RACISM

How My Parents Shed Their Prejudices

“Frances, come here!”

“Seriously?” I thought. Dad had called me into the small garden apartment for the third time within an hour.

I opened the back door.

“Why, Dad?”

He didn’t provide an answer. Instead, Mom, clearly frustrated, told him, “Stop it. Leave her be.”

At dinner later, Dad grumbled about a Black family moving in next door.

“What’s wrong with that?” I questioned.

Mom stayed quiet but sighed heavily, muttering “be quiet” repeatedly.

I was confused. Even at ten, I didn’t grasp why the woman living two doors down ignored my greetings. It wasn’t until later that her daughter revealed, “Mom hates Orientals.”

But I couldn’t connect the dots yet. How could someone dislike another person without knowing them?

I still remember telling Mom at six that I had a boyfriend from my old Bronx school and that we shared lunch and a kiss.

And he was Black.

Mom was horrified and yelled at me. It was bad enough that I was just six and kissing a boy—but Black!

Her anger frightened me as an only child. Would her love for me fade? So, I learned to steer clear of Black kids—at least for a while.

Even then, I questioned what was wrong with Black people. Why did my parents harbor such hatred? After all, the few Black tenants in our Bronx building were kind. I adored Susan on Sesame Street—my parents even took me to see her at Korvette’s, the K-Mart/Sears of the early '70s.

Regardless, I enjoyed the girls who moved in next door. They were closer to my age than the white girl who was two years younger. Michelle was a year older and Linda a year younger. After we introduced ourselves, we chatted about our favorite music. I liked Helen Reddy, while they loved the Jackson Five. We all agreed we disliked the Osmonds.

Soon, we played and rode bikes together, including the girl whose mother despised “Orientals” and later the Italian girls whose father called me “Ching Chong.” We danced to the Jacksons and the DeFranco Family.

We walked to school together too. I still recall when the crossing guard asked one morning, “Where are the colored girls today?”

Dad eventually stopped complaining. Maybe he got used to it, or perhaps it was because Michelle’s and Linda’s mother slipped a Christmas card in our mailbox that winter. Mom found it a kind gesture—despite the misspelling of our last name.

Teaching a Few Good Lessons

Fast forward two years to our move to Evanston, Illinois. For the first time, my school had a significantly larger population of Black students and teachers than my previous schools in the Bronx and Princeton, New Jersey.

This was likely when my parents displayed their most blatant racism, echoing negative stereotypes they had absorbed: they feared the slums near my father's university. They were warned that wandering onto the wrong block could lead to violence, and they particularly avoided Cabrini-Green, a notorious housing project.

Indeed, they were already upset when our real estate agent tried to show us houses in the poorer Black neighborhoods of Evanston.

Little did they realize that many Midwestern whites regarded Asians as hardly better than Black people—at least in 1975. This was a lesson they would gradually learn over the next two decades, as most neighbors ignored us and the new Black family just two houses away.

I often joked that the elderly Republican couple next door must have resented living between an Asian and a Black family.

Dad wasn’t much better. He would sometimes complain about how his Black undergraduate students were the least capable. He and other faculty members resented that “those students” could secure scholarships with a mere C average.

For a while, I even believed this stereotype, given the scarcity of Black students in my honors and AP classes—until college, where I found many were just as qualified as any white or Asian student.

Meanwhile, Mom didn’t seem to mind that one of my best friends was Black and another was white.

Interestingly, she was angrier about the bullying I faced from Black kids than from white ones.

“Be cautious,” she would warn. “Blacks always stick together. They protect one another.” (In hindsight, I thought, as they should. If they don’t watch out for themselves, who will?)

Mom was furious when a boy flipped my desk or when a girl attempted to shove me down the stairs. She criticized me for enjoying music by the Ohio Players and Parliament. “How can you listen to that kind of music when those kids bully you?”

But if white kids tormented me, she’d shrug and say, “this is their country. They were here first.” She never objected when I listened to “white music” like Fleetwood Mac or Heart.

I suppose my parents never grasped the history of slavery in 1940s Taiwan. They failed to understand the forced journeys of many Africans to this land—never realizing that the U.S. was as much their home as it was for whites.

Then came a series of events that prompted Mom to reconsider her biases—like an incident with a gym teacher, Mrs. Miles. One day, a Black girl in my seventh-grade gym class accused me of tripping her. Her friends rallied against me, hurling insults. “I hate Chinese people,” she yelled.

Fearing the gym teacher, who was also Black, would side with them, I was shocked when Mrs. Miles asserted, “I saw everything. She didn’t trip you on purpose.” She reprimanded the girls sternly. “Do you realize how prejudiced you sound? How would you feel if someone said, ‘I hate Black people?’”

The classroom fell silent after her ten-minute address.

When I shared this with Mom, she was stunned. How could that be?

She would be even more surprised that summer when my seventh-grade math teacher, Mrs. MacGruder, approached me at the YMCA pool.

Mom couldn’t help but rave on the way home. “What a wonderful teacher—just like a caring aunt. She really likes you!”

Mom was even happier to learn that Mrs. MacGruder arranged for me to be in the same class as a good friend and promoted me to an advanced math course.

After this, Mom shifted her perspective, believing Black female teachers were inherently good, almost saintly.

Still, her viewpoint wasn’t altogether different from one of my white friends who bluntly stated at a party—“there are good Blacks and n******.” For Mom, the educated were “good,” while the uneducated were “bad.” She believed the latter were the ones who “really hated Asians” and posed a threat.

Dad, however, remained skeptical. On my first day of sophomore year, he was shocked to learn my trigonometry teacher was Black and my chemistry teacher was Nigerian.

“How could they teach math and science, the most crucial subjects?” he exclaimed. After all, he claimed, the Black engineering students in his department barely passed.

I worried about the upcoming parent-teacher conferences. Dad could be painfully awkward.

“Dad, please don’t embarrass me at the conference,” I pleaded. “She’s one of my best math teachers. All the students love her. The chemistry teacher is great too.”

They must have hit it off, as Dad returned home pleased the next day. Both teachers mentioned how much they enjoyed talking with him. “He’s really intelligent.”

After that, he never commented on my teachers' races again.

Moving Forward

Over the years, my parents’ attitudes continued to evolve. Mom no longer objected to my love for R&B and disco; in fact, she encouraged me to buy Whitney Houston albums! During the controversy surrounding Michael Jackson’s allegations, she even speculated if racism was a factor. (I joked that Mom was beginning to sound like Jesse Jackson!)

However, these changes were gradual. They surfaced in comments she made, like her reaction to a group of diverse middle school girls on a bus trip to Hyde Park, Chicago. “Isn’t that lovely? Those girls embody America,” she remarked.

At that time, Mom was in her mid-50s and had transformed significantly since my own middle school days.

Was she becoming more aware of anti-Asian discrimination and recognizing that racism predominantly stemmed from white supremacy? Did she begin to see that Black individuals, like Asians, were also affected by flawed assumptions and white privilege?

After all, she had observed how many of Dad’s Asian friends and colleagues were overlooked at work, regardless of their prestigious Ivy League degrees. In some cases, they worked under white men with fewer qualifications.

Her understanding of double standards became evident one day while we were browsing through Vogue. I marveled at the beauty of model Iman.

“Black models must be more flawless than white ones,” she commented. “But that’s how it is. If you’re not white, you need to be twice as perfect to succeed.”

Like me, she had encountered instances of blatant disregard, if not disdain—white customers attempting to cut in line or being served before her.

Perhaps, too, Mom recognized that those who supported me at work were primarily Black—especially Black women. They were the ones who ensured I found work when I was searching. They all noticed the lack of minorities in management roles and were aware of microaggressions, even before the term became commonplace in the 1990s.

The days of being bullied by Black kids had long passed. However, white bullies still existed. They may not have been as overt, but it was evident that they preferred and promoted individuals who resembled themselves. They remained “the cool kids,” still in control. How was it that a major tech company had so few Asians or Blacks in management?

I was taken aback in 2004 when Mom suggested we take a bus through Harlem. We had just returned to Manhattan after a morning in our old Bronx neighborhood, and it was around 3 PM—plenty of time to explore.

She had seen Harlem featured on TV several times and now wanted to experience it firsthand.

I still chuckle at how everyone stared at us on the bus, including the one Asian man who boarded several stops later. We were the only non-Black passengers.

“The Arc of the Moral Universe is Long, but it Bends Toward Justice”

My father would change too. I genuinely had no idea how he would evolve, especially after he and Mom relocated to Taiwan in 1989, where he became the director of an engineering school.

I wondered if Dad had regressed after spending fifteen years in Taiwan before returning to the States. Would he revert to his old, racist self?

But if I had any fears, they largely dissipated when we returned to the East Coast.

We were on the porch, enjoying the sunset when Dad turned to me.

“Did you notice how the two Black men did all the hard work while the white men just sat around barking orders?”

“Yes,” I replied, astonished, as Dad typically overlooked his surroundings.

“Be sure to give those Black movers a generous tip. Don’t give anything to those white ones. They’re lazy and arrogant.”

This was one of the few times I actually agreed with him.

When 2008 arrived, I pondered how my parents would react to Barack Obama’s candidacy. Would they see it as another sign of America’s decline?

We watched one of his speeches that February. I wasn’t the only one captivated. Dad was too—another rare moment of agreement.

“Where did he go to school?” Dad inquired.

“He attended Columbia for undergrad and Harvard for law school; his wife went to Princeton for undergrad and Harvard for law school,” I replied.

“He sounds like it!” Dad responded. However, he was impressed by anything Ivy League—except perhaps for George W. Bush, whom he often referred to as the “dumbest president ever.”

Mom, on the other hand, favored Hillary. “He’s undoubtedly intelligent and a fantastic speaker, but it’s time for a woman in the White House.”

“Yeah, Mom, but what about a nonwhite person?! That would be a first too.”

As Dad’s cognitive abilities declined after Mom’s passing, I worried about him during hospital or rehab stays. I had heard stories of elderly racists lashing out at caregivers of color. Would Dad act similarly? Especially as he became increasingly irritable—like the time he threatened me?

I smiled at how the various nurses and caregivers at his rehabilitation center joked about wanting to marry him. I would always apologize as they left, saying, “I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble.” God knows, if I were a caregiver, I’d be infuriated by any racist behavior (caregiving is challenging enough, as I explain here).

“Your dad is so sweet! Trust me, I’ve dealt with much worse.”

Dad certainly looked forward to seeing his Haitian caregiver again. Sadly, he passed away while hospitalized.

My relationship with my parents wasn’t always smooth. In fact, I still struggle to forgive my father for being a poor husband and parent.

Yet, for once, I admired his humanity—and Mom’s.

Of course, I’ll never fully comprehend the extent to which they shed their prejudices. How would they react if I married a Black man—or anyone significantly darker? Would they disown me? Would they behave like the white parents of my male friends, who barely acknowledged me, fearing the prospect of interracial marriage?

However, witnessing my parents’ gradual transformation over the years gives me some hope that our society has the potential to become less racist. That old dogs can learn new tricks, even if raised in a predominantly mono-racial environment. That we can all begin to judge others by their character rather than skin color, as the great Martin Luther King dreamt shortly after my birth.

And today, this should not just be a dream but a reality.

© Frances A. Chiu, August 5, 2024. All Rights Reserved.