Interview 007: Rosalind Bump

Rosalind Bump (she/her) is a science educator in New Haven, Connecticut. We talked about growing up in a very Asian American suburb of LA, finding and giving up the term “hapa,” how her multiracial identity facilitated her exploration of sexuality, navigating when and how to take up space in POC spaces, helping her multiracial students unpack their identities while she does the same, and more.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

I would love to start at the beginning: When and where did you grow up, and what was it like for you to be multiracial Asian in this context?

I grew up in a small suburb of LA called Arcadia that has boba shops on every corner. It was a really interesting place to grow up multiracial because it was probably so different from other multiracial experiences at the time. I was surrounded by Asian Americans, both first-gen and second-gen, and I was drawn into a lot of my friends’ immigrant-parent experiences.

That was not my experience – I had a father who grew up in Chula Vista and a mother who grew up Chinese American in Pasadena, not speaking any Chinese. Her mom came from a rural part of Canton and spoke Toisanese, and her dad grew up in Shanghai speaking Mandarin. In addition to their linguistic and cultural differences, they had also gotten the message that it was important for your children to assimilate to be successful in American culture. So my mom had an extremely all-American childhood in Pasadena, growing up with primarily Black and white individuals and not many Asian American folks. Culturally, I didn't get a lot in my household that was like, “We do this because we're Chinese.” I got more of that from my grandpa, who is very proud of being Chinese and wanted his grandchildren to know that, but it didn't land at the time. It didn't land when my other multiracial cousins and I would be invited to these Chinese banquet dinners, not knowing what was going on, feeling like the environment was unfamiliar, the smells, the tastes, the textures, the norms of what you were supposed to leave on the plate and who was supposed to eat first. It was disorienting to enter that space and be told “This is part of your heritage” when it felt so foreign. But on the other hand, looking back now, I'm so grateful I had a grandparent who was like, “I want you to know that this practice of tai chi I lead is an inheritance for you to partake in.” Every time I sit around a giant table at one of those banquet dinners now, I think so strongly of my grandpa, and I'm grateful to have those memories.

It's so interesting that at the time, the Chinese banquet experience you described felt so foreign, but now it feels like a source of comfort. I wonder how that evolution happened.

In Arcadia, most of my friends were Asian American, and that meant if we were going out to eat, we were usually eating Asian food. So a lot of my food sensibility and what feels like comfort food came from a time when I was just eating with my friends. And coming back from college, I would bring my mom to places in the San Gabriel Valley, in Monterey Park, that my friends had told me about, and she would have these flashback moments of “Wow, I haven't had this flavor since I was in my grandparents' Chinese restaurant when I was eight years old.” So that created this neural connection of “This is a familiar thing because my mom is telling me it's a familiar thing,” even though it's not something I had growing up. To have someone else make that connection for me was super-interesting. And food is such a deeply core, memory-encoding way of connecting to the culture even without the language piece. I have a lot of thoughts about language and accessibility to culture.

I would love to hear them, if you’re willing to share.

I think we convey so much more through language than what’s being said. It's how you relate to other people. It's who speaks. It's how you honor who is speaking. It's all the norms wrapped into what you're saying. There was so much I wasn't catching in the subtleties of how my friends interacted with their parents or how they were code-switching. My mom didn’t feel totally Chinese because she didn't have the language piece, even though genetically she's 100% Chinese. It feels like if you can't go to the dim sum restaurant order in Chinese, are you going to get the same food? Is it going to be as good? Are they going to attend to you in the same way? 

This is a theme that has come up in several interviews – because almost 90% of Asians in America are either immigrants or children of immigrants, it can feel like speaking the language is a prerequisite for claiming an Asian American identity. It sounds like maybe your mom felt that way. I'm curious how that has felt for you as somebody who also does not speak Chinese – if that has ever felt like a barrier to claiming a Chinese American or Asian American identity.

It's felt like a barrier in terms of legitimacy from my friends’ parents. I feel like I would have a lot of street cred if I could communicate with my friends’ parents in a way that felt authentic with them. But I think it's more of an internal desire to prove something. It's not that anyone around me is expecting me to speak the language, but it feels like a tangible way of claiming something. Because you know it or you don't. It feels binary and it feels achievable – if I worked hard enough, I could learn the language. I can't change my passport, I can't change where I grew up, but this feels like it's in my control and it’s so central to relating to other people.

I appreciate that. Even though it can seem like knowing the language will make other people think we’re legit, at the end of the day, it's really about us, right? It's our own sense of internal validation, like “I can claim this.”

We’ve been talking about your upbringing in Arcadia – were there specific formative events that shaped how you think about your multiracial identity?

There was a third-grade field trip to the Japanese American Museum, and we were gathered outside with our docent and she asked us, “Where are you from?” I remember saying, “I'm half Chinese and half American,” and I remember her stopping me in front of the whole class and saying, “Are you Native American? Do you have Indigenous ancestry?” And I was like, “No.” I was hyperaware in that moment that I wasn't claiming my white side. Or maybe we just weren't using that language at the time – I don't know how many people were saying “I'm white American” or “I'm claiming a white identity.” But that really stood out to me – noticing that how I self-defined was not how other people would have me define myself, and language mattered and people had feelings about how I described where I was from.

One other moment was also when I was eight or nine and my family took a trip to Hawaii. We went to Oahu to visit my auntie, and it was the first time that people looked like me and local folks would think I was local. It was so surprising to be like, “There's a place where I look normal and I’m treated normally.” So coming out of that experience, I was like, “Maybe I'll move to Hawaii one day.”

I remember another time when my grandpa's wife was serving us this sea cucumber dish and they were speaking Mandarin to each other. I had no idea what was going on, I didn't know what we're eating, and I was like, “I feel very not Chinese right now.” I must have been 12 and I just didn't understand what the food was. I didn't understand what was being communicated around me. And I felt acutely aware that I did not understand this part of this culture that I was supposed to be able to claim.

You’ve touched on this already, but I'm curious: When you have complete freedom to identify however you want, how do you identify yourself? And has this changed over the course of your life?

I was talking to someone else about this, and we both agreed that we hate when random people are like, “What is your mix?” Unless it's a half Asian person, and then it’s fun because I feel a sense of affinity. I was always super-jealous of my friends who were like, “I'm half Thai and half British.” And I was like, “Wow, they know their halves.” Whereas I’m Chinese and I don't know the white part – someone on one side was adopted and we're not really sure. It's probably an amalgamation. Due to my grandparents and my mom telling me “You are Chinese” and not knowing the white part, it was harder to latch on to any of the white identity because that felt so expansive and I didn't have a place – and therefore a culture – to pin it on.

When I found out about the word hapa, I was like, “Great. This is affirming. It's nice to have a word that's not ‘half.’” Growing up, I would just say, “I'm half.” And it felt like, “This word is like ‘half,’ but it's this special identity and only the ‘in’ people know what being hapa means.” Then I started following the discourse of some folks in Hawaii who were saying, “This is a specific term for specific peoples. If you are not those peoples, it’s disrespectful and please don't use it.” With language, if someone is asking me to do something, and it's not hard for me to make the change, and it's harming someone else, there's literally no reason for me not to make it. Even though there was a small grieving process, like “What do I hold on to now?” Similarly, I don't understand the resistance around honoring non-binary people by using their pronouns. There's a language shift, but sure, if it's going to affirm someone else's humanity, of course.

So currently, if someone is asking and it’s an appropriate ask, I’ll say that I'm biracial Chinese American and white. It's been hard for me to say the white part because I don't want to claim it. But it’s been helpful to be in affinity spaces with other biracial and multiracial people and unpack that it’s part of the identity we carry with us, and it allows us access to spaces and ambiguity, which allows us access to different things too. So I try to acknowledge it, even if I don't totally yet know all the implications and the ways it's shaped me.

I feel like your journey with the words you use to identify yourself is the story of your identity journey – it's like a microcosm of the journey itself.

I'm curious if being multiracial has impacted how you understand or experience other identities you hold.

As I was exploring sexuality, the flexibility and fluidity that comes from being multiracial gave me comfort as I started to identify as bisexual or fluid or queer, because it was like, “Well, I already know what this ambiguity feels like.” I already know that people probably won't understand. It's been an interesting parallel experience of seeking permission and always wondering if I need it. Like if I'm dating a cishet man, am I bisexual enough? If I can't eat this, if I don't enjoy this Chinese food, am I biracial enough? Am I Chinese enough? The more comfortable I've gotten with facets of my identity, the easier it's become to claim them.

It's still hard, though. Presenting as a very femme person, I sometimes feel trepidation entering spaces like the Queer Student Union, wondering if I present in a way in which I'll be accepted and acknowledged. Which has many parallels: Can I go to the East Asian Affinity Club? Could I take part in Asian American Christian Fellowship? I didn’t know. People in those spaces who have been accepting have been extremely healing for that voice in my mind. But it's still hard when you see group photos of either of those spaces – if I'm not presenting a certain way, do I have belonging in this particular group?

That makes so much sense, and there's so many layers in that. On one hand, you were already very familiar with this one non-binary identity you have, and it sounds like that may have facilitated your exploration of this other non-binary identity. And it also means that you now have twice the questions about if you belong in marginalized spaces.

Yeah. A year or two ago, I was like, “Maybe instead of creating all these narratives in my head, I should just quiet this voice and ask my friends if they think I’m white-passing. Most of my close friends are Asian American, and to my fascination, 50% of them were like, “Yeah, you’re white-passing, obviously.” And another 50% were like, “No, you're not.” I think they were trying to read what I wanted the answer to be, and I honestly just wanted to know what they thought. But I found it fascinating that even with these friends who had similar upbringings to each other and have known me for a long time, there's not a clear sense of how people see me.

So did that help you at all? What did you take away from that survey?

That I can't wait for someone to give me permission to enter those spaces, because I'm not going to get a full, unanimous chorus of “This is the space for you.”

That’s so rich. That gave me a deeper understanding of why it might be scary to enter those spaces, because ultimately it's a fear of rejection, right? Will somebody tell me I don't belong here? Which is a confirmation of your worst fear.

Are there other identities with which your multiracial identity has intersected in a meaningful or surprising way?

The question of marginalization as a multiracial or biracial person is so interesting because it feels context-dependent. If I enter a space that’s science-y or academic, I look for the other marginalized people. Where are the people of color? Where are the young women? When I was in academic science, I was consciously seeking out places that felt safe in an environment that didn't always feel inviting. But then it got complicated with like, “Who can go to the POC happy hour?” Can I sit at this table? Does that end when I'm not going to apply for that scholarship because I know I'm not first-gen in college, Black, Indigenous, or Latinx? I don't take that personally because I don't need funding for that reason, but I still want the affinity of the community. So I've tried to be extremely aware of where safe spaces are for me, but I do think it's tricky, and I’ve experienced other people of color asking why the multiracial people are there or if it's a space for them. The first time I heard that, it made me pause and ask, “When is the POC space a place where I'm not going to take up too much space? When am I going to be a hindrance to other people's sense of comfort?”

I appreciate your thoughtfulness around that – it takes a certain level of self-awareness and societal awareness to make those decisions. At the same time, I'm like, “Where are you supposed to sit?”

Yeah, it’s interesting. I attended a conference for educators of color that had a multiracial affinity space. That was a fascinating place to be, because there were 400 multiracial educators who were like, “Who are we?” It was so interesting to hear people from all walks of life, all parts of the country, expressing vulnerable feelings of “I wasn't sure if I was allowed to come to this conference” and everyone else being like, “Yeah, me neither.” Being able to interface with each other and express that gave us a sense of affinity, and having multiracial space gave us an automatic sense of belonging and some permission. But it was tricky and I don't think we answered it.

That makes me think about how intentional POC affinity spaces need to be about articulating who is included. Was the multiracial affinity space advertised?

It was, and that was one of the reasons I felt comfortable going. And the coordinators at my school approved me, so institutionally, someone thought I could go to the conference. We had this incredible DEI director who is multiracial, and I’ve often looked to her for permission for places to go. It's been helpful to have someone who's older than me, because I don't often have someone I can look to in those moments. But it’s also felt like a lot of pressure – sometimes we'll have broadly POC spaces at school to process something, and the multiracial kids look to me. And it’s like, “Okay, so I'm making this decision for me and for you.” Because if I go, you will feel comfortable going, and if I don't, I'm sending you a message that it's not necessarily a space for you either. Which feels like a lot to carry.

Sometimes I'll go and be affirming but not say anything. Because maybe I have permission to be here, but not to take up space in the way that other people feel comfortable to. But maybe that's also intersecting with other identities, like how Asian women show up in spaces and wonder if they can take up space. So I don't know – that might be tied to other identities too.

That resonates with me as a monoracial Asian person, because monoracial Asians also have these questions entering POC spaces. I think about my own questions of “Am I welcome here? How much space can I take up?” and then I imagine how much more amplified it is for you, when you’re racially ambiguous and you benefit from some proximity to whiteness. I can imagine that becomes infinitely more complicated.

And to your point, when my monoracial Asian American friends express “I don't know if this space is for me,” then I'm like, “If the monoracial Chinese American teacher isn’t sure the space is for her, it's definitely not for me, right?”

That's so interesting – you're looking to the next closest example, which is the monoracial Chinese American teacher. And that's so complicated, especially because, as you said, your decision communicates something to your students. So how do you be a role model in these decisions and questions that you yourself are still working through?

Sometimes I just tell them I'm still working through it. Or I’m like, “Do you want to have a little multiracial table and we can talk about how you felt at this assembly?”

That sounds like the best thing you can do, right? Just be honest about your own process and give them a space to process and to belong. Those sound like the right moves.

I feel like we’re already into this question, but how has being multiracial been a challenge for you in your personal and professional life?

So much of it has been about taking up space. I don't know that that’s inherently tied to being multiracial, but I think it is tied to having a Chinese American mom and learning what it means to be a woman. I still don't really know what it means to ask for help. I’ve gotten more comfortable speaking up about things throughout my life, but so much of my experience has been accommodating other people's comfort and trying to make people comfortable with who I am and who they are. That’s taken a lot of energy and time and oriented me in ways I wouldn’t have been without those identities.

I think about how multiracial Asian men in my life move through spaces, and I don't think they think as much about their racial identity because it's not tied to the woman part. I don't think people read them as half Asian as often, which is fascinating. I don't think they experience people asking them what they are, and I think so much of that comes back to women being sexualized. There's already this exotification of Asian women, this submissive narrative of bending to the needs of others and also being very beautiful and exotic and mysterious. And then being multiracial, people still feel like they're going to get that exotic part because no one can read what you are and you’re ambiguous. But there's a familiarity and less discomfort than if you were fully Chinese and you might have customs or language that make you inaccessible.

It's been a challenge even to have all these extra thoughts about it. People of marginalized identities have to, but I don't think my white counterparts in science had to, for example. They could just focus on their science.

That makes so much sense – the mental load you have to carry. You can't just do the work. You also have to think about your positionality and your many intersecting identities on top of that. And everything you said about how you as a woman face more questions about your multiracial identity than your male counterparts – I’ve never put together how the exotification and sexualization piece fits into that, or how the stereotypes about Asian women are made more palatable because you're also familiar.

Yeah. I think it's also tied to this myth that half Asian people are more beautiful. That’s a weird pressure across gender, a tough thing that a lot of multiracial people struggle with. And because of media, you're shown the beautiful multiracial person, so you're like, “Wait, is that the aspiration? If I achieve that, then can I be recognized in a way that's positive?”

I appreciate you mentioning that, because we don’t talk enough about how dehumanizing that is.

It's super-weird.

It's super-weird. I can only speak as a parent of multiracial Asian children, but as soon as my spouse and I told people we were having a baby, they were like, “Oh, your baby's going to be so beautiful.” I'm like, “That's weird. Why are you commenting on the attractiveness of my fetus?”

And if you're not, then do you not have belonging?

Exactly!

It comes back to this idea of “You’re not biracial enough if you’re not beautiful.”

Exactly. And it’s a real lack of understanding that positive stereotypes are still dehumanizing. A lot of people still can't grasp that. And the pressure that it creates to be something that maybe you aren't or can't attain – what does that mean for you and your identity?

Yeah. And for a while, I identified as Christian. That's not how I identify anymore. But that layer on top of the Asian-woman layer of service – every message is affirming who you should be and what’s valued from you. You are not the leader, nor can you have needs or make mistakes. You are here to be beautiful and helpful as you support your husband and family without complaint, and then God will look kindly upon you. That layer also took a while to unpack.

That’s so true. Being an Asian American woman, you're already socialized so much to serve other people and make sure nobody else is uncomfortable. And if you’re an evangelical Christian Asian American woman, all those messages just get multiplied. It totally makes sense to me why you might not know how to advocate for yourself. What does that even look like? What models do we have for how to do that in a healthy way?

Yeah. And I could see the completely countercultural version of that, but I'm not that either. I still want to be soft, but I want to be me.

Right – one option is to be reactionary, to be in-your-face and aggressive. But that's also not me, even after I deconstruct these layers. So what does it look like to be like me and also assertive?

One of my favorite role models in this space has been Chanel Miller. Obviously I love her writing, and I'm so grateful for the advocacy she's done for other women facing sexual violence. But she's also an amazing artist who captures little snippets of multiracial life in these tiny cartoons in a way that I’ve never felt more seen by. She's someone I look to as a model of being soft and letting the world affect me, but still being wholly me, being weird and quirky and loud and taking up space and having the friendships I want and not serving someone else. That has been so refreshing, and it's incredible how a single person with whom I have no intimate connection has shifted that landscape for me, because I finally see my identity mapping somewhere and showing up in a way I want to show up.

That’s so good.

On the flip side, I'm curious how being multiracial has been an asset to you in your personal and professional life.

The fluidity piece has allowed me to enter spaces I wouldn’t have felt comfortable in without inheriting these cultural backgrounds. I love that I can enter my Chinese American friend’s home and know some of the norms. No one has to ask me to take my shoes off. I get the memes about Asian parents cutting you fruit. It’s lovely to be able to relate to these parts of me. And getting to know the white American side of my family, who live farther away and with whom I don't have as much connection, has given me insight into their experiences as people who live in different parts of the US. I probably wouldn't have heard their stories if I was solely in the landscape of Asian Americans in LA. Thinking about what they value, what foods they like, what they like to do in their spare time – when we talk, especially in this era of polarization, it’s helpful for me to have anchors of people I know and love and trust. So when we're talking about Nevada or Arizona or rural parts of Oregon, I have anchors of people who are good and might not have language around identity, but who really celebrate me and have never made me feel excluded from their family. Those are narratives I wouldn’t have had access to otherwise.

The ambiguity lets you be in different spaces. I’ve been afforded the ability to be in POC spaces where I've learned so much and felt so celebrated. And I've been able to hear stories that have changed the way I want to advocate and care for people. Had I not been trusted with that sort of vulnerability, I never would have known people's personal experiences of marginalization. And that's really changed how I interact, knowing how people felt othered or not.

I don't know if this is a multiracial thing or a Christianity thing or an inherent discomfort when other people are uncomfortable, but I’ve always noticed the kids who don’t feel like they belong, whether I was a camp counselor for four-year-olds or an educator now. I so acutely know what it feels like that I notice it immediately. I want to draw people in, in a way they feel comfortable with – making sure they know they can take the time they need and this is their space too. I notice in my classroom where and when that happens. Particularly in a science classroom – I have strong feelings about students deciding at this age whether or not science is for them. I think a lot about how to invite every student into a sense of belonging in my biology class so this is not the point where they feel stopped. And that desire for them to have a sense of belonging comes from my perpetual search for that. So it's definitely been an asset in relationship-building, especially with people who don't look like me, because no one in my family looks just like me.

That’s so true of you as a person – the sense of attunement you have to how people on the margins are feeling. And I love how you put it – this sense of being on the margins has given you an amazing ability to see the people who are on the margins and to want to create a space for them. That's so beautiful.

It’s a superpower.

It really is. That you were able to take this experience of yours that was hard, not feeling like you belonged, and turn it into an ability to make people feel belonging – I could cry thinking about it. That's so amazing.

Thanks, Liz.

Your students are very lucky to have you. And one of your many responsibilities at school is that you facilitate the student affinity group for multiracial kids, which I love. You may have thought about this more than others, so I'm especially curious: What advice you have for kids or teenagers who are growing up multiracial Asian?

Having a space of affinity has been invaluable. Where you can find that will be different depending on where you are, but the cool thing about the internet is there are a lot of places to find it. The other day, I was talking to my cousin, who is also half Chinese and half white, and it occurred to me that she didn’t have the same space I had at school to process these things weekly. And she extended so much gratitude for that 30-minute conversation because she hadn't really talked about it with someone in a while or with that much intention. So finding people who are like “I totally get that” is super-affirming because it makes you feel like it's not in your head, that it's a real experience.

The experience of every multiracial person you meet will be different than yours. That comes with a bit of grief, but also a celebration of difference. You'll have this moment of “Ooh, it’s the same!” and then you'll be like, “Oh, but you speak the language” or “Oh, but your grandparents are affirming in this way.” The beauty is that you get to be affirmed by other people and you get to be reminded that your story is completely unique.

It is a journey, but give yourself the permission to be in spaces you feel you should be in. You have to give yourself that permission because people aren’t always going to offer it to you. People aren’t going to ask if you want to come to the Asian American dinner. Sometimes you just have to show up and people will welcome you. It’s scary and it feels like you need permission, but most of the time, people are happy you're there. And if not, they're not the people you need to be with. So give yourself the permission to find affinity in a space where you want to find it.

And hopefully your parents and family members are people from whom you can get some rich stories of culture. I've found both for myself and my friends that it's easier to give yourself that permission when you feel like you have these stories that live inside you. When you eat this thing, you're like, “This is an embodiment of this part of my culture that I'm so proud of.” And you know you can be proud of these different parts of your culture, even if society tells you that it’s something to be ashamed of or you try to hide it sometimes. People are going to see you how they see you, and it is not your job to control how they see you. It is your job to do the things you are meant to do with integrity and kindness. And finding good people around you who are willing to have those conversations makes it a little bit easier.

And it's also fun because then you get twice the food. You're going to build your own kaleidoscope of the things you want to keep. You don't have to keep all of it.