There are multiple “Top 10” lists currently floating around the internet about Asian Guys. Many of them — naturally — cite more than 10 reasons for dating an Asian male. Continue reading Top 8 Reasons Why Top 10 Reasons Are Crap (#34)
A piece of golden stationery and a Honda Civic that smelled of cat pee led me to the door of a room in a fancy hotel. I pushed the door open. Andy, my Chinese-American boyfriend, stood in the center of the room, holding a rose. My nervous eyes jumped around the room. Huge bed, already turned down, decorated by a box of See’s truffles. The man knew me well. (One dinner mint on a pillow isn’t even an appetizer!) The room was bigger than my apartment. The furniture was mahogany. The floors were marble.
Thankfully, there was no sign of a square jewelry box. Continue reading Skydiving (#22)
The first time I met my Chinese-American boyfriend’s parents, they were not impressed. Not by my appearance, not by the gifts I brought, and not by my conversational abilities. When Andy announced that we were going to Dim Sum with his grandmother, I was pleased. Here was my chance to show Jay and Sunny that I had some familiarity and respect for their cuisine, at least. This white girl can use chopsticks! Continue reading Dim Sum. Dim White Girl. Aw, Fork! (#8)
When you’re visiting your significant other’s family for the first time, you’re never sure how to picture the sleeping arrangements. Will you be in separate rooms? Or on separate floors?
Andy is a first-generation American, born in Hawaii. His parents are Chinese.
Having majored in dating along with history, you’d think I’d have been more aware of cultural differences. My first boyfriend was Sri Lankan. I’d dated several African-Americans, Latinos, a Brit, a Korean-American, a Hawaiian, a bunch of white Catholics, a Filipino, a Mormon, a few Jewish men, way too many military officers, and a Baptist. I think the only ethnicity and religion I missed was Middle-Eastern/ Muslim, unless you want to count the Moroccan at the Fairfax Holiday Inn who kept inviting me up to his room when I was sixteen. (Said Moroccan skipped reading Morocco’s own diplomatic research packet, which undoubtedly have told him that girls in Washington D.C. who wear miniskirts and red shoes ARE NOT NECESSARILY PROSTITUTES. Seriously, did he think the metal on my teeth implied dominatrix rather than orthodontics?)
Today I met my boyfriend’s family. I also discovered I was unworthy of my college gradation honors.
What kind of history major doesn’t do research?