I grew up an Asian in rural Missouri. To say I’ve learned to deal with racists and racist comments is a bit of an understatement. Eighteen years of living in small town Midwest kind of made me prepared to brush off all sorts of racism. That’s not to say it doesn’t affect me or make me angry or upset me. But you know, I learned about racism by the time I’d reached school, and so I estimate I’ve been dealing with racists for about 22 years now. Still, though, sometimes the calm, cool (OK, cold, some might say) exterior I throw up to racism comes tumbling down, and a torrent is unleashed.
That’s what happened yesterday.
I was ambling about the markets buying some fresh veggies. Getting some corn, I was approached by a rather tipsy fellow requesting that I give him money “to buy a drink.” Although I appreciated his honesty, I a) don’t give money to beggars who can clearly take care of themselves and b) had barely enough cash to buy the corn I’d just had packed. I told him “no.” He asked again. “No,” I replied again. “Fuckin’ Chinese!” He yells at me. “I’m not even Chinese.” I snottily retort. “Japanese…whatever,” he barks over his shoulder as he stumbles off.
Back at the guesthouse, I unload my veggies and laughingly relate the story to my new friends who live/work there. Like I said, I can deal with racists…usually. But as I related my story in one room, I groaned as I turned the corner to the kitchen and was confronted by a nosy fellow who’d been eavesdropping.
See, this guy, well, remember “Fat Bastard” (”Get in my belly!”) from the Austin Powers movies? This guy basically acts and looks like him but with a white beard and a South African accent as opposed to a red beard and Irish accent.
After being introduced to me (and being told I was American) he had waddled up behind me and breathlessly and proudly stated in my ear, “I was in China one winter.”
OK…if you don’t know me, let’s just say invading my personal space is not a great way to start off a friendship. Nor is telling me stories about yourself in China, thinking I will be impressed because I’m Asian. Seriously. I mean, when I go back to the US, am I going to walk up to the first black person I see and say, “I was just in South Africa”? Or do I walk up to a white person and say, “I went to Australia”?
But FB’s comments didn’t stop there. No. And I say “comments” because we never have had a conversation. Our interactions always involved me walking into a room and him immediately starting with…”You should go to the Chinese restaurant across the street.” or “I went to the Oriental part of the city today.” or some other Chinese/Oriental shit he decided to spit out that day.
So yesterday…after clearly eavesdropping, he asks me to repeat my story as I pull out the avocado, tomato, and onion for my guacamole.
And out starts the torrent.
“Some idiot just yelled at me…but he was just stupid…especially because he thinks all Asians are Chinese,” I say glaring at the guy. Only partially annoyed at the drunk guy from earlier, my comment was just a way to tie in the day’s incident with the ridiculous days of comments from the FB sitting in the chair now. But he didn’t let up. He decided to try to prove to me why I was actually from China. I then asked (OK, asked is a bit mild of a description…especially as I had a cutting knife in my hand at this point and was gesturing quite vividly) if it’s appropriate to group all Africans as from Nigeria. Or if it seems normal to walk up to a white person and start talking about England. And if his little theory is so true, then we all came from the same ancestors way back anyway. “Well…your parents or your grandparents or their grandparents were from China,” he smugly tries to tell me. “Actually, no. My family is German. My family is from Germany. My great grandparents…they’re German. I’m adopted,” I practically screamed in his face.
At this point he sits down and says, “Oh…so you’re one of THOSE adopted o…” Trying to dice my onions at this point, I spin around, and angrily spit, “No. I’m not one of THOSE. I’m a human being. A freaking human being. And I really don’t want to talk to you right now. I’ve been dealing with racist comments today and…” FB interrupts me and says, “He wasn’t being racist…” Um…excuse me? When did “Fuckin’ [insert (perceived) racial group here]” not become racist? “I’m sorry,” I say in my completely unsarcastic voice. “YOU don’t really get to tell me when someone is being racist toward me,” I glaringly scream with my knife gesturing into the air. Silence filled the room. Even my friend who’d come in to see me make the guac stayed silent. FB sat there for another five or so minutes without saying a thing. And hasn’t since.
Geez. Glad to know that ignorance is all across the world.
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