For a moment, I was dumbstruck. I was in an interracial relationship?

It had never occurred to me that others thought of me as, well, different. My skin was darker, sure. My hair was straighter than straight. My nose was small and flat. Yes, I was different.

But it was difficult for me to comprehend how people today could still focus on the the shape of my eyes and the texture of my hair. I mean, wasn't that politically incorrect? I spoke with no accent (outside of my Jersey accent, of course). I dressed like everyone else. I listened to the same music, watched the same television programs, read the same books and magazines. All my friends were white. Couldn't everyone see? I wasn't one of those "fresh off the boat" students (FOBs, as we routinely called them) - kids who had just arrived from other countries and only consorted with people of the same nationality. FOBs spoke in their native tongues in the hallway between classes, and that annoyed everybody.

Couldn't people see I wasn't like that?

No, people didn't see.

Thea Palad and her boyfriend, Scott.

I suppose that my attitude towards being a Filipino woman was never quite healthy. When I was fresh off the boat myself at the age of 5, I was quick to say, "I'm not Filipino, I'm New York." It should be understood that in the Philippines, everybody harbored the dream of going to America and of one day becoming an American. People looked at you with a bit more respect if you could speak English. The sight of my mom returning home from the states with packages full of American things threw us kids into a frenzy. When I was younger, my cousins and I would put clothespins on our noses, trying to get them to look more western. In the Philippines, the American Dream was ubiquitous - and elusive.

Despite the fact that I was born and raised in the Philippines, I would never have guessed that people saw me as different from my Caucasian friends until that day during sophomore year. Earlier, when I lived in a predominantly black community, I was the "white" girl. So, of course, it really put me into a panic when Katie asked me about my alleged interracial relationship.

Years later, I can't help but appreciate Katie's lack of tact and disregard for political correctness. If it wasn't for her comment, I would never have recognized that I was different, and I would never have learned to celebrate that difference.

Today, I consider being a minority a blessing. Sure, there's the obvious stuff. You get special opportunities for being a minority, like scholarships, jobs, internships and being able to be a part of interest groups. Then there's the painful part: the ethnic jokes, the prejudice, the initial embarrassment of being a teenager and "different."

At 12, it horrified me to no end that my friends would discover that I ate rice three times a day. At 17, I was offended by the man who interviewed me from Dartmouth, when he commended me on how wonderfully I had acquired "his language." (Thirteen years in a country will do that for you).

Some people assume that I'm good at math simply because I'm Asian (or Pacific Islander, if you want to get technical).

At 18, I encountered another gracious individual while volunteering with Mobile Meals of Trenton: "Oh, you guys deliver?" I was asked in an elevator heading for the eighth floor. I responded with, "Um, yeah, Meals on Wheels delivers."

"Oh, I thought you were from the Chinese food place," he said, getting off at the seventh floor.

Three months ago, a cafeteria worker attempted to speak to me in Korean; he assumed I was an exchange student.

It's experiences like these that make you stronger, force you to face your heritage; it forces you to make a choice: accept it and defend it, or deny it. I opted for the former. To do this, I have to fight stereotypes.

And it is difficult. These stereotypes exist for a reason, and prejudices die hard.

Some people assume that I'm good at math simply because I'm Asian (or Pacific Islander, if you want to get technical). Some assume I'm a bad driver. It's amazing how many people think that you're predisposed to excel at certain things and be a failure at others simply because of race. The color of my skin doesn't enhance my ability to solve a differential equation. The texture of my hair doesn't deter me from successfully switching lanes.

Vanessa Flores and her boyfriend, Will.

I suppose it would be an impossible objective, trying to convince everyone to abandon their racial prejudices. And I'll be the first to admit that I have yet to abandon my own. One thing is certain, however. I have learned to revere my heritage. I revel in the richness of the blood that courses through my veins from the mother who gave me my nose and the great grandfather who gave me my smile. I have learned to celebrate my history, and to refrain from hiding behind fear or pretense. I will no longer allow the integrity of my background to be compromised by the ignorance of others.

In a few months, I'll be returning to the place where I was born. Only now, I will appreciate it more. I'll be proud of it, and the part it has played in shaping who I am today - my values, my habits, my language, my history.

I'm in another interracial relationship. This summer, I want him to accompany me to the Philippines so that I might share my culture with him. I want him to know I'm not New York. I'm Filipino.