INTERRACIAL VOICE

Essay

Shelving a Wheaties Box Dream
By Lauren Brantner

Some of the fondest memories of my childhood do not include Fraggle Rock, lemonade stands, or even the infamous Snuffalupagus from the critically acclaimed Sesame Street. Instead, they include fighting over the last teriyaki octopus, slurping up one and two finger poi, chasing dungenous crabs, and climbing palm trees. To some people, these remembrances might seem a bit peculiar, but to a half-Asian, half-European girl who spent the majority of her youth in Hawaii and Washington state, it’s really not out of the ordinary.

Being the daughter of parents in the army, I’ve spent most of my life saying “Hello” and “Goodbye.” Nevertheless, I could not have been prepared for this particular move that has been the best, and at the same time the worst, experience of my life.

"It’s just another move," my dad said -- a phrase used all too much in my family. It was 8th grade, a time when the vast majority of teenage girls already had trouble being seen, being heard, and being understood. A time when everyone wants to stand out -- be the tallest, skinniest, prettiest, or the most athletic. And now, to top off my quest for distinction, I had to move to Ohio -- a state I knew only because my sisters and I were trained at a young age to wear matching, oversized Ohio State University T-shirts, and shout “Go Bucks!” during Ohio State vs. Michigan games.

As the new girl in school, my mission immediately turned from standing out to fitting in. Due to the fact that Fraggle Rock was oftentimes the topic of discussion, poi was unheard of, and octopus was “DISGUSTING,” this was apparently impossible.

“Chink.” The word screeched through the air and flooded my innocent, eighth grade mind. I had heard this term once, possibly twice, before, and could tell by the tone and animosity of the voice that it was derogatorily aimed at me. My fists clenched as my nails dug into my sweat-drenched palms. I felt as though the entire world was looking at me and me alone. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to punch everyone who so much as looked in my general direction.

I walked away.

This wasn’t the only incident in which I turned my cheek the other way. Innumerable times throughout the four years I have lived in Ohio, I have been the object of racist remarks, comments, and gestures. Instead of confronting these closed-minded individuals, I have taken the pacifist approach every time, using art as a vehicle for expression. Through the use of art, my feelings and inner conflicts can be projected into visual form and -- in a way -- resolved. To a degree, these events are responsible for my ambition to pursue art as a career.

I haven’t always wanted to be an artist. In fact, when I was very little, I had wanted to be a basketball player for the sole purpose of seeing my face on a Wheaties box. Like so many other youngsters, fame had always been what I desired.

Most of my childhood days were spent like this -- trying way too hard to be noticed. Spiky hair. Argyle leggings. Little did I know that standing out wasn’t always the greatest feeling in the world. Maybe if I had known this before, I wouldn’t have stood out so much. Maybe then, many of the hardships I experienced could have been avoided. Maybe I didn’t have to learn my lessons the hard way. Maybe…maybe...maybe.

No. I have learned so much about the world, and myself, through these hardships; for it is through coping with these adversities that has strengthened me as an individual. Now I accept the fact that I’m five feet five inches tall, 280th in a class of 436, and have my dad’s unusually large ears. I’ve grown to appreciate my curly brown hair the way that it is -- usually in a messy array around my squinty brown eyes, that I inherited from my amazing mom.

No longer do I strive to be Albert Einstein, Miss America, Jackie Joyner Kersee, or even Claude Monet. Instead, I work as hard as I can at being myself -- a poi-slurping, crab-chasing, palm tree-climbing individual, who has shelved her Wheaties box dream for a healthy spoonful of self-acceptance.