by YUMI WILSON-SPATTA

It was dinner time in Pacifica. A light coating of fog had rolled into town; the pink-hued sun was beginning to set. I had just dropped off my 12-year-old son at a public swimming spot with his friend.

A steaming meal of tofu and rice at my favorite Chinese restaurant, I decided, was the perfect way to spend my next two hours waiting for the boys.

A woman with short hair cut neatly around her petite face framed by thick-rimmed glasses stood behind the counter. A touch of red brightened her lips; her brown eyes seemed radiant.
“For here, or takeout?” she asked over a din of the phone ringing, pots clattering, and people laughing and talking loudly.

“For here,” I said rather excitedly. Being a woman of black and Japanese heritage, I couldn’t help but notice that the woman appeared to be of mixed-race identity. My guess was that the woman was a blend of Chinese and Caucasian ancestry.

Immediately, I leaned over the fake-marble counter and smiled. Any second, I thought, this woman would give me a nod or a smile, something to acknowledge our shared identity as Hapa, defined by Urban Dictionary (www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hapa) as a Hawaiian word that has changed over the years and can now refer to people of “half’” or “mixed” blood.

In Oahu, where I went to high school, I had thought the term was reserved for anyone who was Asian and white — not Asian and black. But in recent years, after being invited to take part in groups for Hapas, and even write articles for a Hapa-related newsletter, I have come to embrace myself as a Hapa, viewing it as an accurate word to define the growing number of Asians and Asian Americans mixed with black, Latino, and other races.

What a cool word, I thought. It felt so inclusive, so hip.

“Excuse me,” I said softly to the woman. This would be the perfect time, I thought, to ask her whether she was in fact Hapa. Perhaps we could talk about the difficulty of balancing dual identities, or even if that were desirable. Perhaps we could share some laughs, like the other people were doing in the restaurant. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to spend a Friday night alone for dinner.

The woman, however, raised her palm to me, asking me to wait. She picked up the phone and began to take an order. I pulled away from the counter.

A minute later, the woman shuffled from behind the counter and seated me at a table for four.
“What would you like?” she quickly asked.

Realizing that my initial excitement about sharing the bond of “Hapa-ness” was not being met with the same exuberance, I decided to focus on the menu.

“I don’t know,” I said. Was that her foot tapping behind me? I didn’t want to look; I couldn’t be sure.

“Salt and pepper tofu,” I said.

The woman took off with my order and delivered the message out loud not in English, but in Chinese. Was she speaking Mandarin or Cantonese? I had no clue, but it was becoming clear that being Hapa was not as big of a deal as I thought.

Though this woman looked Hapa, the ability to speak Chinese gave her access into the Chinese culture that I did not have as a woman of Japanese heritage. Language, I realized, could serve as a greater bond between people than appearance. And while I knew this at some level, I had never quite managed to fully acquire the language part of my Japanese identity.

For years, I had been trying to “get back” the language of my childhood, but the usual obstacles of time, money and patience got in the way. Other than introducing myself, talking about celebrities and the weather and ordering a meal, I could not speak much Japanese.

I certainly would not have been able to toss out orders in Japanese to cooks at a Japanese restaurant.
And it was this ability — to take the orders in one language and then give orders in a different one — that separated us.

I finished my food that night, not saying much more to the woman behind the counter. But I did go home with some takeout, and at least one lesson: A fancy term or newly created label — Hapa, mixed-race, multiracial, etc. — can only do so much to make a person feel whole. The rest is up to us.

Yumi Wilson writes her column once a month. Send comments or questions to ywilson@sfsu.edu.