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My mother used to say to me, “a picky eater is a sign of a closed mind.” Usually this pithy statement would accompany her attempts to compel my childhood self into overcoming my obstinate distaste for foods involving onions, fish, or Chinese cuisine in general.

The phrase also seemed to serve as an informal litmus test for her to assess the character of people in general whenever she had a chance to observe them eat. That didn’t bode well for a significant portion of the human population….

Back then, you’d sooner change water into wine than convince me to consume any form of the onion, be it served raw in a salad, fried with batter, diced into a stew or sauce, or grilled on a kebab.

In fact, it was not an uncommon ritual on spaghetti night with the Pontees when I would ask with all the petulant vehemence of an inquisition, “Are there any onions in this?” to which my mother would evenly reply, “No, there are no onions.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, positive.”

Being a precocious child cynic, I had always half-suspected that she was being less than forthcoming about the presence of onions despite her claims to the contrary, and it was only years later that I received full disclosure about spaghetti night: my mother would frequently mince onions to the point of textural oblivion in order to blend it into the sauce.

I’m happy to report that well into my adult years my tastes have evolved to the the point where it is unthinkable for me to neglect the use of sautéed onions in preparation of tomato sauce. I’ll even enjoy the occasional savory red onion in my panzanella salad.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can entirely credit my mother’s clandestine insurrection against my fascist taste buds. Being open to food, after all, requires voluntary choice. Point in fact, I actually recall the significant turning point for me on the stance of onions.

It was in my college years (yes, it took me that long to come around to onions) when I was first living in a private apartment after a freshman year in the dormitories. A fellow Korean American student had shown me a easy-to-make dinner in the way of broiling a briskly seasoned steak (salt, pepper, and garlic) with a few sliced onions thrown on top. Eating what was probably my own first attempt at cooking (outside of a home economics class way back in middle school), the meal turned out to be pretty tasty.

Perhaps this transformation of taste was due in part to a desire for something beyond the college cafeteria food experience and in part to the fact that this particular meal, onions included, involved the validation of personal choice and pride in personal initiative to prepare this dish.

What I took for granted as a child regarding the special effort that went into my mother’s cooking I could now only retroactively appreciate with this new hindsight, having joined the ranks of food preparation.

Fish is still a work in progress: I feel I don’t eat enough of it, although I have gotten better over the years. I hadn’t even acquired a taste for sashimi or sushi until my mid-twenties.

In that change I owe to a staff outing of teachers when I was teaching English in Seoul, South Korea. As the high school where I was a teacher was fitting the bill, I didn’t want to appear an ungracious guest and took a couple bracing swigs of soju (a strong Korean alcohol derived from potato and various grains that I would argue foregos taste in favor of simply trying to knock you flat on your face) and dug into my first round of sashimi, Japanese cuisine in the heart of South Korea.

I’ve been a convert ever since, and not necessarily with the stupor of an alcohol-induced fervor.

However, I don’t eat enough of fish in general, and I still have a lot of misgivings about shellfish. Why the clammy primordial residue of goo that constitutes oysters on the half-shell constitutes a delicacy still continues to allude me. And boiled mussels with their silent gaping mouths and orange-hued “tongues” seem to have a knack for making my stomach queasy.

As for my sadly misguided anti-Chinese food campaign, I think it must have been a phase I was going through when I was about ten years old. It’s embarrassing to recall, but I remember occasions where I insisted on stopping by McDonald’s before going into any Chinese restaurant. Egad, if I could just have five minutes with that kid of yesteryear…. Knowing better now, between a choice of McDonald’s and a good Chinese restaurant, the Chinese restaurant will win hands down every time.

However, I was gratified to know that I wasn’t alone among the ranks of finicky eaters. In “Picky Eaters? They Get It From You,” The New York Times article cites research that actually attributes 78% of our finickiness to genetics and 22% to environmental factors. Such a stark numerical breakdown hardly allows for the romance of taste, but it presents an interesting dilemma. If so much of our finickiness is genetically predisposed, how to we grow out of it?

Although a genetic component exists, it does not let us finicky eaters completely off the hook, as Patricia Pliner, a social psychology professor at the University of Toronto had reminded readers of the NYT article that biology is not destiny (my emphasis).

So how does this all relate back to that pithy, if seemingly ominous, phrase coined by my mother that “a picky eater is a sign of a closed mind”? I had mentioned in an earlier posting entitled “Always the Penumbra,” that just because one partakes in the cuisine of a given culture does not necessarily make one an ambassador to that culture, e.g., eating sushi or sashimi does not necessarily guarantee my sensitivity to Japanese culture as a whole.

But if we can introduce ourselves to new cultures through food, it is at least a good start, but it certainly shouldn’t be the final destination. Keeping an open mind to different cultures is about making choices that will expose one to new environments, new sensations, and new ways of thinking.

Speaking beyond just food in terms of cultural experiences, some experiences may be instantly enjoyable, others may be an acquired taste, while others still may yet be inaccessible or even unwanted, but at least the effort and intent are present. And for people to come around, sometimes it requires a little patience, i.e., if I can learn to eat onions, fish, and Chinese food, there may yet be hope in the world.

I would love to hear responses from readers about their own stories of heretofore unfamiliar or formerly unwanted foods or ethnic cuisines. What did you learn with the introduction of this new food as it pertains to the culture providing it, and more importantly, what did you learn about yourself?

Living as a minority in the United States, there is one particular luxury that I have always envied about the white majority, a feature of their cultural existence that ethnic minorities are not easily afforded, particularly those ethnic minorities with features that would identify them as distinctly non-European. A white person (I speak of those who have assimilated by more than one generation into the American mainstream) has the benefit of being perceived, more often than not, as an an individual before any assumed generalizations about his or her ethnic group.

Take for example my experiences in meeting new people: I am on occasion confronted with what my fellow minorities would recognize as “the question.” It is the question of one’s ethnic identity. For the most part, there is no intended ill will meant by such the inquiry–it comes from a genuine, if perhaps socially indiscreet, desire to know. Such curiosity is doubtlessly further spurred by the ethnic uncertainty proposed by my last name (which is another story altogether).

The range of tact inherent to the query varies according to the inquirer’s deftness with words and relative sensitivity to cultural matters. In attempting to “learn” about my ethnic identity, I’ve been asked, “What’s your background?”, “What’s your nationality?”, “Where are you from?”, “Where were your parents born?”, “Where were you born?”, “Are you Chinese?”, “Are you Japanese?”, and my favorite one that seems to question the evolutionary viability of my very being, “What are you?”

Depending on my mood, the question asked, and the person asking, my answer will vary. To questions about my nationality and where I was born, I usually respond with deliberate obtuseness that I’m an American who was born in Chicago. If I’m feeling charitable, I’ll eventually tell them the information they were really after–that I’m Korean American–but not without a dramatic pause in the pernicious hope that the asker will realize the folly of the assumptions inherent to his or her question. Sometimes I may redirect the question with all the ingenuousness I can muster, “Oh, do you mean my ethnic background?”

But no matter which form of “the question” is asked, and no matter how I answer, I always feel compelled to ask back (although I never have), “Why is it important for you to know that particular detail about myself; and if I were white, would you have asked the same question (with the intent of learning my ethnic background)?

This is not to say I don’t want to share with other people that significant part of me that informs my identity. But usually the intent behind the question seems not be out of a genuine desire to learn more about my Korean heritage so much as the compulsion to categorize me under whatever superficial knowledge the asker has about my particular ethnic group. Why not ask me what television shows I like, first? What books I’ve read? What I do for a living? To my mind, a first meeting is about trying to establish common ground, not to look for differences.

Individuals are not the only ones guilty of this tendency. It happens on an institutionalized level, as well. Take the striking contrast of the media portrayal and public perception of the Oklahoma City bombing against the the more recent 9/11 attacks.

At the outset of coverage for the Oklahoma City bombing, there was initial speculation that those responsible for blowing up the Murrah Federal Building could have been terrorists of Middle Eastern origin. It came as quite a surprise to the viewing public when the perpetrators turned out to be two white Americans.

Following the tragedy, there was some concern about radicalized white militias living in the United States, but those perception have not been sustained in the public consciousness the same way the fear of Muslim radicals has. The public had developed the conviction that individuals like Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols were horrific exceptions to the perceived rule of generally law-abiding whites. We were not haunted by a lingering fear that every white person was lying in wait to blow us to kingdom come.

Has that same luxury of finding the exception to the rule applied to Muslims in the wake of 9/11? Following the aftermath, various government officials had to warn the general populace against attacking in unthinking retribution against innocent people perceived to be of Middle Eastern heritage. People were warned that such offenses would be prosecuted as federal hate crimes.

Despite the warnings, some bigoted vitriol spilled over, even into ethnic communities whose religious background was not even Muslim! Peruse this article from The Pluralism Project at Harvard for more information on reported hate crimes post 9/11: http://www.pluralism.org/research/profiles/display.php?profile=74090. In the case Oklahoma City bombings, insofar as potential citizen backlash against targeting particular white communities, there were no such similar concerns.

Furthermore, the mass media hasn’t helped in the average Muslim’s plight. By devoting the majority of their air time regarding Muslims to the most radical fringe elements of Islam, these extremists have unfairly come to reflect upon the majority of citizens who are law-abiding. Viewers are rarely given enough examples of everyday Muslims to dispel an irrational fear against entire ethnic groups. Representation of the white majority spans a huge spectrum, which allows us to consider white individuals on a case by case basis, in lieu of any perceived characteristics of “whiteness.”

For all ethnic minorities, this kind of racial profiling has come to mean an egregious double-standard. Blacks and Latinos have historically fought constantly against perceptions that have denied them fair, individualized treatment in regards to housing, education, employment, and the law. In the interests of “national security” during World War II, Japanese Americans in the US were forcibly detained in prison camps while no such initiatives were taken for German Americans. Minorities are still haunted by assumptions and generalizations that deny the primacy of individuality.

So to the white majority I say, don’t doubt the benefit of the doubt, and don’t forget to give your fellow citizens (who happen to be ethnic minorities), an equal measure of individual assessment.

“World is suddener than we fancy it. / World is crazier and more of it than we think, / incorrigibly plural.”–Louis MacNeice

When I try to fathom the vast hodgepodge of cultures that has come together to define this entity called the United States, I am in absolute awe. There are few more apt descriptions to apply to this country than the aforementioned lines quoted from poet Louis MacNeice’s poem “Snow.” In essence, the entire poem is a contemplation of seemingly impossible juxtapositions, for all the wonder and peril that they entail. What could be more quintessentially American?

Although juxtapositions can create connections, they certainly don’t guarantee the level integration implied by this nation’s default metaphor of multiculturalism: “the melting pot.” Its appeal doubtlessly lies in the suggestion of strength made implicit through its archetypal association with the forge: disparate metals come together to create the stronger amalgam of steel. But like many metaphors, when put up against a careful consideration of the thing it describes, it risks becoming a reductio ad absurdum.

Take for example the case of New York City, arguably one of the most diverse cities on this planet. As a point of civic pride, its denizens (of which I’m a member) will often tout the city’s status as a multicultural bastion. But even in a city as multifaceted as New York, going from one city block to the next can sometimes be a sobering demonstration of people’s proclivity towards living in enclaves that reflect their own particular cultural and/or socioeconomic status. Start out near Columbia University in Morningside Heights and either walk south to the Upper West Side or walk north to Washington Heights and further on to Harlem, then you’ll see what I mean.

Frankly, this complacency about our progressiveness regarding intercultural matters (hardly exclusive to New Yorkers) is the most insidious kind of bigotry, because it fails to acknowledge that resisting bigotry must be an ongoing process of self-education. Just because one eats sushi and owns a Sony PlayStation does not necessarily make one sensitive to Japanese culture. Just because one claims that one African American friend does not necessarily make one a soldier for civil rights. Just because one lives in a multicultural city like New York does not necessarily make one a citizen of the world.

Often, the integration we undeservingly congratulate ourselves for happens on these superficial levels of experience, excepting of course the overriding impetus of dominant Eurocentric culture. The melting pot is a compelling metaphor but ultimately flawed for its odd pairing of naïveté and self-directed jingoism. This is the kind of juxtaposition that doesn’t turn out for the best.

If I were called upon to construct a metaphor for these United States, I would make use of the “penumbra.” The penumbra is a phenomenon in our everyday lives, but it becomes most dramatically evident in the event of an eclipse. Astronomer’s use the term to define the shadowy border between complete illumination and complete darkness.

What I find so fascinating about the concept is that in essence, the penumbra does not entirely belong to either state but nonetheless is the delineation between the two. The thematic applications are particularly compelling to me as a person whose interests and convictions don’t always take him into the mainstream. Puttering around the outskirts and margins seems like a great way to get some perspective, and maybe in some way contribute to the bigger picture. We don’t get to learn much in those regions of absolute light and dark where everybody tends to say the same thing.

I don’t believe anyone can hold true dominion in thought, expression, or action—thank goodness. Everyone belongs, in their own fashion, to a minority perspective. The very nature of individuality guarantees this. Still, it doesn’t stop us from reaching out to seek a sense of belonging to something larger than ourselves. Minority viewpoints that converge can create amalgams or tensions, and if approached with the proper temperament, we sometimes can discover unexpected regions of great creativity and insights.

As for my own accounting in my plied metaphor of the penumbra, I am a Korean American male, but in many significant ways, that should say nothing beyond the fact. It should not preclude me from reading the works of Irish poet Louis MacNeice or discussing a short story by Mexican-American author Sandra Cisneros. Because I read poetry and fiction should not preclude me from discussing the graphic novel Persepolis by Iranian creator Marjane Satrapi or the The Dark Knight Returns by American creator Frank Miller. Because I have an interest in comics-related media should not preclude me from discussing Turkey’s petitioning to become a member of the European Union or wondering about the costs and benefits of the weakening US dollar in the global market.

We all in our own way live in this tenuous state called the penumbra, and in so doing, try to see the United States in the same way, whose regions of light and darkness often seem to defy all compromise. But we live in it nonetheless and hope we can be the wiser for it.