He said to me, “What kind of Asian are you?”
I said back, “That’s a loaded question.” What kind of Asian do you expect me to be? Because any way you slice that egg roll, I’m still pretty much whatever you want to say. I’ve played many a Far East stereotype. Awkward math genius. Cold and calculated kung fu expert. Assistant to Dr. Jones, you crazy. You want me to drive? How so? I can give you Tokyo drift, Jeremy Lin, Mario Kart, Tiger Woods, and blinker-left-on-for-about-half-a-mile.
I am the foremost expert on all things Asian. The [inaudible 00:00:42] and the band of the samurai? Done. Confucianism versus Taoism? I’ll give it to you with no slant. What’s the difference between Asian stereotype one and two? Let me tell you.
Let me tell you anything you want to know about my culture. Let me tell you in the Mulan-esque soliloquy of me staring at the mirror asking, “Who is that girl that I see?” Let me tell you about Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee and how they’re related by blood to me.
Let me tell you about being so marginalized it’s to the point of I really can’t believe that’s Asian. Let me tell you about derogatory terms and origins of words such as chink and gook.
Let me tell you about the struggle of Asian parents not knowing the language so we ate pet food because it was cheaper. Let me tell you about the job of interpreter. When you’re still playing with Lego blocks, but your English is already that much better than your guardians.
Let me tell you about honor and dignity.
Let me tell you about a society projects us as nothing but the secondary role and never the leading man.
Let me tell you all the things you don’t want to know. Like how chink comes from the clanking of metal to railroad as the slaves built train tracks for the country to be connected. Like how the zipperhead down the street is called that because the way our heads split open when struck with assault weapons or how Jeeps ran over and left marks across corpses and someone clever thought that we were only good to unzip.
Like how every time you lump an Asian person into one culture it’s systematically making us assimilate into an America we thought was better than our war torn home. Every time you confuse me with some other nationality that I might share similar features to, it’s stripping away my individuality.
I still feel the shame of being Asian. The heat and pious dedication of June 11, 1963. The envy of blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still remember thinking where all the boys who looked like me on TV were. The broken words from my mother and father stage diving off of my tongue. The anger I felt when those kids thought I would get them sick.
I still feel the ash of the incense burn my hands when I pray for my family. I still remember thinking my skin was what I was worth. I still feel the iron work of my bones grow stronger with every train of thought that passes by.
I still feel pride. I still feel heritage. I still feel Chinese. I still feel Vietnamese. I still feel American. I still feel.
