She's racist, but not really

The other day, I finally told my mom my boyfriend is black. She started crying on the phone.

I followed up trying to comfort her, telling her he's half Asian, too (he's actually only a quarter Japanese).

"Well, which side more?" she begged to know. "Does he LOOK Asian?"

I tried telling her he’s an architecture student, a rugby player, a good cook.. anything to flesh out his personality and to move the subject on. Somehow she managed not to hear any of it.

“I’m not going to tell your dad,” she said decisively. “He would get heart attack.”

I rolled my eyes and soon hung up the phone in exasperation.

My mom is actually pretty open-minded considering most women who share her background. She's grown to accept and actually kind of like my brother's fiancee (a caucasian from Canada). She always manages to eventually get to know people and give them a chance, as reluctant as she can be sometimes.

That’s something I learned about my mom over the years. Growing up, I was frustrated with her for what I saw as racism, wished she were more accepting of other people’s lifestyles and quirky habits. I thought she was a stickler about everything and anything. But I realized with some serious patience, I could convince her to be a little more understanding of American culture.

Some conflicts arose from things not as serious as dating, but they certainly taught me a lesson. To my mom, sleepovers used to be a foreign concept. It was just strange not to sleep in your own home, and it was just a way to impose on your friends. After a few years, I finally convinced her to let some of my friends sleep over. It took just another year and a half to get permission to sleep at my best friend’s, who lives about two blocks away.

As I hung up the phone, I was too tired to argue anymore, and thinking about the arguments sure to follow made me feel defeated. But I had to remind myself that it may take a few years, but I knew she’d come around. Until then, my boyfriend’s going to be half Asian.