LOS ANGELES, Calif. - My fear that he would leave me didn’t take form until one morning when I asked my white boyfriend an innocent question before I left for work. “If you could sleep with any Disney character, who would it be?” “Hmm,” he said.  “Pocahontas.” I laughed out loud and he couldn’t understand why. “Of every Disney cartoon, of course you pick the one where the white male dominates the minority female!” He kind of scoffed, not knowing how to respond. But the idea lingered in my mind long after he answered.

Not all of our days were like this but I did have a constant, underlying fear about him. He was my idea of a stereotypical white male in so many ways: tall, overtly masculine, hairy, perverted, and cocky.  He made me laugh and I think that’s what attracted me to him in the first place.  He seemed so different from many of the guys I had dated in the past. 

But in truth, he terrified me. We’d spent the past year and a half in a rut, falling in and out of love. For most of that time, I played the “other girl” before I found out that in addition to me, he had another, “other” girl.

I hated this newer, younger girl.  I tried to ignore the fact that we were all suspiciously alike – petite, thin, Asian American, with long dark hair and cheery personalities.

People said we made a cute couple, albeit, a little oddly-matched. Even on my tip-toes, I could barely reach his shoulder. His confidence and crude jokes drowned out my own personality, so that I felt like a different person when we were with other people.

But we hardly spent any time together. Our three-month relationship was a battle. When I suggested that we needed a change, he could only respond by saying he would “try harder.”

The first week after we broke up felt like renewed freedom. No more waiting to see if and when he would call, no more crying and wondering why he didn’t love me. Things seemed infinitely better, even if I was lonelier than I had ever envisioned myself to be.

* * *

During this semester, I took an Asian American psychology class and learned about the history of oppression. At least once a week, I was angry about the “white man.”  I couldn’t help but think of my own boyfriend, as that “white man.”

For my self-reflection essay, I focused on why I spent so much of my high school and college years trying to date white guys. Not only did they better fit the Western idea of attractiveness, but I realized they were a status symbol to me.

To date a white man says to the world, “Look! I’m American!”  I knew when I was with him, no one would think we were Japanese tourists. In my mind, people would see that we were both so cultured.

So I suppose in some way I objectified the white men I dated. I wanted guys that towered over me, rough and athletic, guys that were more “American-looking” than me.

But I began to look at interracial couples and find imbalance. I would feel bad for the woman — usually a woman of color. I saw oppression in relationships and became inexplicably angry at the “white man.” 

I started to wonder why he and I were ever together, why he was ever attracted to me. It became clear that he was most often attracted to women of color — particularly Asian women.

It got to the point where I couldn’t stop myself. I would read a magazine and panic when I saw a picture of an Asian girl I knew he would find attractive. I became increasingly insecure because I realized that girls that looked like me were everywhere, and why should he stay with me? Every other woman was a threat, and it seemed that I was just another Pocahontas.

* * *

I don’t suppose I’ve ever found the actual answers about my relationship with him and I feel like I would only be asking for trouble if I questioned him about it.  If he answered with what I wanted to hear, I might not believe it, and frankly, I’m just not sure if I’m ready to deal with it.

These days, my feelings still waver between a sad understanding and a piercing anger. The best I can muster is a feigned indifference, but I know it will take time to find a balance. My hope is that, a few years from now, I will have enough maturity to handle a genuine friendship.  But I suppose I won’t know until I get there.

Write to Amy Tran at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it
Source: http://www.usc.edu/student-affairs/apass/apassreporter/pocahontas.html