There’s a big ole hint by the way I speak and write,
But it never occurred to me until last night.
I realized . . . . I don’t think I’ve ever called any part of my own self . . . . “white”.
I identify myself through my mother being . . . . Korean.
Growing up my dad didn’t participate, thus he wasn’t mentioned . . . . because in my mind, “existence” didn’t merit a reason.
Of course, all of that has long since been rearranged, and hopefully I can address how Christ does the ‘miraculous’ . . . . tender heart’s cleansing, and loving change.
Like Christ came to me and saved my wretched soul, He then came quietly and prayerfully . . . . saving the soul of my wretched ole dad.
Better late than never, I got the dad I never had!
That’s a truly beautiful story for another time.
But I realized I never even called my own dad . . . . “white”!
As unique as his recessive features are that only I received, and blended with my mother’s . . . . that once beautifully set me apart . . . . (because beauty is fleeting);
None of it crossed my mind . . . . until last night.
God knows it was never intended to be a slight.
It originated as a small child as a way for me to disassociate myself, after learning so harshly . . . . that not only did I not fit in, I was not . . . . black . . . . nor was I white.
Little does anyone know, my dad’s mom had a great deal of American Indian (Cherokee and Iroquois, but are one in the same. Cherokee Tribes are recognized Federally, I’ve since learned on 8/12/2017). . . . but since I didn’t really know her and life was difficult from the beginning . . . .
All I could see was my very American Korean mother struggling.
As a child I did all I could to help cover the slack, our small family lacked.
Looking back, I got that trait from my mother too, but I’m by FAR no match compared to her!
By listening closely to her talk about her life, it’s easy to learn many things and pinpoint who I’ve become through her every breath and life.
I’ll share it sometime.
Thank God for my American Korean mother, and the vast heritage of my father . . . . it’s very colorful and isn’t worthy of a label.
One last thing . . . . My mother broke barriers for “oriental women” back in the late 1950’s. She lived the feminist dream, and is now literally historical. Why doesn’t she matter in this era screaming, crying, fighting for women’s rights, diversity, and all?
She’s one of the few left like a Veteran of WWII, and now the Korean War. She raised her own children while working in a factory, and hung our family’s laundry outside to dry. Some of you remember those days.
She’s sacrificed more than I’m willing to share, and in 2013 she was still told to step aside as if she were black . . . . by an old white woman, so an old white man could ask the same thing and get an answer.
She even volunteered there for years.
Tell me . . . . Why doesn’t she matter to the town she loves dearly?
Why? Why does my mind ring “bigotry”? Could it be that it’s not all that I see?
Well, looky there!
The orange button is in sight. What a cute little jar . . . . errors and all!
(Written straight from my brain . . . . Readers “here” know that others REALLY do matter!)
©IM Infusion Musings