This story is one of three stories about mixed race experience, each told by a different member of the Black-Chinese American Malone Family. We encourage you to listen to the short audio pieces, each roughly 3-4 minutes long.
Listen to Hui-Ling Malone's story:
“Here, wear this.” My mom hands me a matching
skirt and blouse that she pulled from deep within my bedroom closet. It’s
white, with blue and purple trimming, styled in traditional Chinese fashion.
“I have to wear this?” I say in my ten
year-old, exasperated voice.
“Mei-Ling, Ai-Ling!” My mom calls to my
sisters. “Get dressed.” My sisters give each other a knowing look and get
moving.
My maternal grandfather is in town and we are
going to visit him. I’ve never met him
before because he lives in Taiwan. And we live in California.
As my mom heads across the hall I hear her
shout, “Amani, Khulani, Nkululeko, you better be dressed!”
My three brothers all have Swahili names and
us girls got Chinese names. If you couldn’t tell by looking at us that we were
racially different, our names definitely put that nail in the coffin. There was
no escaping our Chinese-Black biracial identity.
I put the outfit on and walk into my parents
room. My mom is wearing a black dress with pearls around her neck. My dad is
wearing a black suit and a gold tie. He looks like he is going to give a
sermon.
“Sunshine, where are the rings?” My dad asks
my mom. He was fumbling around in the cabinet.
He finds the two gold wedding bands. My eyes
dart back and forth between my parents. I can feel the nervous energy in the
room.
My parents have been married for twenty years,
but they never wear rings. Today their rings are on.
My siblings and I pile into the silver mini
van. All of my brothers are wearing suit jackets and slacks, complete with
collared dress shirts and ties, mirroring my dad. My teenage sisters are
wearing dresses and cardigans.
My dad drives us the one hour to San Francisco
where we are meeting my grandfather for dinner. My mom is in the passenger
seat, gently resting her hand on my father’s shoulder. My siblings and I laugh
and irritate one another in the back seats.
Inside the Chinese restaurant the server leads
us into a private room. Seated at the table are two Chinese elderly couples.
One of the couples is my grandfather and his wife. The other two are their
friends. I don’t know who is who. The first couple I see gives us a friendly
smile. I approach the elderly woman who happily greets us. I give her a hug.
My mom reroutes my attention to the other
couple and introduces me to my grandfather and his wife. My face flushes. My
eyes peer over my mom’s dad. He seems serious, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed. He
has thin silver hair and is wearing a white collared shirt and tie.
We are served a full course Chinese meal
complete with rice, chicken, pork, dumplings, and more. Throughout the dinner I
steal looks at my grandfather- trying to find any resemblances between us. It
amazes me that we’ve got the same blood running through our veins.
Soon, it’s time to return home. We take a
picture together before our departure. Little do I know this photo captures a
historic moment in my family. This was the first and last time my dad interacts with my mom’s father.
Later, we laughed about the moment I hugged
the wrong grandparent, which I suppose helps ease the discomfort of the
estranged relationship. Even at my grandfather’s funeral fifteen years later, I
could still feel the more than just physical distance lingering between us. His
caring enough about my immediate family to help us financially did not make him
feel less like a stranger. I later understood that he wanted “more” for my
mother than partnering with a “lower class” Black man. He knew her life would be
harder. To some extent he was right- my parents did struggle and many of those
hardships were due to anti-Black racism. But, I wonder if we had interacted
more, he could see the beauty of the fusion between the two rich cultures that
shaped me.
