By Nikki Muehlhausen, Crystal

Introducing myself has never been easy.

“What‘s your name?”

Traditional. German. An invisibility cloak — with the power to thwart off awkwardness. But after all these years, I still can’t seem to get it to cover my face.

“With that name, I was expecting someone else.”

My apologies. Let me go find that person. I’ll show you an ID, if that helps my case.

“Where are you from?”

Minnesota.

“No, I mean, where are you from?”

Korea.

That answer always comes with a gotcha look — I’m the child, caught with her hand in the candy. Busted.

“Are those your parents?”

A fiery red haired Scandinavian mother. A lumberjack of a German father. A jet black-haired, almond-eyed daughter. But yes, they are.

My answers always flow out of my mouth the same and seemingly in the same order: I‘m Korean. South. Not North. Adopted. Infant. No, I’ve never met “those parents.”

And if I’m lucky enough to keep their attention, my addendum: I’m a Minnesotan. I live on the lake in the summer, hunt deer in the fall, cheer for the Twins in the spring & complain about the weather just as much as the next guy in the winter.

Nice to meet you.

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