Skin Color Matters

I am Nordic. Oh, I tan easily enough. Through the summer, my skin turns a golden brown, deepening as the months go by—and the color lingers and lasts. I’m still brownish even at mid-winter. But no matter how you cut it, I am Nordic—so Nordic that no amount of tanning or cosmetic surgery could ever conceal that indisputable fact.

My inside though, is not so Nordic. I grew up in Taiwan, where the culture, weather, language, and rituals intertwined with my Nordic-ness and formed an odd hybrid of a person.

I took this person to L.A. and went about my business trying to adapt to yet another challenge: the American persona. But that is another story, not the episode I want to relate about when skin and culture collided.

It was just a simple trip to Ranch 99, a big Asian chain I frequent when I need a new supply of Dou Ban Jiang for my fried rice or some lotus root for a salad. The market was busy. Probably a Sunday, for they had lots of samples. I shopped and sampled and finally lined up at the check-out. The young woman behind the counter seemed harried. She scooped up my bag of pork and scanned it.

"Great price on pork this week," I said to her in Chinese.

"Yes," she answered in Chinese.

"The long beans look quite fresh," I continued, still speaking Chinese.

"We got them in this morning," she replied, also in Chinese.

This exchange went on for the duration of my check-out. After scanning the last item, she finally looked up.

"It's not possible!" she said—in Chinese.

“What?” I asked, in the same language.

She looked me in the eye. "You don't speak Chinese."

“What language are we conversing in?” I asked.

She just stared at me. Finally, she looked down. “This is not right,” she said, still in our mutual language. “Your skin color is not correct."

Her arrogance made me chuckle, but before you reach any conclusions about my own innocence, let me relate another brief incident that occurred—in China.

I was on a riverboat cruise in Quilin, one of the most scenic spots on the face of this earth. Because I was not a resident, I was relegated to the tourist boat, one decorated to the hilt and filled with fellow travelers from around the world, all eager to enjoy in the breathtaking scenery—and believe me, we enjoyed!

I couldn't help noticing a striking young woman in full Korean traditional dress being photographed in all her finery by, who? A gangly looking Scandinavian. Yes, Scandinavian! What was such a beautiful Korean doing with one of my pale-skinned, gawky countrymen?

Oh yes, I categorized. I profiled, I judged, I pigeon-holed. And in the end, I got egg on my face—actually, more like three dozen eggs on my soul!

I, who considered myself worldly, having traveled more than most. I, who considered myself sensitive, having been labeled without consent or knowledge of background. I, the objective cultural-anthropology major, jumped to the conclusion that this was yet another case of a less-than-attractive Scandinavian man falling for a vulnerable Asian woman.

Oh the egg! The presumptions! I blush even now as I recall their story.

Turns out, she spoke not one word of Korean. No, no, she’d been adopted as a baby, raised in Norway—met and fallen in love with her husband—and actually had more claim to my heritage than I did!

He was the one who had suggested they use their wedding trip to tour Korea and explore her cultural heritage. They’d followed that with a trip to China to debrief and digest their feelings.

So what do I do with this knowledge? What do we do?

When we meet people, we make three vast assumptions based on our first impressions: age, sex, and race. Sometimes we never examine our knee-jerk conclusions because we simply need to get on with our lives and retain a sense of order. But could we possibly stop for a while? Could I stop for just a moment, just to be aware of my ever-active brain and ask it to slow down before these assumptions take root as truths in my mind?

It may take many, many more eggs to make this happen, but perhaps my psyche will finally get it. Perhaps—if I can remember to take a deep breath when these automatic categorizations pop up, and then challenge and think a bit—I won't need to wipe off so many eggs in the future.