

I understand my struggle as racial impostor syndrome: feeling fake or inauthentic in an identity. I’m realizing that I’m living in a multiracial society on an individual level. I embrace both parts of myself and double the fun. My personal struggle to live in self-harmony helped me appreciate the progress toward diversity and inclusion in society.

Check out the rest of #MinneAsianStories.