Leilani Funaki.
My dad is one of my favorite people. When I look at my face, I see his nose. I see the shape of his eyes. I see Grandpa Lemalu’s hairline. When I glance at my hands, I see Grandma Tusi’s short, chubby fingers. When I look at my aunties, I see bodies shaped like mine and the same curly hair. When I look in the mirror, I see a Samoan woman.
But I grew up on the mainland. I don’t speak Samoan. When it’s time for a siva, I’m the last to volunteer to join in and dance. When I speak, I have no demonstrable accent. The first time I was called a fake Samoan, I was a teenager and I was mortified. I was also confused. How was I not Samoan?
The simple answer is that I AM Samoan. I am also white (that is just not as obvious at first glance). Being mixed race can be lonely, but it doesn’t make me a “fake” anything. My Samoan-ness isn’t measured by the language I speak, whether or not I Siva Samoa, the number of puletasis in my closet, or how often I drink koko. It’s there in my nose. It’s the short, chubby fingers and the hair that refuses to do anything but curl. It’s the call of sea, the songs of my ancestors that flow through me, and the close connection I have with my family throughout the Pasifika diaspora. I am not a fake Samoan.
