In my sixteen years I have been called several things; smart, beautiful, mature, gifted. These praises are a catalyst for a self-esteem boost. I feel beautiful, effervescent, unstoppable. Just as often I hear the cruel words: mutt, wasian, chink, and just as easily, I plummet into an abyss of anger and inner turmoil.

The moment we are asked to describe a person, what do we say? Do we illustrate the way a girl’s curls bounce by every movement? Do we describe the way the morning sunshine reflects the hazel in dark, ebony eyes? Unless you’re audaciously optimistic, your answer is undoubtedly no. We spend our entire lives subjugating and categorizing people on the color by their skin. I, not above any of this, do the same. Is it human nature to see only colors? Or is it human ignorance that wills us to form stereotypes?

To many people, I am a mutt; an unnatural mix of two cultures; destined for failure and condemned to hell. As a half-asian, I have the problem of looking nothing like my birth mom. Me, with my big eyes, curly hair, and western curves; her, jet-black hair, almond eyes, and a slight frame. Together we are mom and daughter, a dynamic if not odd-looking duo; take six steps apart, we become perfect strangers.

As if the gawking looks, the pointed fingers, and whispered giggles aren’t enough, an occasional outspoken person graciously informs me of the harmatia in our tragedy. To them, we are disgusting. They tell us our relationship is wrong, unethical. How is it that the purest love between mother and daughter can be soiled by an amalgamation of races? To them we have threatened humanity. My parents have created a mutation in our white-oriented society; a mix. A new specie. A child. A beautiful child with the knowledge and ability to understand and love two distinct cultures.

To make matters worse, I am not only an unnatural mix of cultures, but am also dating a menacing black man. Standing at six-feet-two with an uncanny ability to play basketball, I am dating the stereotypical black man to an unobservant observer. On dates, people look at me with pity, sometimes distress. As an outwardly caucasian woman, the sheer notion that I willingly date a chocolate man, is ludicrous. Judgmental stares and cruel words settle into my skin; n*****, pimp, night rider.

Clichéd as it is, first impressions are not always right. My tiger-mom is really a fun-loving, spunky artist. My boyfriend, an I.B graduate and concert bassoonist. So though we instinctively judge those around us by colors and racial characteristics, be strong enough to fight them. We are strong enough to defy the odds; assuming the role in conquering the battle against race, and seeing people for who they really are. So while the world groups us systematically by race, I strive to love a person, not a color. So I am wasian and proud.