Half and Half

“y
our form isn't complete, Fiona,” said the recreations director. “I can't let you enroll in the folk dancing class until it's completely filled in.”

The recreation center is located at a park not far from my school. For years the center had been used for adult education classes, such as pottery and language lessons. Recently the building was remodeled and expanded, and they started having classes for young people, too.

When I heard there were folk dancing classes, I immediately went over to enroll. I had never filled out one of their forms before, and I didn't know what the director meant by the form not being completely filled in. I looked it over again.

It looked good to me.

“You didn't check a box for race,” she said. “To get government funding, we have to let them know how many kids we have in each of the race categories.”

This was a problem I'd bumped into before, but I still wasn't sure how to handle it. I took the form from her. “I'll finish it later,” I muttered, and quickly left the recreation center.

On the way home, I tried to decide on the best way to complete the form. I had to check one of the boxes that
said, “White,” “Asian,” “Black,” “Hispanic,” “Native American,” or “Other.” None of them would be right, though, because I'm not any one of those things. I'm half and half: my father is Chinese and my mother is Scottish. I couldn't just check either “White” or “Asian” since I'm half of each.

I suppose I could have checked the box for “Other,” but I didn't want to. It would make me feel like an outsider, a weirdo who didn't belong anywhere. I wanted to fit in like everyone else. Why didn't they have a box for people like me, who were half and half?

When I got home, Mom was in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea. She teaches math at the university, so she's often home in the afternoon. She drinks tea instead of coffee, even though we live in Seattle, the nation's coffee capital. Tea is cheaper than coffee since you can use the tea bag over again. You see, Mom is very thrifty.

She says it's because a mathematician's aim when proving a theorem is to use as little as possible to prove as much as possible. In other words, you always spend a teeny bit to get a whole lot. After doing this for years and years, you wind up being ver-r-r-y thr-r-r-ifty.

I took a seat at the kitchen table. “Mom, what am I?” I asked.

She frowned. “What do you mean? You're Fiona Cheng, last time I looked.”

“I'm not asking you who I am,” I said. “I'm asking you what I am.”

“What brought this on?” asked Mom, sipping her tea and looking at me over the rim of the cup. I think she suspected that the problem had something to do with our family being racially mixed. It's not something the two of us often discuss.

I told her about the form I had to fill out for the folk dancing class. Mom didn't answer right away. The expression in her hazel eyes didn't tell me much. “Why not check two boxes, one for ‘Asian' and one for ‘White'?” she suggested after a while.

“I don't think they'll accept that,” I sighed. Suddenly I became angry. “Why do grown-ups always have to sort people into boxes anyway?”

“They like to do that, don't they?” said Mom. “But you can't always sort people by the way they look.”

To be honest, though, I sorted people, too. Whenever I met another racially mixed kid for the first time, I thought about percentages. I said to myself, “Let's see … 65%/35%,” meaning that he looks 65% one race and 35% another. Later, when I got to know the person well, I'd forget about the percentage business for the most part. But it was a tough habit to break completely. Maybe I get it from Mom's love of mathematics?

Since Mom wasn't any help, I went upstairs to Dad's studio. He writes and illustrates children's books. His best-known books are a series about a dragon living in ancient China. Dragons are supposed to do all sorts of good things, like bringing rain to lands suffering from drought. But Dad's dragon is secretly scared of water, and just about everything else, too. So how can his dragon present a majestic and fearsome image to the world while preserving his shameful secret? Each of Dad's books puts his dragon in a tight spot, but the dragon always manages to get out of it somehow.

I knew Dad was working on the illustrations for his latest dragon book. Normally I don't like to interrupt him, but this time I needed help.

Dad looked up from his drawing board and placed a large sheet of paper over the picture he was working on. He always does this automatically whenever anyone comes in while he's in the middle of something. He hates having people look at his work before he's satisfied with it.

“What's up, Fiona?” he asked.

I asked him the same question I had asked Mom. “I have to fill out a form for the folk dancing class, and they want to know what race I am. Should I check the box for ‘Asian,' or the box for ‘White'?”

Dad looked at me. His eyes are a dark brown, just like mine. “Would it bother you to check the box for ‘Asian'?” he asked.

“Of course it wouldn't,” I said quickly. I've always known that I look more Asian. I have my dad's brown eyes, straight dark hair, and dark skin. By checking the box for “Asian,” I would be telling him that I belonged with his people.

“It's just that I have to be accurate,” I told Dad. “The recreation center has to report the number of kids they have in each race to get money from the government.”

“Then you should do whatever feels right to you,” said Dad.

The problem was that I didn't know what felt right to me.

There was only one person left to ask: my brother, Ron. He's twelve years old and has reddish hair and much paler skin than mine. He takes after Mom. I look about 30% white and 70% Asian, while Ron looks maybe 75% white and 25% Asian.

Ron is small for his age, and he's sensitive about his size. He's very conscious that he's exactly the same height as me, even though he's a year older. Mom keeps telling him, “Boys get their growth spurt later, Ron. By the time you're sixteen, you'll overtake Fiona in height.”

That's not much comfort to Ron. If you're twelve, sixteen seems an awfully long way off.

Ron used to get picked on by some bullies in school, so Dad had him enroll in kung fu classes to give him confidence. Nobody picks on Ron now. But I know he's still conscious of being one of the shortest boys in his class, and more than anything else, he hates being called a sissy.

I went up to his room. “Say, Ron, you're signing up for the kickboxing team at the recreation center, right?”

He looked up from his homework. “Yeah. So?”

“Have you filled out the form yet?” I asked.

“It's filled out and ready to hand in.”

“Which box did you check for race?”

Ron looked at me. His eyes are a light brown, not quite Mom's hazel, but not dark brown like Dad's, either. “Let's see …,” he said. “I guess I checked the box for ‘Other.'”

“And was that okay with you?” I asked.

“Why should it?” he asked. “None of the other boxes seemed to fit.”

“But doesn't that bother you? That anyone who doesn't fit into one of the categories on the form is just lumped into ‘Other'?”

Ron shrugged. “I kind of like it when they can't fit me in a box so easily.”

It really didn't bother him. Ron didn't mind not belonging. He was perfectly happy to be a loner.

If only it was that easy for me.

Next morning, on the way to the school bus, I still hadn't decided how to fill out my form. If I didn't do it soon, I'd miss the deadline for enrolling in the dance class.

Suddenly I had a brilliant idea: since Ron and I were both half and half, I could check the box for Asian and he could check the box for White.

I was so pleased with my idea that I didn't hear my name being called until I had nearly gotten to the bus stop.

“Hey, wait up, Fiona!”

I turned around and saw my friend Amanda Tanaka. Amanda is Japanese American, and she never has to worry about her race. People think they know all about her since she looks 100% Asian.

I remember the first time I met Amanda. It was a year ago, when our family had moved to Seattle from San Francisco. I was starting school that fall.

Being new, I felt kind of lost. It didn't help that the teacher was also kind of lost. She was a substitute, and she was very young and nervous. Reading the roll, she came to my name and had trouble pronouncing it. “Fee … Fee…,” She began. Then she looked up at me. “Or is it Fi, as in hi-fi?”

There were some snickers from the class. I heard one boy whisper, “Fee fi fo fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!”

“It's Fee,” I said. I took a deep breath and said calmly, “My name is pronounced Fee-OH-nah.”