Rice, Race, and Growing up Hafu

“I thought they said there would be rice,” my brother whispered to me, eyeing the bowls on the table. I pointed to a bowl full of colorful Mexican-style rice and replied, “I think that’s the rice.” He shot me a disgusted look, and I reminded him that we had to eat everything they gave us with no complaining.
Though he’s two years older than me, my brother was never as good at hiding what he was thinking as I was. The truth was that even at ages six and eight, we were both fascinated and also more than a little …