The mixed-race Texan

Christina Mullins, Workday compensation analyst, and proud Asian American living in Texas

My whole life I have straddled two completely different cultures. On one hand, being half white meant I learned to morph into someone who could fit in easier. On the other, I found myself not knowing much about my Korean heritage, and I was always aware that I looked different.

My parents met in Seoul, South Korea — dad was the dashing American Army soldier on his long tour, and mom was the lovely admin assistant. I was born in Fort Hood, Texas, but spent the majority of my growing up years in Lubbock, Texas. It’s the home of Buddy Holly, the Texas Tech Red Raiders (my alma mater!), cotton gins, farms, blowing dust and some of the flattest landscape you’ll ever see.

Growing up in Lubbock, I found it difficult to connect with my Korean heritage. I minimally speak the language. My mom said when I was young, she tried to only speak Korean to me, but I argued with her. I don’t remember doing that — but it was hard for her to reinforce the language by herself. The Korean community in Lubbock was (and is) very, very small. She’d take me to her church that had some kids who spoke Korean, but it didn’t help. The kids were not nice. They would intentionally only speak Korean to each other, so they didn’t have to include me. I never got to participate in their fun and usually was on the playground alone. I never made friendships with any of them. The only thing that kept me going to mom’s church was the amazing food buffet that awaited us after the service was over. Otherwise, I hated going.

Another reason I thought connecting to my Korean half was hard was that I’ve only met my mom’s side of the family once. Back then, affordable, global flights didn’t exist like they do today. We didn’t have FaceTime, Facebook Messenger or WhatsApp to maintain our family ties, so I never developed relationships with my mom’s family.

As I got into my teen years, I really hated how different I looked. A girl on my swim team once asked if I was adopted because I looked nothing like my dad. Her question caught me off-guard, and after a particularly hard practice, I cried in the locker room. It felt like a gut punch.

It also didn’t help that lots of people in my rural high school had a general lack of knowledge and awareness of Asian cultures. Some spoke with such thick Texan accents that I had a hard time understanding them, even as a native English speaker. At the beginning of every school year it seemed, at least one person would ask me, “What are you?” The question usually carried an undertone of, “You aren’t white, and I don’t think you’re Hispanic” (another large demographic in Lubbock and Texas as a whole). This question often made me feel like a creature from outer space. I would think, “What do you mean … what am I? I’m a person for God’s sake!” But I’d begrudgingly respond, “My mom is Korean, and my dad is white.” They would follow up with ignorant questions like, “Oh, so do you eat dogs?” It was a constant battle of people’s lack of exposure to other ethnicities and making wildly incorrect assumptions about my mom and the culture I shared with her.

My experiences don’t stop there, but I don’t want this to turn into, “Things that stunk about my early life.” Because it wouldn’t be accurate or truthful. I met some of the sweetest people in high school, most of whom appreciated me, for me. I still keep in touch with these people and am thankful they are in my life. I just wanted to share some big things that have impacted the way I perceive the world. It has taught me how to roll with situations that are uncomfortable, identify what can become a teachable moment and celebrate my own diversity. I know how to be caring and empathetic in my approach with those who share my experience. I hope to pass this wisdom on to my daughter.

I’ll leave you with this story after speaking about how I always felt like I looked so different from others. Anytime I met one of my mom’s friends or acquaintances, they would ask my mom questions or chit-chat with her in Korean while staring directly at me. I imagined they were saying something like, “How old is she?” “What grade is she in?” or “Does she play any instruments?” I never really knew what they were saying, but I could make a good guess. Without fail, the conversation always ended with, “Aye-ooo, yeppeoyo!” In Korean, “yeppeoyo” means, “You are pretty.” As a teenager who felt awkward, this always made smile, even if I was too cool to admit that people genuinely thought I was pretty. Now that I’m a mom, my mom’s friends say this to my daughter. It not only makes me physically smile, but my soul smiles, too.