Losing Whiteness When You Lose Your Father
To lose whiteness is to compress the white half, to describe it awkwardly, to never know how to address it.
You don’t tell them that your father’s side is Italian and Hungarian. You know this is not what they want to know. You’re curious where people are from, too, so you don’t always mind when they ask—but you minded that one guy in high school who said, “What the fuck are you, anyway?”
New York Magazine
youthemAre Two Asians is a coincidence; three’s a fetish
look at me, can’t you tell?
Corina Zappia's personal essays and reviews have appeared in Salon, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Rumpus, The Awl, The Stranger, The Hairpin, Nerve, and The Village Voice, where she was a staff writer. She graduated with an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars and now lives in Seattle.
Sometimes she thinks about reviving her blog, Zach Braff Deathwatch, but fears he will live forever. You can find her on Twitter: @corinazappia
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“I once believed that I had creative talent, but I have given up this idea,” Clara Schumann wrote in her diary in 1839.
All the wrong people are crying, and all the people who ought to feel something do not.
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.