Kissing Outside the Lines

by Diane Farr

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1. - EURO GIRL FALLS FOR KOREAN DUDE IN CALIFORNIA

  CHAPTER 2. - WHITE FRESHMAN LOVES BLACK SENIOR IN PENNSYLVANIA

  CHAPTER 3. - A CRASH COURSE IN KOREAN CULTURE

  CHAPTER 4. - EVANGELICAL WHITE CHICK LOVES HINDU INDIAN MAN IN MARYLAND

  CHAPTER 5. - MEETING THE PARENTS

  CHAPTER 6. - MEXICAN AMERICAN LOVES PALESTINIAN ENGLISHMAN IN ILLINOIS

  CHAPTER 7. - GETTING AROUND MINE

  CHAPTER 8. - A RINGER ON MY FINGER

  CHAPTER 9. - NUBIAN FASHIONISTA LOVES WHITE BROTHER IN NEW YORK

  CHAPTER 10. - THEY WILL NOT BE JUDGED FOR ME

  CHAPTER 11. - ISRAELI JEWESS LOVES TRINIDADIAN HEATHEN IN WASHINGTON

  CHAPTER 12. - A KOREAN NIGHT + AN AMERICAN NIGHT = A QUELLED FIGHT

  CHAPTER 13. - LET’S TAKE THIS SHOW ON THE ROAD!

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgements

  NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SEAL PRESS

  Copyright Page

  FOR SEUNG YONG.

  A lesser man would have muzzled me right from the start.

  Sarang-ay-o, Big Daddy.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  All stories herein are true,

  as told from my perspective.

  All of the couples who appear in the book exist,

  they are not composites.

  In some cases, names and places

  have been changed to preserve privacy.

  And “timing is everything” as an actor,

  but not as an author,

  so the timing of events has been changed

  in some cases, as well.

  INTRODUCTION

  E ALWAYS HOPED OUR DAUGHTER WOULD NOT MARRY OUTSIDE OF OUR RACE

  ONE YEAR INTO my marriage, my mother looked at my husband and said, “We always hoped that Diane would not marry outside of our race.”

  My mother felt the silence in our living room. Her glance swung between my husband’s eyes and mine. Looking at them did not give her pause so I had to interject. “Mom, you realize Seung and I are different races?” My mother grunted a laugh. “No, you’re not.”

  My husband is Korean. He was born in Seoul and immigrated to the United States as a child with his parents. I am a second-generation American, of Irish and Italian descent. And my mother, at fifty-eight years old, did not realize that my husband and I are different races because she, above everything else, is a New Yorker. And to a New Yorker, there are only two races, it seems: black and not black.

  I would say black and white, but every time my husband’s family refers to me as “white,” my mother, and the rest of my family, laughs out loud. My mother claims I am not white. You may be thinking my mother is not all there from the previous quote, but she’s right about my skin. My coloring is olive. My hair is dark. I’m taller than most American women, and my body frame is small. You could argue that I look Brazilian or Russian, with the body of a Swede or a sub-Saharan African, depending on your frame of reference. But when my Korean in-laws look at me I am most importantly not Asian. Therefore, I am white.

  While I do not own a set of pearls or a single knee-length skirt, nor have I ever been to a derby of any sort, we could assume the Koreans mean I am “culturally white.” But if this is acceptable logic, even an appropriate generalization, then why is my mother’s belief that my husband and I are of the same race wrong? Seung and I grew up watching the same TV shows. His sister and I had the same dolls and similar restrictions on eyeliner. He played all the same sports as my brothers and was also told that boys don’t cry. These similarities are all that my mother sees when she looks at my husband. Does the fact that my mother did not see my Korean-born husband as different from us make her more or less racist? Specifically, more or less racist than my husband’s parents, who categorize me with a culture I have little in common with except that it’s not theirs?

  Or are both of our parents’ misnomers just a generational mistake? Should every age be given license to use antiquated, incorrect language just because “they don’t mean it that way”? Should we also excuse young people in pockets of this country who use “regional” terms for race and religion just because their parents did? Or is there a larger question? Why don’t any of these people, of either generation, just consider themselves to be American—the most obvious and common bond between them all?

  The plain answer in my story is because the Koreans in this family trust Korean Americans more than other Americans. Not because they have an inherent dislike of anyone but because they feel most comfortable with their own race. As do many Americans, recent to this country or not. On the other hand, my mother felt that specific groups of Americans—having nothing to do with her heritage and only to do with her very regional experience—would not fit in her family. She may love all people as friends and neighbors and business partners, but she just didn’t see a comfortable fit at her holiday table for some. Neither of these prejudices is a blanket statement of hate. Both may even have validity. However, they become an issue when the parent expects the child to subscribe to (what is at the very least) their narrow-mindedness.

  IMMIGRATION TO THE UNITED STATES, today, usually leads to über-embracement of the society left behind. There is so much revelry afforded to the old country now that Americans whose ancestors have been in this country for two hundred years are seeking out and embracing foods, holidays, and clothing of people they presume a relation to and have often never met. So if many old and new Americans are burning a torch for a way of life that has nothing to do with their current residence, is the homage just alienating us from other Americans?

  It is this refusal to assimilate that stokes the argument to keep the others out of this country. But Jews and Greeks (here and in their homeland) require a bloodline for membership. So do the governments of Qatar, several African nations, and America for an American Indian classification. Most Laotians hate for their own to mix with Chinese, and many Cubans feel the same about Dominicans. And Tibetans will not let other races adopt their orphans. So why does my stomach turn when I hear an American radio station talk about a purebred white bloodline? Perhaps because these other nationals are at risk of losing their culture to a neighbor threatening to overtake them, yet I don’t feel America’s white man’s majority, or at least his dominance, is in any real jeopardy. Yes, Kwanza is celebrated in our preschools and Yom Kippur shuts down the cities of L.A. and New York and Spanish-only radio stations are found across the country. And you might wonder if the fanatical descendants of Plymouth Rock have a point about their country changing too much or too fast.

  Until you recall that this is the point that birthed America. It was not built as a refuge for just a few. These states were united for anyone suffering under a government that no longer took care of them. Our land, minus the unsustainable portions we gave back to the people who are really from America, is full of people who came from elsewhere, including the Anglo descendants of King James. There is no “seniority clause” in our constitution that gives more privileges to those who fled here the earliest. At this time in our history, when large portions of the world are so angry at the seeming entitlement of America, you would think our country might come together. But for all the social progress we have made over the last thirty years in public—in education and real estate, and business and friendship even—forward movement has not fully crossed over into the privacy of people’s homes. Many good people in this country, including my husband’s parents and mine, are still drawing a line at who is acceptable for love—and who is not. Man
y adult Americans alive today have been told by someone in their family that all people are created equal but still, “You can’t love one of them.” Maybe there was also a seemingly reasonable argument as to why whole groups of people are not “right” for your affections. Maybe these theories still make some sense but leave you to wonder if they fit with how you live the rest of your life—or if you would teach these sentiments to children. Yours or anyone’s ...

  MY MOTHER’S LIMITED experience with race was the smallest issue I faced when marrying a man whose hair is one shade darker than mine, as his family’s idea of a wife for him was never me. I’d love to think I could just walk you along my path to marriage and believe this could solve any problem between every Hatfield and McCoy of varying shades in America. But my experience is only one—of a racial mix that isn’t even that foreboding—and still it took a village full of advice for me to arrive at my union. So instead of pretending I’m a genius pioneer who scaled every racial speed bump America has to offer by my lonesome, this tale includes the most riveting couples I’ve met on my journey to making a family.

  With the help of all their insight, I finally constructed a road map to the destination I was originally looking for: the time and place in America where multicolored love stories live happily ever after. Where love really does trump race. And once I discovered it, I was no longer seeing this place solely from the perspective of my family. I was thinking about it from yours.

  YOU AND I ARE FOREVER ENTWINED. We are countrymen. My experience as an American has to inform yours for it to mean anything for my children—just as yours must inform mine. As much as I fear the nosy lady in the supermarket with her inappropriate questions about my children’s race and the ignorant person behind me at the DMV who is soliciting a judgment about my marriage, I have inadvertently been both of them to other people. Over time I have learned that as unique as another couple might look or as colorful as another family might seem to me, it’s not out of the ordinary to them. It’s just their family.

  As each of the couples in Kissing Outside the Lines worked to overcome America’s generational, regional, religious, ethnocentric, color-centric, egocentric, gender-biased, and ageist take on the acceptable line for love, our country has evolved. It has evolved to some extent because of these couples as they are birthing new shades of Americans. I hope the thru-line of all those documented here brings solace or guidance to anyone with their heart at stake in, on any side of, a multiracial love story. And that my personal journey—over one year to love, one year to marry, and one more year to making my own family—in all its humanity and recurring stupidity, helps everyone laugh at things that might otherwise break their heart.

  My first child was born in 2007. He was born in California and is, therefore, American. He has three last names, each of a different ethnic descent, as well as two full sets of grandparents who don’t have a common language between them. He was joined by two sisters, who surprised us all when they arrived one year later in tandem and identical. These three babes are my personal trinity in number and ethnicity. Luckily, they have all gotten to know their one greatgrandparent. She is the immigrant in my family and the proudest American I know. She has taught me and hopefully will get to tell all of my children to love all people regardless of how similar or different they are from the people in your house. And that you should kiss these people often—as well as tell anyone who sees you different from how you see yourself, to kiss your ass.

  CHAPTER 1.

  EURO GIRL FALLS FOR KOREAN DUDE IN CALIFORNIA

  “How many sake bombers does it take for a white girl to score an Asian guy?”

  —THE WOMAN WHO INTRODUCED ME TO MY HUSBAND

  I MET SEUNG (pronounced like “sing” a song) at my good friend’s engagement party shortly after my own engagement debacle. I had only been engaged for six weeks but extricating myself from the union took ten times as long. Six months later, I might as well have tattooed Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” through a heart on my shoulder and worn a cut-off muscle T-shirt, as these details were the only thing missing from my swinging sailor demeanor as I entered this party. I was in no place to have a relationship. I could say that maybe my engagement faux pas led me to attend this friend’s pre-wedding soiree as drunk as I was. But when I arrived and saw the posse of hot women I hang out with every weekend lapping it up on the dance floor, the pool table, and even the buffet, my first thought was: I need to drink more and catch up. And so, catch up I did.

  Hours later, totally in the bag, I noticed the soon-to-be groom’s friends staring in astonishment at his fiancée’s girlfriends. For smart, successful, attractive women, we were all partying like members of the armed forces on leave. I was standing on the dance floor, doing some kind of gyration no doubt, with my friend Christine breakdancing on the floor literally beneath my skirt—when I looked over and saw this giant Korean guy. I thought he was cute. So I stopped dancing, cocked my head to the side, put an index finger into the air, and summoned him over. I remember him looking ... afraid. So I raised a brow at him, implying: Are you really gonna say no to this? There is an actual party going on underneath my skirt. I indicated with my one finger again. Now The Giant Korean turned back to look around, wondering who I could possibly be talking to. There was only the bar behind him. But to be sure, when he turned back to look at me one last time from a distance, I took both index fingers and pulled on my eyelids, making the international sign for “Yes, Charlie Chan ... I mean you,” and then waved him over again.

  How on earth Seung found the courage to come over after that, or why he had any interest to, is a testament to the man I would later marry. But first, I had some hoops for both of us to jump through.

  I was pretty charming, aside from the slant-eye reference that is, in my drunken state. I immediately said something about Korea being the only place in Asia I hadn’t been yet and maybe he could show me around someday. Seung was so flabbergasted that I knew his origins, probably because I seemed moronic so far, that I just kept going with the “I feel your people” theme. I commented on his size (knowing that most Asians over six foot two are Koreans), but explained that his shoulders were the dead giveaway. Shoulders as wide as his reside only above the Mekong because his ancestors had to work the land without the help of a river. I ran my finger over his face, saying that his amazing cheekbones were so prominent because Koreans are direct descendants of the Mongols—northern Russians to be exact—and therefore his cheeks are Western like mine. I stepped in a little closer to prove that his eyes are actually bigger than mine, even without a fold, for much the same reason. One inch from his face I whispered, “My green eyes are like wee little peas next to yours.”

  I’m telling you, I was a drunken sailor with rap honed to perfection. The Giant Korean didn’t stand a chance.

  By night’s end I said to my betrothed friend hosting this party, “I’m going home with one of three guys that your fiancé is friends with. I’m too drunk to know who’s cool, so you have to pick.” My mother is so proud reading this right now. I pointed out Seung and two other guys dispersed in the room. My friend was totally freaked out. Not because I was picking a date in this manner at age thirtyfour, but because she really didn’t know her man’s friends very well and was afraid to pick the wrong guy. I reminded her that I wasn’t looking for a life partner at this moment. The fiancé finally said, “Oh, just go with Tim then. I don’t think he is your type but he’s smart so at least you’ll have something to talk about.” Again, talking was not the goal, but Tim it was.

  Before leaving I had some explaining to do. I went over to The Giant Korean and softly said, “I’m going now but I’d like to give you my number in case you make that trip to Malaysia and want some travel advice.” He looked me in the face and said, “I’ll call you, but not for travel advice.” I giggled, feigning innocence long gone in me, and stepped up to the bar to fetch a napkin for digits. My friend Gregg and his girl were sitting at the bar, drunk as skunks, as well. Joki
ng with Gregg, I wrote on the napkin:

  TRAVEL yes—DATE no.

  Diane

  and my phone number here ...

  I handed this napkin of love to Seung and sauntered off. This, ladies and gentlemen, may have been the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Or perhaps not, considering how broken and desperate I felt inside and what a pain in the ass I would have been had I spoken to this earnest man beyond my rehearsed routine at that juncture in life—I’m sure I would have ruined us. It doesn’t matter how you look at it, though, because fate was on my side.

  When I woke in the morning, my first thought was, What is that giant pain in my head? Soon I realized I was having it because someone was talking. Someone whose name I eventually had to get from the bride-to-be. The uncontrollable desire to shut this person up led me to turn and see Tim, almost like it was for the first time.

  I immediately lifted the covers to make sure my clothing was still intact. Not only was all my clothing on but so were my shoes. My friend did pick the perfect guy for me as he is so talkative, he acted like a gentleman even when I was incapable of behaving like a lady. Still, Tim was never to be seen in my bed again.

  Six months later, my engaged friend was still planning her wedding and had no time to fete her fiancé’s birthday. She called all the girls and asked us to rally for a last-minute karaoke night. I stopped by this impromptu gathering, after rehearsing the sitcom I was on at that time, in sweatpants and a ponytail. I bellied up to the bar next to the same hot, party-animal women from the engagement party whom I still call my closest friends. Looking around at the rest of the guests, I had to ask one of my girlfriends what the birthday boy did for a living. “He works in video games, I think,” said Christine (who was dancing under my skirt when last you heard about her). I couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you just saying,” I asked, “that you think all these guys work in video games just because they’re Asian?” There were at least two dozen Asian men in the room amongst us white, olive, brown, and black girls. And Christine was not making a bad joke; they were all in video games. So we ordered up some sake bombers and it became the theme of the night. The ladies and I, and our tray of drinks, were headed off to find a booth when a woman grabbed my arm.