I Took My White Husband's Last Name. I Didn't Realize It Would Affect The Rest Of My Life.

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Growing up with the surname Shiozawa in a predominantly white community, I was “the Asian girl” wherever I went — sports, church, class, work. But I’ll never forget the first day of Algebra 2, when Haley Miyatake sat beside me, and we made eye contact. I felt a rush of relief with someone who, without a single word exchanged, understood my world.

White people like to comment on my eye shape, tugging at the corners of their own, critiquing mine as “not almond,” acting as self-appointed gatekeepers to my claim to Asian-ness. Others accuse me of mounting an attack on white people if I broach the subject of race. That I’m being oversensitive, choosing to be offended, or creating issues out of nothing. Or they ignore my experience altogether because they “don’t see color.”

A few years into my marriage, even my husband described me as being “raised white.” You know, yellow on the outside, white on the inside, like a banana. 

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