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My two sons don’t resemble me at all—or my husband. One looks faintly Asian, the other 100 per cent Caucasian.Often, when we go out for Chinese food, my older son and I get chopsticks, while my husband and younger son are given forks.his fall, my husband and I will mark the 34th anniversary of our Chinese-Jewish marriage. It took 14 years—and the birth of our first child—before she quit running in hysterics from her house whenever my husband dropped by.Back in 1976, some folks (OK, my parents) fretted it would never last. (I’m not kidding.) Yet in 2010, not only am I still married, with two fairly acceptable sons, I find myself living in the mixed-marriage capital of Canada.Alas, there weren’t any in the vicinity, nice or otherwise.My high school history courses didn’t mention the 1923 Chinese Immigration Act, which slammed the door shut on Chinese (and led to my aforementioned prom problem).Until now, Toronto’s diversity has been viewed in terms of silos: a Chinatown here, a Tamil enclave there.But true diversity occurs when we interact—and there’s nothing more interactive than sex.

With me as a visual clue, people are flummoxed by the hues of our younger son. “I thought he was from Denmark.” My kids consider all this ethnic confusion rather hilarious. Laughs ensue, including from Daryl, an ethnic Chinese. With ever-increasing numbers of mixed couples, Toronto is bursting with hybrid vigour.By the third generation, it spikes to a stunning 68 per cent.The next time a wedding motorcade honks at you, check out the newlyweds: more often than not, the happy couple will be crossing ethnic boundaries.The other day, the waitress at Congee Queen, the best Chinese restaurant in Don Mills, assumed he was a visiting hockey player from Scandinavia, probably because I had once taken several teenaged Danish players there for platters of beef chow mein. At 17, my younger son and his schoolmates satirize racism and, like the comedian Russell Peters, flip prejudice on its ugly head. As long as the zinger smacks a stereotype, it works for any ethnic group. For years, everyone thought Toronto was an aboriginal word for “meeting place.” It’s not.The kids have boundaries: they won’t make fun of anyone’s acne or parents, and they won’t bully anyone. It means “where there are trees standing in the water.” Who cares? On rare occasions, strict adherence to Old World values has devastating consequences.