Happy Birthday! I'm unfriending you.

You didn't get cake, because they forgot it was your birthday, because you didn't allow your facebook friends to see what day you were born. Really, it's your fault.



I bought into the facebook hype early on and I've witnessed the site’s transformation every step of the way. Before there were timelines, news feeds, photo albums, and options to upload the video of your first child being born, there were just a few personal questions to answer, and the option to upload one profile pic (you read that right: one).

There were no status updates, no cover photos, no photo albums of the last five epic vacays you took, no way to tell the world that you had the best effing burrito of your life, and no way to announce that you’re getting married so nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-boo-stick-your-head-in-doo-doo. Just a freaking photo, the name of your school, and the option to tell a closed network of college students that your favorite band was Hanson.

You still had to call your friends or have face-to-face interactions with people you wanted to keep in your life.

Even in its most simplistic format, I thought facebook was pretty darn cool. I loved browsing the profiles of my classmates, finding fellow recovering Hanson addicts, and connecting with high school friends who were attending different universities.

While I still login everyday to see what people eat, smell and think every five minutes, I have definitely changed my user habits as facebook has expanded. Most specifically in who I decide to “friend.”

“Friending” someone on facebook used to be as invasive as saying hello to a passing stranger. There was very limited information you shared with your “friends” and of course your true friends knew only what you ate for breakfast, what you’re thinking of naming your firstborn, and what time you put in your headgear last night. I used to friend anyone I met - random partygoers, guys I thought were cute, co-workers I worked with for five seconds. It didn’t matter - They didn’t have access to my life story with the click of a mouse.

But as facebook has grown, it has cheapened what information we determine intimate, and what friendships we consider valuable. Our connections have become increasingly artificial. Now any “friend” can discover the most intimate details that were once reserved for those in our closest circles. It’s to the point where we tell our true friends stories, only for them to interrupt and say, “I already read that on facebook.”

I’m still “friends” with people I wouldn’t normally give two shits about if facebook weren’t an option. So I began asking myself, why? If it doesn’t make a difference to me if your status says you “got caught picking your nose in the office” or that you “just had a baby,” we probably shouldn’t be “friends.”

I had “friended” so many acquaintances that I didn’t remember how I was connected to all of them. That’s when I knew it was time to purge my friends list. I went on an unfriending binge a few months ago (which felt so good - it was like hot yoga; the toxins were being released!), but a few stragglers remain.

And you know how I’m reminded to unfriend those stragglers? Their birthday pops up on my newsfeed. I think, “Oh wow. I didn’t unfriend them months ago?” Happy Birthday! I’m an asshole and I’m unfriending you! Honey badger don’t care.

My new criteria is, if I feel uncomfortable wishing you a happy birthday because we’re not that close, you don’t need to know that my dog lost a tooth yesterday, or that I got sick from the burger at a chinese restaurant, or that I hung out with my family over the weekend.  

And why are we hooked on such nonessential statements about life anyway? We are not only intrigued by sharing the inconsequential events of our day, but reading about others’ as well. The little things are what ultimately comprise our lives and some are certainly more interesting than others. We enjoy the voyeuristic aspect that facebook provides. Facebook has somehow tapped into our inner creep and made it all okay.

People willingly share all kinds of information about their lives, from birth to death. I have friends that have passed whose facebook pages are now tribute pages. Imagine that! We’re still connected on facebook in the afterlife.

I feel too far invested in facebook to pull the plug, and I do rely on it to stay in touch with even my closest of true friends, but I certainly understand other’s hesitations for not wanting to join the biggest social media network in the world.

Some have predicted that facebook is just a passing fad, while others tout its ingenuity and claim it's the wave of the future. I’m more apt to side with the latter, but I can’t do so without my criticisms.

Facebook is a great way to stay in touch with people you care about, and a great way to stay in touch with those you don’t. Ultimately, Facebook harbors artificial relationships and makes us feel more important than we really are. And who doesn’t love flattery?

People can like your statements, your political beliefs or the fact that you just farted. And with each like, it makes us feel more important, more popular. Facebook promotes a false sense of worth and importance. Just because 42 people liked that you thought the guy sitting by you on the bus smelled like ass, doesn’t mean that 42 people want to actually hang out with you and hear your thoughts in person. Seventy people liked that I was engaged and I can guarantee you that not even half of them will get wedding invites (and it’s not because we’re on a budget).

Truly befriending someone used to be saying, “I enjoy your company. Let’s hang out and have conversations in person and do fun stuff together.” In the online world, “friending” means, “I want to know what you ate for dinner.That’s all.” Facebook has turned us all into miniature (or in some cases, big time) stalkers.

Being my “friend” on facebook means that you get to see that I ate the best effing burrito of my life, in addition to all of these awesome benefits of a real life friendship. If you’re my “friend,” I want to hang out with you. And I don’t mean in Google+. I mean, hang out, like...for real. I would not be put off if you asked to go get coffee or do things that friends do. Facebook should be an added bonus to being my real friend - not the basis for our entire relationship.

So in that sense, if I unfriend you, see it as a favor (or birthday gift). I’m not wasting your time or invading your privacy, and I am preventing you from doing the same to me. Life is too short to harbor useless relationships. And facebook sucks up enough of our time as it is to realize we’re spending it stalking people we don’t care about anyway.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but facebook “friends” should really just be friends.

"This is My Skin Color."

I want these.

Behold – a super post! Sorry for my absence. Life got hectic. I’ll spare you my excuses. The bottom line is that I’ve written a post to satisfy your Sticks and Stones cravings:

I had some of the most jarring conversations about my ethnicity that I felt compelled to share. Recently, after meeting a person for the very first time, the first thing he said to me was, “You have such a nice tan! I wish I could get that dark.” (Note: I haven’t gotten a tan yet this season, being as I live in Washington. Twilight was filmed here for a reason.)

I replied, “Well, it’s natural. This is my skin color.”

He said, “Oh really?”

I said, “Yes, I’m black, Japanese and white.” End of conversation right? Wrong.

He says, “It’s totally the Japanese that makes you tan.”

I said, “Uh…or the black.”

He said, “Oh yeah, I guess that too.”

Unfortunately, that was the umpteenth time I’ve had that conversation. Most people stop right there and make some stupid comment about me not appearing black, or not “acting like it,” or “wow I never realized.”

What is it that makes people not believe me? And what do all of those comments mean? Why is it so mind-blowing that I’m black? If I appeared to be “more black” would they ask these questions?

And the conversation went on.

“I thought you were Native American,” he opened his mouth again.

“Well, I’m not.” I said.

Even though there are rumors on both sides of my family that we are part Native American, this would have just thrown him for a freaking loop. I don’t tell people this for the same reason I don’t tell people about my Hawaiian heritage.

“You look Native American. Do you get that a lot?” he asked. Oh how rude. How effing rude.

“Yes, I have, but I’m telling you, I’m not.”

“Do you know what kind of black you are?” Uh…what?

“What do you mean by ‘what kind of black?’ I’m African-American…” I’m obviously showing that I’m annoyed at this point.

“So, you don’t know who in you’re family was black?” he asked.

“That’s not what you asked,” I said. “My grandpa was black. My mom is half. I’m a quarter.” Why the hell am I explaining myself to this person? I’m not grilling him on his skin color or demanding a family lineage. Why does this seem like an appropriate conversation to him?

But then he said something that really pissed me off:

“Oh. Well, you don’t have curly hair.” he stated, as though it were proof I was lying about being black. WTF?! Sound the alarms!

I said firmly, “It’s called being mixed.” Seriously. What the fuck.

This concept of being mixed was so foreign to this person. It was blowing his mind in the worst possible way. So he had to assign a completely different ethnicity to comprehend my skin tone. I was trying to be patient answering his questions, but this person just caught me off-guard and I was frankly not in the mood to be all Mother Teresa about it. I just wanted to kick his ass.

I don’t understand why there needs to be some epic explanation for the color of my skin, and why the truth just doesn’t suffice for some. I find it interesting to discuss heritage, ethnicity and nationality, but that was totally the wrong way to go about it. That approach gets me defensive and makes me summon Muhana Ali rather than motivate me to share stories about being mixed. This brings us to our first lesson:

Lesson #1

If you must ask someone about their racial background, please use the phrase, “What ethnicity are you?” or “What is your ethnic background?”

Don’t ask, “What are you?” It sounds like you’re asking about a different species or creature. My response to that question is, “Homosapien. What are you?” And whatever you do, please don’t make remarks about skin tone. At all.

I had similar conversations in Puerto Rico a few months ago, when I traveled there for business. The businessman I was touring with (whom I had never met before) awkwardly blurted out at breakfast, “You’re dark-skinned. Is that natural or do you fake and bake?”

Why do people assume I just tan a lot? I don’t look anything like this:

Holy shit.

To be respectful (even though the question was asked pretty disrespectfully), I had to tour the island with this person for the rest of the week so I tried to respond as politely as possible. “If you’re curious about my ethnicity, I’m Japanese, black and white.”

“Oh.”

And that was the end of it. I tried to frame my response in the way he should have asked it. But I never feel compelled to ask somebody about their skin color. Ever. This just baffles me.

If the conversation seems appropriate, or if I feel comfortable enough with that person, maybe I’ll broach the subject about ethnicity eventually, but, as Lesson #2 reveals…

Lesson #2

I’ve found that everyone has different comfort levels in discussing their race and ethnicity. Tread this water very carefully, if you feel the need to do it at all. I’m sure there are others who would have happily entertained some these questions. I just don’t happen to be one of them. It’s incredibly rude to blurt out something about someone’s skin color to someone you don’t know. Even as a white person, wouldn’t you find it rude if the first thing someone said to you was, “My, you’re pasty!”

Lesson #3

I also want to make this clear, that people of all racial backgrounds have said things that have upset me (not just white people). People of all walks of life have asked all the wrong questions, and made ignorant comments or assumptions. It leads me to believe that as a country, we suck at discussing race.

I’ve had black people question “how black I am” or I’ve had just the opposite response, where I’m suddenly being treated more warmly after someone finds out I’m also black.

On the same business trip, I also had Puerto Ricans assume I was Puerto Rican. One person was speaking very rapidly in Spanish to me, and when it was clear that I had no clue what they had just asked, they said, “Oh what – you don’t speak Spanish?” with a total ‘tude.

I responded in Spanish, in the way that only a “person who learned it college and hasn’t spoken since” could, but there was no conversation about whether or not I was Puerto Rican or Latina – just an assumption that I was a “gringo.”

Lesson #4


I don’t want people to read this post and come away with the conclusion that being mixed is “hard on the kids.” I hate that argument so much it makes me turn into the Incredible Hulk. While you may have to have conversations with ignoramuses every now and then, being mixed is awesome.

I didn’t have an offbeat life because of my racial background or some crazy identity crisis. I’m American. I grew up eating McDonalds, watching Gem, wearing slap bracelets and imitating Steve Urkel like many kids of the 80s. I also have a deep love for sushi, seaweed, miso soup, greens, grits and cheeseburgers. But you don’t have to be a certain ethnicity to love Japanese food, soul food, or American food. These aren’t indicators of ethnicity – just good taste in food.

We all hold biases and preferences – it’s just a matter of knowing how to appropriately identify them and deal with them. I can only speak for myself and my own experience, but being mixed has broken down barriers in a way that has made me appreciate others differences and individual life experiences. It’s my favorite part about writing for a living; I love speaking with people who live lives that are completely different from mine, and finding out what challenges other people face. Being mixed has made me embrace diversity in a way that I hope everyone will someday.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but even the smallest comments can be the most divisive.