The story goes that my Mom met a boy from school named Reggie, and over time, they became an item. When vacation time came, they invited Reggie to join them on a family road trip to Rigby, Idaho to visit my great grandparents.


My great grandmother, being born and raised in rural Idaho, surrounded by the farming community she knew and loved, was a hard working, kind and welcoming women. However, her exposure to cultures and people other than her own were fairly limited. So, in typical teasing Chandler fashion, when they mentioned that Nancy was bringing a friend, they 'forgot' to mention that 1. That friend was a boy and 2. he most definitely did not look like most boys she had seen before, with his Afro and brown skin.

When they pulled up to the house, it was very obvious to everyone that my Great Grandma was shocked, and fairly uncomfortable. So after the initial greetings and awkward introductions, my Mom and Dad ran outside to enjoy the remnants of the last snow fall. I wonder now if in those moments they could feel the eyes of the adults in the house on them-I wonder if my Dad felt the awkward questions forming in my great grandmas head, the pre-made judgements that had been formed about him and where he came from, and people like him. But instead of letting that slow him down and question his presence there, my outgoing, confident [even overly so, just like me haha..] Dad didn't stop.

Instead, he stood out in the cold with my Mom, and found every last bit of snow he could in the brown and muddy green patched land, and gathered it together to built a snow man that my Grandma could see. And in the course of that work, something happened. My great grandma watched from the window and a smile grew steadily, as her pre conceived notions started to ebb away with the last bits of snow. I imagine she stopped seeing his big hair or brown skin, and instead saw an enthusiastic, fun loving teenager trying so hard to make his Granddaughter, and her Great Grandma smile. And it worked...from that day on she became a huge fan of my Dad and never stopped being one even after they were married, even after they had me and me siblings, and even up until the day she died many years later.



My point in telling this story is this. I am a result of those decisions made by Dad that day, and by my great Grandma as well. We live in a day where it feels so often like we've taken one step forward and two steps back-I come from an interracial family, and have created my own beautiful, diverse  interracial family in turn. Growing up as a teen, there were times where it felt like there was no place for me-in the Polynesian community, I looked too white, and there was no room for a 'pelongi' girl, even though my sister right beneath me was welcomed with open arms and kisses on the cheek.

In the white community, I was always too loud, too outgoing, or in other words, too 'brown' in my personality, and I couldn't relate to my peers and I could feel that. And the funny thing was, I don't think I even realised my family was inter racial until those teenage years when there was no place for someone like me. I felt culturally homeless. But as I grew, I learned to ignore that-to find my own place, and carve my own spot out and show people I didn't care what they thought, bc I KNEW I belonged-and people responded to that. Pretty soon, peoples arms were opened for me, with kisses in the Polynesian community, and a look of relief from my white friends when I walked in to help liven up the party.

When I saw that picture in my Grandma's room this last trip, I felt all of these things so deeply. That day, it was absolutely not my Dad's responsibility to show my Great Grandma she was wrong. His value as a person and worth in society was not her decision, and it didn't come from her approval-it would have been totally human and appropriate for him to have been offended, hurt and angry by her behaviour. But he wasn't. He turned the other cheek.


And when my Dad showed my Grandma in action that she was wrong-she could have been prideful and set in her ways, and refuse to see that she was wrong, or required any change-but she didn't. She learned, and she was teachable, and she changed her mind, no matter how long it had been set that way or how old she was, or how much life experience she had.


Some people will say as POC, it is not our responsibility to try to teach the ignorant, naive or even racist, be it wilful or not. Our worth doesn't come from their opinions or reactions of us, and we should stand up for that-and honestly, I agree with that. But we can ALSO do what my Dad did and SHOW them through our actions that they are wrong, plain and simple-and hopefully they will see that. But if they don't, that doesn't change who we are and what we are worth, and our ability to show everyone else what we can do, and have done. We can teach them they are wrong-and if they don't listen, instead of sinking to their level and fighting fire with fire-we can be like Martin Luther King Jr. [whom we celebrate today], and stand up, and rise above. As he said, use light to dispel darkness-both in our being, and in our actions.

And as white people, some have said it is not our responsibility to be always be changing, to be teachable and willing to see that there are perspectives we don't have, and slights that we will never experience-they say it is not our job to learn that we may have been ignorant or privileged as a result of someone elses misjudgements. But we CAN if we choose to, open our hearts and our minds, and be humble and teachable, and learn, and improve, and become better people as we realise that our experiences are not every ones, and we can do better then those before us, and gain new, important relationships that better the entire world around us.

Now that Lester and I are in a new, more rural place then what we are used to, with sweet little ones of our own, I worry daily about the world my kids are living in, and the things they will experience. For the most part, people have been nothing but kind here-but even then, I find myself often at a loss as it seems that everyone here has had the same childhood, and my life and experiences have been complete opposites-sometimes I feel that even though everyone is kind, I have nothing common with them, or any ability to relate-and I start to feel culturally homeless again, just like I was when I was a kid. And I worry that my kids will experience that too, and I want to shield them from all of it.


But then I think of my Dad, and my great Grandma, and mom Mom and grandparents who didn't think twice about my parents relationship, and of that picture, and now, all the beautiful, colourful ones that have come since-and about these two people, who came from worlds apart, and both came to love and learn from each other. And I have hope again.

Hope for that world that Martin Luther King Jr talked about all those years ago. A real, tangible, reach-out-and-grab -it world. One where we all sit down at table full of Kahlua pork, spam musubi, chocolate chip cookies, casseroles, home made white bread, bistek, pancit, lumpia and halo halo, and shoot maybe some napoleta pizza, fried chicken and collard greens, some soup dumplings, pho and sushi while we're at it, and all hold hands and say a prayer without a touch of irony or trepidation or fear. And I start to feel like maybe, even if I feel different while I'm here, maybe that a good thing; maybe I can help be that person who gets to start that marathon cooking session that fills our bellies, and changes our views and opens our hearts.

And it makes me feel like even if it stretches us, maybe, just maybe...it will be worth it. So thats where I'm at these days. Feeling grateful and inspired by my ancestors, and hopeful for my descendants, who will have some good footprints to follow when they are feeling lost or alone. Life is beautiful-I just need to remind myself of that sometimes.