“As it was, I learned to slip between my black and white worlds, understanding that each possessed its own language and customs and structures of meaning, convinced that with a bit of translation on my part the two worlds would eventually cohere. Still the feeling that something wasn’t quite right stayed with me, warning that sounded whenever a white girl mentioned in the middle of a conversation how much she liked Stevie Wonder, or when a women in the supermarket asked me if I liked baskeball; or when the school principle told me I was cool.” (82)
“Whatever he decided to do, it was his decision to make not yours, and because of that fundamental power he held over you, because it preceded and would outlast his individual motives and inclinations, any distinction between good and bad whites held negligible meaning.” (85)
The term homophily lingers over my head like a constant storm. The stares I get when I walk down the street, the constant voices I hear saying, “why aren’t you in your place? Shouldn’t you be helping your parents at the grocery store or staying quiet at least when you enter the subway?” their glances say.
That’s what it feels like to be Asian in Eastern Europe. Because of their inward history, their lingering residue of fear, mistrust, poverty, and authority, they express a stern, steady gaze whenever they see me. Sixty-six percent of Czechs prefer not to live next to a Vietnamese person. “They’re taking away our jobs,” “they look different than us, “or “they stick to themselves,” has its place among the Czech people. The Georgian girl at the café knows how it feels. Nazar, my fellow Ukrainian brother knows its. I wonder if Sean knows it, but if he’s just denying it, deflecting himself with his Stanford pedigree.
I look at Benjamin. He’s cute, built, handsome and black. I would like to kiss him to see how it feels to kiss a black man. That would be tokenization, exploitation at its finest. Yet, how else do I get rid of this fear? Yes, the fear is rational: one out ten black men in the U.S. (18-29) are in jail. One in three have a criminal record. Black still lag behind other minorities, except Latinos, in personal income. The fear is instilled and will be overcome.
Yes, black women have it too. Ashley tells me how she’s followed by the eyes of the Korean women as she cautiously shops the aisles of the hair supply store (L.A. riots anyone?) Rachel: calm, cool and collected, doesn’t downplay the racism she feels on the UW campus. Vanessa carries a heavy load of past hurts that she carefully bandages through her personality and wit. Yet, I carry it. Our generation carries it.
The stare I get from Michael, the Czech at the gym, as I speak English instead of Chinese, is oh so familiar. Gays are even worse. The bar Escape was full of men who wanted just that, or probably saw the world through a veiled lense. The portly, bald guy gave me a full Chinese Buddhist bow to apologize after my little escapade coming back from the washroom after he spilled his drink all over the floor. In my mind, I wanted to say,” go fuck yourself, you ignorant, closeted bitch.” It feels good to release my inner vocabulary after so many years of repression. Sometimes, you just have to say fuck (though I wish for the day when I don’t need to use it any longer.)
Being gay and Asian, I walk the Prague nightclub with apprehension, but a bit of excitement. At the core, I am American and sometimes I take advantage of that fact. I look over a person, feeling I am somewhat superior for having unlimited access to Dreams.
Jesse asked me if I would fight for Korea or the U.S. if they ever went to war with each other. I hastily gave the answer: the U.S., because I’m American. That fact is something I cannot deny any longer and one in which I am not confused about. Being American is a mindset, says Mark Smith, it’s a way of thinking. My parent’s thought enough to know that they wanted me to be American: to have the full right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; to have unlimited access to education, opportunities, and privileges that their own country could not give them, even through they believed in their country to the core of their existence. They sacrificed the humiliation, isolation, and hard-earned title of immigrants to ensure my liberty and happiness. My family dreams for me, about me, and through me. The see the American Dream manifest itself every time a barrier they could not cross has been penetrated by me. This gives me Pride, but a distant sorrow lingers for I know the chance of their situation changing is minimal. They have to stay where they’re at so I can excel, at least for the moment. They are entitled to it, but they choose to live it through us.
