Synopsis:
When Rowland Grover asked his preschool teacher if he could ฉี่ (chi), she looked at him like he wasn’t speaking English. After holding it for too long, he peed his pants and realized he was different from everyone around him.
As a half-Thai/half-white kid raised Mormon in Idaho, shame, guilt, and confusion were normal for Rowland. He didn’t understand why he took off his shoes at his house, but his friends could keep theirs on and drag dog poop all over the floor. When Rowland lived in Thailand, Thai people said he looked farang, but white people called him Mexican. This made him wonder who he was and where he belonged.
ลูกครึ่ง: Only Half a Person is an captivating and hilarious collection of essays and short stories that explores culture, faith, and identity. The stories range from “stinky lunches” to a talking lizard questioning Rowland’s religion. Others are more serious such as when a stranger called the cops because Rowland looked threatening riding an old beach cruiser bike. Tackled with humor and heart, Rowland dives into the depths to find himself and wonders if he’ll come up for air.
Favorite Lines:
“You don’t see me calling out ‘white customer’ to get your attention, do you?”
“Our foods aren’t weird. Our cultures aren’t weird. Our people aren’t weird.”
“I share my story so people can be aware of what others face.”
My Opinion:
I received a copy of this book in exchange for my honest opinion.
Rowland Grover’s ลูกครึ่ง — Only Half a Person feels less like a polished memoir and more like an afternoon swapping stories with a friend who finally trusts you enough to laugh at the worst parts. It kicks off with a preschool mishap in rural Idaho—one short misunderstanding, one very damp pair of pants—and the sudden realization that nobody around him speaks the mix of Thai and English rattling in his head. That flash of embarrassment becomes the thread he keeps tugging for the rest of the book.
Each chapter lands like a quick comedy bit that refuses to fade to black. Grover bounces from teachers butchering his mum’s Thai name to a fast-food customer who labels every brown worker “Mexican” and to a missionary buddy daring him to chew kaffir-lime leaves just to watch him squirm. The punch lines are tight, but they always swing back and nick something tender—pride, doubt, the weird ache of feeling both inside and outside at the same time.
Halfway through, the jokes stretch into essays and open letters. A riff on “authentic” pad thai turns into a quiet rebuke of people who gate-keep culture; another piece answers a reader who calls Asian food “weird,” and the patience in that reply is razor-thin. By the time Grover writes a mock cease-and-desist to his future haters, the laughs carry a distinct after-taste of anger and relief—like finally exhaling after holding it far too long. The real hook, though, is his voice. Grover flips between English, transliterated Thai, and full Thai script without italicizing or apologizing. The code-switching isn’t there for flair; it’s there because that’s simply how his thoughts land on the page. Reading it feels a bit like being handed earbuds and invited into the soundtrack of his brain—off-beat, bilingual, and impossible to file under one neat label.
Summary:
Overall, short, sharp, and genuinely funny, ลูกครึ่ง — Only Half a Person reminds us that identity isn’t a puzzle you solve once—it’s a joke you keep rewriting until it stops hurting. If you’ve ever lived in the hyphen or asked someone to explain theirs, this one’s worth an afternoon. Happy reading!