Dining out at the Six Chilis Café, Chaynor and I sat side by side, across from our best friends, Mark and Jie—another interracial couple. When two unsolicited forks arrived with our Mongolian beef, I knew one was for me and one for Mark, the other Caucasian. I could tell the waitress assumed Mark and I were dating, so I planted a kiss on Chaynor’s cheek, noting the surprise of many Asian patrons. Their response was nothing new.
Born and raised in a predominantly Asian community in the Bay Area, I have dated only Chinese men, and each of my four relationships drew the same stares. I’m commonly branded a “rice chaser” and accused of having an “Asian fetish,” labels that—even though I’ve learned to laugh them off—prompt a sinking feeling in my stomach. But in spite of every discouragement, I know the reality: my heart beats fast when I pass an attractive Asian man on the Quad, I can listen to a boyfriend speak Mandarin for hours, and since age 12, when I’ve pictured the man of my dreams, he’s been Asian.
A week into seventh grade, a cute kid named Derek Chu folded me a paper crane. Our torrid romance lasted six months and basically consisted of holding hands. At the time, race meant little more than liking different food.
Now, however, the interracial dating game isn’t as simple. Upon arriving at Stanford, I was stunned by the relative isolation of the Asian community. They had their own organizations, clubs, sororities, parties and dances. Before college, my best friends, boyfriends and boss were Chinese, but none of us had dwelled on race. For the first time, I felt a widening divide.
At Stanford, I have heard both Caucasian and Asian people contend that American culture does not view Asian men as sexually attractive. Ironically, I found myself feeling undesirable as more of the young Chinese men I encountered confessed they were only interested in dating Chinese women, that white women didn’t fit their standard of beauty. I wonder who is more shortsighted—these men for rejecting me on the basis of skin color, or me for automatically discounting white men.
Self-imposed segregation isn’t the only obstacle to interracial dating. I remember Chaynor telling me about the time his parents asked if his girlfriend was white. When he nodded, he saw sadness spread over his mother’s face. When he added that I went to Stanford, his father responded, “Well, that’s something.” I made a point of wearing my Stanford sweatshirt when I first met them, almost as compensation for my whiteness. Sitting around the dining room table with his family—including his 12-year-old sister, who twice asked me for my last name—I tried to show off my refined chopstick skills and limited knowledge of Mandarin. At one point, Chaynor’s father asked me if I knew anything about Hunan province, and I was stumped. More than that, it felt like there was no place for me in Chaynor’s future, that I would always make his life more complicated than it had to be.
As difficult as that was, my boyfriends have had to submit to my dad’s quizzes about the infield-fly rule to prove they weren’t athletically inept. While my parents have tried to be accepting, they’ve said they don’t know how to talk to my Chinese boyfriends, as if they really don’t speak the same language.
When Chaynor and I broke up, we agreed we didn’t have enough in common to make it work. In truth, we knew our relationship had been a casualty of parental expectations.
My Chinese friends will be the first to say that I’m just as Chinese as they are—I was even invited to rush Alpha Kappa Delta Phi, Stanford’s Asian sorority. But recently I’ve found myself drawn to Asian men who pride themselves on being more American than Chinese. Maybe I’ve given up trying to fit impossible cultural ideals. I wonder whether I’ll eventually decide to date Caucasians—and if this will necessarily mean I’ve surrendered.
Either way, I’m glad I’ve had the chance to live and love on the fine line of racial difference. It has allowed me to grow into myself, learn about others and recognize the traits I desire in a potential partner. I’ve had the chance to appreciate the tremendous influence of culture, even as I struggled against it. And when a waiter brings me a fork, I still pick up the chopsticks.
Camille Ricketts, ’06, is a history major from Fremont, Calif.
