By Jeff Trousdale
If there is anything that I have discovered in the three-plus years that I have dated my girlfriend, it's that relationships are tough. Along with the typical issues, finding time for each other, bickering about stupid stuff, and figuring out our future plans, we have other differences that make our bond unique.
She doesn't always meet the height requirements for roller coasters; I slouch in movies so the people behind me can see. Her head is covered in a mane of dark, perfectly coiffed hair that should be in a commercial; my scalp shines in bright light.
She wouldn't back down in a fight if she were facing Mike Tyson; I wouldn't complain about a hair in my food if it meant I had to confront anyone to do so.
But the most obvious difference between us, and perhaps the root of all our other differences, is that I am white and she is not.
If you were to walk into my parents' house you would be greeted by the smell of chocolate chip cookies and hamburgers. You would see a white Macintosh computer and a piano, and a bulletin board with pictures and notes.
There would be a drab painting on the wall, brown carpets, and the evening news would be on.
James Taylor might be playing on the radio. I never realized how "white" all of these things were until I met my girlfriend.
If you walk into her house you'd smell cleaning fluids, duck, and hot sauce.
The plastic that protects the carpet would stick to your feet, and the slipcovers on the sofas would wrinkle when you sit on them.
You'd notice pictures of my girlfriend and her father dressed in full traditional Cambodian costume - shoes that are surely inspiration for Santa's elves, red silk blouses, and pants that must have been stolen from MC Hammer. You'd see a rice cooker with an orange light that never goes dark, and you might also hear Spanish soap operas blaring from the television.
"No, mi amor, yo no puedo creer que usted tuvo relaciones sexuales con Pablo."
"Fue un accidente."
My girlfriend's father came to the United States from Cambodia as a child, after his parents were killed by the Pol Pot regime.
Her mother emigrated from El Salvador as a teenager to find a better life. They met in a factory in California and got married.
My dad's dad's dad was born in the United States, so was my mom's. Both my parents worked on farms, they both went to Oregon State and became teachers.
My mom stayed home to raise my siblings and me when we were kids. We played sports, were involved in church, and had lots of friends.
Growing up, I was so blissfully ignorant of other cultures. Sure, I read about them from time to time, and I dreamed of going to Europe, but I couldn't imagine that anyone who lived in my own country could live a life so different from my own.
All of my friends were the same as me. They played with Legos and Nerf guns and their moms made casseroles.
"My parents used to beat me with a coat hanger," my girlfriend once told me. "I always accepted it as a kid, but in high school I started to fight back. I cussed at him, I hit him, I was a bitch."
When she told me that, my only thought was, "No, you weren't a bitch, your dad was a bad parent." Sure, my dad spanked me when I was young, but getting beaten by your father was an entirely different story.
In my mind, only criminals and low-life's beat their children. I found out how wrong I was when I went to work one day.
"My dad would beat my ass if I talked back to him," said my coworker Jessika said.
We had just had an obnoxious white family in our store; not only were the parents buying their kids new phones, they were also putting up with their complaints that they weren't getting iPhones. Jessika grew up in Compton, Calif., and her perspective on parenting was slightly different than my own. All my other Hispanic coworkers quickly agreed with her comment.
"What do you mean when you say beat?" I asked.
"Mexican parents beat their kids," one of my coworkers said. "They don't put up with any of the shit that white parents do."
My girlfriend challenged my assumptions of normality on a daily basis. She had never been to Quiznos. Her dad sang karaoke with vigor, but conversing with him was like talking to stone.
Her family gatherings were like visits to a casino, with gambling going well into the next morning.
I was a shock to her perceptions as well.
"I used to watch TV as an escape, I'd see all these perfect American families," she told me. "When I met your family I was like, 'they do exist.'"
My dad astounded her. He talked a lot, made corny jokes, wore tight shorts and went on bike rides. My mom went on long walks and drank coffee with her friends.
Coffee, my girlfriend soon found out, is a second religion for us white people. She discovered other things as well.
"All white people ever talk about is convenience and construction," she always tells me. "Ooohhhh, that's a new Starbucks, that will be really convenient for us," she says in a mocking tone.
She always makes fun of my whiteness, and I always make fun of her "El Salvadoriasianess," but it's even funnier to see how much we've rubbed off on each other.
She goes out to coffee with me, I eat sushi with her. One minute we're swaying to the sounds of John Denver and the next minute we're jamming out to Juanes.
That's the strange thing about people. Despite all of our differences, we are all so much the same.
We experience hope, fear, happiness, tragedy, life, death, and everything in between. We can grow up with plans to marry a blonde bombshell and instead fall in love with a spicy Asian/Latina. We can dream of cavorting with rap stars and end up eating toast with the nerdy white kid from the suburbs. Stereotypes are sometimes true and sometimes completely false, but no matter our race, and no matter our background, we still share some basic qualities that make us all human.
Now isn't that convenient.
?Jeff Trousdale is Staff Writer for The Beacon. He can be reached at ?trousdal10@up.edu.
