Category: Asian Americanism
Ah, the good ole’ college days. Back then, I was deeply involved in a student-run community service organization called Asian Initiative. I was so involved that I was an officer during my junior and senior years.
Based in New York University, it was started as an effort to encourage volunteers to sign up as bone marrow donors. There was a shortage of donors of Asian descent. A few NYU students saw this shortage and took the initiative to start this organization.
A few years later, I joined as a member. By then, they had expanded their reach to include a nursing home program and an after-school mentor program.
The nursing home program allowed volunteers to go to a nearby nursing home that had a sizable Chinese American population. Some of the elderly residents rarely had family visits. They delighted in seeing children perhaps their grandchildrens’ age coming to see them.
We’d talk to them (those of us that spoke Chinese, at least), play chess with them, and host wonton-making dinners during Chinese festivals. Many were wheelchair bound and couldn’t partake in the wonton making, but they loved eating them for sure.
The after-school mentor program was down in Chinatown. We partnered with a grade school teacher who hosted a classroom of latchkey children. Latchkey children are children whose parents work late into the evening, leaving the children home alone. So instead of having them return home unsupervised, this program allowed them to stay at school and play games or get help with their homework.
Over time, this program became so popular with the students that some who weren’t latchkey children attended as well. We usually tried to mentor these children and help with their homework, though the majority, not surprisingly, preferred to play.
Aside from these main staples were a handful of fundraising events, most commonly bake sales. Our members would take the time to bake cupcakes and cookies to be sold to NYU students. The funds raised would go to buying wonton supplies, treats for the grade school children, or food for social events.
There was also a yearly carnival called Hunger Clean-Up to benefit the homeless that, for some unfathomable reason, always fell to our club to organize. We never really minded, though the reach was meant to be wider than just our niche of the Asian American community. It was meant to benefit the homeless of New York City.
Despite the emphasis on the Chinese American community, out of all our programs, the mentor program was the most popular. There was always a lively crowd waiting outside our designated meeting point to walk down to Chinatown. The nursing home program, sadly, wasn’t as popular. Sometimes we had to work hard to encourage volunteers to go. And usually, it was just a handful of the officers who would attend.
After spending my sophomore year with this organization, I bonded with its officers and became one of the more active members. In my junior year, I decided to run for the public relations position. If I remember correctly, I had one opponent. I won only because I was taking graphic design classes and made prettier flyers, I think. Whoever else was running was otherwise just as qualified, if not more so.
Right away, I found myself falling in love with the organization. That’s always been a trend in my life. When I’m part of a group whose mission resonates with me, I care for them deeply and work hard to make them a success.
I rallied a bunch of my non-member friends to join. I networked like crazy and reached out to other clubs. I put in a lot of time creating what I felt were snazzy and attractive flyers to entice others to join. I think I might have attended almost every event too, despite a crazy academic schedule and an on-campus part-time job.
When senior year came, the other officers encouraged me to run for president. So I did it without competition. That’s not as big an accomplishment as it sounds. A student organization president is a role with a lot of responsibilities and a high time commitment. The nature of our club attracted a lot of pre-med students trying to fill their volunteer obligations. Time wasn’t something they had in abundance. Relative to them, I had more time and thus, appeared a feasible choice for the presidency.
This experience became one of my most transformative. It taught me to be a true leader. I made just about every mistake in the book too. I tried doing everything myself. I became irritated by others who didn’t show as much passion as I had. I micromanaged others into what must have been utter frustration.
Thankfully, I had an understanding group of officers, an open mind, and, if I may say so myself, a fair bit of self-awareness. I tried to see my follies and changed as quickly as I could. Basic leadership tenants like delegation, motivation, and team building were all important lessons I had to learn.
The grand mistakes I’ve made, as well as the successes of the organization, are perhaps one of my most important lessons from college. At the time, they seemed horrifying and chaotic. I look back now in pure fondness though.
Some look back at their college days and see kegs and bongs and parties. I see Asian Initiative, the organization that I loved and truly made my college experience. Now those were the good ole’ days.
It’s the Asian American equivalent of a white person being called a Jew. My friends and I say it all the time.
“Oh man, you’re being so Chinese,” they’ll say. And they’re Chinese too.
This is often in reference to an act of ridiculous frugality. Being Chinese means being cheap.
Buying old bread from the bakery because it’s cheaper and warming it up in the microwave or toaster to make it “just as good as fresh”? That’s being Chinese.
Using a scissor to cut open a tube of toothpaste so you can use up every ounce? That’s being Chinese.
Adding water to milk to make it last longer? That’s being Chinese.
Okay, that last one was a rip from Russell Peters. He argues that Indians are even cheaper than Jews and Chinese. And admittedly, adding water to milk IS pretty damn cheap. And gross. Yuck. Maybe he’s right.
But everything else, that’s being Chinese.
This makes me wonder. How did this metaphor originate? Where did it come from? Why does it perpetuate?
Is it because Chinese food is cheap (inexpensive), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & inexpensive?
Is it because Chinese imports are cheap (low quality), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & of low quality?
Or is it because a representative number of Chinese people are cheap (frugal), so by extension, being Chinese means being cheap & frugal?
My guess is the last one, though I know some rather financially careless Chinese people too. But if you ask a random sampling of Asian Americans, you will generally hear them say that their Chinese friends are the cheapest and most frugal of the bunch. Hardly a scientific poll, I know.
So many questions, so many possibilities. I’d sit here and think about them all, but I have to shut my laptop down now because I don’t want to pay for the extra power. After all, I’m Chinese.
Now here’s a controversial topic. It incites flames, trolls, and every other little ugly side of human psychology you can squint at. It is the topic of interracial dating between Asian girls and white guys. Now let’s begin.
I don’t have any hard numbers to quantifiably verify if Asian girl/white guy relationships are more common than white girl/Asian guy relationships, though many people are happy to offer anecdotal evidence in support of the former.
The bigger question is why. The world is rife with theories. Here are some of the more common ones.
Asian Female Social Elevation Theory
This theory posits that Asian girls date white guys because they feel it will elevate their social status in some way. They perceive Asians to be lower on the social ladder than whites, whether through social conditioning, media conditioning, insecurity, or something else. Therefore, a relationship, and/or marriage and kids with a white guy will improve their social standing. Some may feel this way explicitly; others may unconsciously believe it but aren’t able to articulate it.
Passive Asian Male, Aggressive White Male Theory
This theory states that Asian guys are generally less aggressive when it comes to asking a girl out because of cultural influences that teach them discretion over outright showiness. They’d rather be friends with the girl first, then wait a long while before asking her out. Conversely, white guys are generally more aggressive and display more overt romantic gestures. In the realm of dating, an overt romantic gesture usually wins over a passive, discrete one (especially in Western societies). Therefore, Asian girls who may not really have a preference for white guys over Asian guys, end up with white guys because they’ve been openly & aggressively courted by one.
Exotic Asian Female Theory
This theory can also be called the Asian Fetish or Yellow Fever Theory because white guys see Asian girls as exotic, different, and submissive. These white guys want a trophy girlfriend and/or wife. It is less important for the Asian girl to share similar cultural values or language, than it is to be passive and doting. The Asian Female Social Elevation Theory also plays a part, in that the Asian girls who willingly go out with white guys with an Asian fetish look past these preferences in favor of social elevation benefits.
Independent Asian Female Theory
This theory hypothesizes that because more and more Asian girls are earning advanced degrees, strong careers, and financial independence, Asian guys are finding them less desirable. Asian guys with traditional patriarchal cultural values seek wives who will stay at home and take care of the children. Since these educated, independent Asian girls don’t fit that model, they turn to white guys who accept that independence.
Desired Asian Female Theory
This theory puts forth the assertion that Asian guys aren’t necessarily more passive or white guys necessarily more aggressive. Instead, Asian girls are desired by all ethnicities equally. Asian guys like them because, well, they’re Asian too. White guys like them because they’re exotic, different, submissive, or some other kind of perceived notion. Therefore, the laws of probability assert that there should be a fair mix of Asian girl/white guy and Asian girl/Asian guy couples out there. Since Asian girl/Asian guy couples are the expected norm, an Asian girl/white guy couple stands out as an exception and causes people to assume the exception is the norm.
Undesired Asian Male Theory
This theory is the flip side to the Desired Asian Female theory, in that it asserts that Asian guys are perceived similarly to Asian girls: exotic, different, and submissive. Sometimes the added perceptions of being feminine, wimpy, and geeky are also prescribed. These traits are viewed negatively in Western societies, causing both white and Asian girls to have a preference away from Asian guys.
Undesirable White Female Theory
This theory turns the Undesired Asian Male Theory around and posits that white girls do actually want Asian guys, but many Asian guys don’t want white girls because of perceptions of cultural incompatibility and marriage instability (the belief that whites are more apt to divorce than Asians are). So while there should be a fair number of interracial couples on both sides, it’s the preference of Asian guys for Asian girls that limits white girl/Asian guy couples.
Sexist Asian Male Theory
This theory claims that Asian guys are sexist, chauvinistic, and even misogynistic, because of traditional patriarchal cultural values. Asian guys range from not knowing how to treat an Asian girl with respect to wanting them to be housewives and nothing else, similar to the Independent Asian Female Theory. Except this theory pushes the assumption further to say that Asian guys may even verbally or physically abuse their wives. Therefore, Asian girls choose white girls who have been socialized in a Western society where feminist thought and equality is more prevalent.
Asian Male Wife-Like-Mom Theory
This theory says that Asian guys want a girlfriend and ultimately, a wife, who resembles their mothers (in personality, not looks, necessarily) because of cultural influences. White guys, on the other hand, don’t have as much of a preference. Therefore, while there could be more white girl/Asian guy couples out there, Asian guys are going for Asian girls instead. And without such a preference, white guys are going for both white girls and Asian girls.
Special Asian Female Theory
This theory takes pieces of the Exotic Asian Female Theory and Undesired Asian Male Theory, amongst others, with the idea that Asian girls go for white guys because white guys make them feel special. With an Asian guy, the Asian girl is just like any other girl; they are not special in any way. But with a white guy, the Asian girl is made to feel unique and special. The underlying motivates behind the white guy’s behavior, according to this theory, are more than just him being an especially compassionate person. In this theory, the white guy is treating the Asian girl this way because he considers her exotic and different, but not submissive. Therefore, he is the one doting on her and not the other way around.
Dominant White Male Society Theory
This theory offers the concept of Western societies being white-male-dominated as the determinant of Asian girl/white guy couples. Combining several theories here, this theory states that white guys who have a preference for Asian girls can form a relationship with them through overt romantic gestures, unconscious social elevation benefits, and an air of self-confidence (which is considered an extremely attractive trait in Western societies). This air of self-confidence comes from being the dominant race/gender pair, thereby giving them an advantage in dating a girl of any other ethnic group.
Inevitable Cross-Pollination Theory
This theory suggests that as the various ethnicities and nations of the world intermingle, there will be an inevitable cross-pollination of interracial relationships. Therefore, there is an equal number of Asian girl/white guy and white girl/Asian guy couples out there. People just notice the Asian girl/white guy pairings more often because of the controversial assumption that the white guy is just dating her to appease his “yellow fever.”
Natural Love Theory
This theory put forwards the notion that it’s not about ethnicity, it’s about natural compatibility. It is just two people who love each other, regardless of ethnicity, culture, background, education, or anything else. Simple as that.
What’s your theory on Asian girl/white guy relationships?
I, like many Asian Americans I know, turned lactose intolerant a few years ago. Right around the age of 30. And it totally sucked ass.
No more Cold Stones and Ben & Jerrys. Goodbye Pizookies. Hello estrogen-laden soy milk. (Reduced sex drive what??)
To be fair, this isn’t a case just for Asian Americans. A lot of people are lactose intolerant. It affects all ethnicities and cultures. The commonly cited number is 70-75% of the world’s population. That’s a heck of a lot of people!
In fact, it’s perfectly natural to be lactose intolerant. Lactase, the enzyme that breaks down lactose in our small intense, is gradually reduced as we get older. This reduction begins right after weaning and is practically all gone by adulthood. Bummer.
So if this is natural, why would I want to be able to drink milk? I’ll give you three reasons: Cold Stones, Ben & Jerrys, and Pizookies. I have a thing for sweets, what can I say?
My path to lactose intolerance reduction began innocently. One day, a friend casually mentioned to me that yogurt contains live bacteria that aids in lactose digestion. Hmm, I thought. So I did some research and found that:
Yogurt contains probiotics – microbial organisms that are naturally present in our digestive tracts. They are known as “friendly” bacteria. And more specifically, yogurt contains a particular kind of probiotics called acidophilus. If you want to get even more specific, it’s Lactobacillus acidophilus.
When yogurt is consumed, bile acids disrupt the cell wall of the bacteria in yogurt. This releases the enzyme beta-galactosidase (related to lactase) into the intestines, where it can enhance lactose digestion.
Not any yogurt will do, however. It must contain live active bacteria. Fortunately, yogurt labels clearly list whether or not they have live active bacteria – which sounds gross, I know, but it’s really a good thing. Remember, they are “friendly” bacteria!
With that in mind, I decided to try a very unscientific experiment:
- Eat yogurt every day for 2-3 weeks
- Drink a glass of milk at the end of each week
The results?
- Week 1
-
Lactose intolerance still there. And how. I admit, I didn’t drink a full glass of milk. But the effects were the same. I shall spare you the details.
- Week 2
-
Lactose intolerance is going away. Still a bit of its consequences, but a full glass of milk doesn’t have the, uh, intense adverse effects it once did. Experiment is working!
- Week 3
-
Lactose intolerance… gone! Holy crap! (Or lack thereof.) Hello ice cream, goodbye soy milk! This is a glorious milestone, simply glorious.
I’ve been drinking milk semi-regularly since then, with no problems at all. Well, perhaps I’ve been a might bit gassy, but hopefully that will go away in a few more weeks. My friends all sure hope so. Fut.
I can hardly say this experiment is reliable or conclusive. What worked for me may not work for you – just like acidophilus works for some, but not others. If you want to try this, consult your doctor or nutritionist first. After all, maybe humans are lactose intolerant for a reason. (And if you are allergic to milk, that’s a very different condition.)
Now pardon me while I enjoy this cup o’ Cold Stone ice cream. Mmmm!
Everyone has baggage. You, me, Chow Yun Fat. And you and me don’t have the luxury of shooting our problems away with a gun in each hand.
But what if we did? What would be worse: having just one bad guy to shoot, or ten bad guys? Or twenty? Or a hundred? How many bad guys is too much?
In my opinion, it’s not a question of how many bad guys—it’s a question of how many bullets.
Let’s step away from this analogy now before I butcher it further. It’s not a question of how much baggage a person has—it’s a question of whether or not that person can deal with it his/her baggage.
I know a female ex-coworker who’s had a tough childhood. Her family had to flee from persecution in Vietnam. She’s had relatives murdered, brothers kidnapped, and family scattered all over the world. After arriving in America, she’s had a lot of guys ask her out, but only dated a few of them seriously.
If you were to meet her, she’d strike you as a remarkably secure and mature person. And she is, despite a tumultuous background. Even her parents say she’s an exceptionally level-headed person.
Contrast that to another female ex-coworker who had a very different childhood. She grew up in Taiwan and had a limo take her to elementary school every morning. Her family’s cook once made her breakfast too salty, so she threw it out the window.
If you were to meet her, you’d probably be captivated by her. She’s gorgeous. And rich. And has had a lot of boyfriends, two of which had proposed to her. But if you disagreed with her, she’d throw a tantrum until you apologized, then she’d dump you.
Why is there such a stark difference between the two?
The first ex-coworker was gifted with a lot of bullets. The second was not. Maybe it’s because they inherited these traits, maybe it’s because their environments shaped them, or maybe it’s both.
Baggage is a person’s collection of painful experiences. They can come from bad relationships or events in the past. Everyone has them. Everyone has to deal with them. Some, however, are better at dealing with them than others.
So how much baggage is too much? When I meet a girl who can’t deal with her baggage, then that’s too much.
. . .
How much baggage is too much for you?
“What’s the most significant thing you’ve gotten out of this trip?” Masako asked.
I scratched my chin. “Hmmm.” There was so much. It was my first trip ever to Hong Kong and Tokyo; heck, it was my first trip ever to Asia. I struggled to find the right answer. Unfortunately, the first answer I gave her was a lie.
“I got to see how different people are. People in Hong Kong are so driven, maybe even a little selfish. People in Tokyo are so polite, maybe even a little repressed. The food is so different, the lifestyles are so different, everything is so… different.”
I took another sip of cold sake. Its cool, soothing flavor trickled down my gullet.
“In Hong Kong, there are crowds everywhere. Manhattan is a crowded city too. But there are crowds in just a few areas: Times Square, Midtown, Wall Street during the week, etc. All of Hong Kong seems to be one big crowd. Causeway Bay, Central, Wan Chai, they’re crowded all the time.
“Same for Tokyo too. When I first got into Shinjuku, I was hit in the face with what looked like Penn Station during rush hour. Except that this is how Shinjuku station is all the frigging time. Same for Shibuya, Roppongi, all the stations.
“Also, Hong Kong is like one big mall. Everywhere you go, there’s something you can buy. There are stores everywhere. They should call it Hong Kong Mall instead of Hong Kong Island.
“And in Tokyo, everything’s so small too. The portions are smaller, the drinks are smaller, the buildings… well, the buildings are tall. But the space inside is much more compact, as if they’re trying to squeeze more into less.”
Masako nodded. “When my Japanese friends describe America to me, they always remark how big and spread out everything is. They say, ‘Wow, America is so, AMERICA!’ As in, it’s so grand and big.”
I scratched my chin again. Took a longer sip of sake. And regarded the answer I just gave. It wasn’t a full lie, but it wasn’t the right answer, the honest answer.
“But…” I paused. Masako and Pavan looked on expectantly. “Well, I feel like I just gave you the typical US tourist answer. To be honest, what I really got out of this trip is… how small the world is.”
“Really? What do you mean?” asked Masako.
“The differences aren’t what really struck me. It was the similarities. How everyone’s really alike. People here aren’t really all that different than people in the States. I don’t really know how to explain it well. There are surface differences, like speaking a different language and eating different foods. But everyone still has to communicate and eat.”
I looked down at my sake. “I’m probably not making much sense here.”
Pavan smiled. “After my first time working in Tokyo, I had to give a presentation to my colleagues in India about my experience here. And what I told them was that the Japanese are no different than you or me. We’re all alike.”
“Yes, exactly!” I nodded. “There are more similarities than differences. It’s not like the Chinese or Japanese are totally different than Americans. I don’t feel like I’m on another planet or something. There are still cars and restaurants here. I see people telling jokes and laughing together, running because they’re late for work, and just living life normally, just like Americans do.
“I usually hear Americans talking about how other countries and cultures are SO different than ours. But that’s not really true. Perhaps if I spent time with an Aborigine tribe in Australia or something, I’d feel more of a difference. But it’s not like the Chinese or Japanese are aliens or something. Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Europeans, Russians, Aborigines, we’re all on the same planet, right?
“We all want the same things: to have a good, happy life with good friends, good food, and good TV shows. We’re all bombarded by ads the same way. We all have to deal with global warming and pollution. We all have to go to work and earn a living.
“To be fair though, I just spent my time in two of the world’s largest cities. Having lived in New York City, I see a lot more similarities than differences.
“I… I don’t know if I’m explaining this well. I’m beginning to feel the sake.”
Masako and Pavan both smiled. “We know what you mean. People are more alike than different.”
“Yup. So the most significant thing I got out of this trip,” I concluded, “was how it’s really a small world after all.” Then I chugged the rest of my sake.
. . .
What do you think of Hong Kong and/or Tokyo?
“White meat only.”
- L. Spencer
“I’m trying to get with a white chick right now,” Tim declared.
“Oh yea?” I raised an eyebrow. “How’s that going?” I leaned back in my seat while keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
“Pretty good. I have a date with her this Friday.” He looked out the window with a smile.
“Did you tell her you’re related to Bruce Lee?” asked Sandy. We laughed.
“Totally! I told her I can do kung-fu and tai-chi!” Tim flailed his arms about. A driver in a car next to us looked over. “Hey, what you look at? I kung-fu your ass!”
“Have you guys ever dated a white girl before?” Sandy asked us.
“No,” I shook my head. “But not for lack of trying.”
“Me neither. But I heard they’re… messy…” Tim stated
“Messy?” Sandy repeated. “Like, because they don’t take off their shoes when they go home?”
“No…” Tim trailed.
I switched into the carpool lane and sped along, passing a row of slow traffic to our right. “Carpooling rules,” I declared.
Sandy turned around from her seat to face Tim in the back. “Wait, then what do you mean they’re messy?”
“I mean… well… like when they’re doing it, they don’t mind getting all messy…”
“How do you explain bukkake then?” I inquired.
“What’s boo-khaki?” Sandy asked.
“Um.” I stared at the cars in front of me. Tim laughed. I cleared my throat and spoke plainly. “It’s this Japanese fetish where guys ejaculate all over a girl’s face.”
Tim howled in the backseat.
“Ew! How in the world do you know that??”
I looked at Tim in the rearview mirror. “So Tim, you were saying that white girls are messy. What do you mean?”
Sandy cast a sideways glance at me. Then she turned around. “Yea, Tim. What do you mean white girls are messy?”
Tim grinned. “Why do our carpool rides always turn to these subjects?” Sandy and I shared a chuckle. “Okay, what I heard was that when they’re doing it… white chicks don’t mind letting the sheets get all… messy…”
Sandy stared at him with a blank expression. Tim cleared his throat and continued. “You know how Asians use a towel to wipe up afterwards? Well, which chicks don’t do that… they don’t mind lying in wet sheets afterwards…”
“What?! That’s disgusting!!” Sandy turned forward again, shocked.
I laughed and had to hold onto the steering wheel with both hands. “I’m sure that’s not true for all white girls, man.”
“It’s true! You’ve only dated Asian girls, right? How many of them clean up afterwards?”
I pondered for a moment. “Wow. Just about all of them. And most do actually use a towel.”
“See! Asian girls are clean!”
Tim and I both turned to Sandy. “So do you use the Asian sex towel?” I asked.
She blushed. “Well, I’m not messy!”
We laughed. “I’m guessing all the girls you’ve dated use the Asian sex towel too?” I asked Tim.
He nodded. “But white chicks don’t!”
“Wait,” Sandy interjected. “That’s just what you’ve heard, right?”
Tim nodded.
“Okay. Well, if you sleep with this white girl, then you’ll be able to confirm for sure.”
“Yea!” I added. “See if she uses a sex towel too, or if she’s messy.”
Tim laughed. “Deal. I’ll get with a white chick purely for scientific research reasons.”
We all laughed. Other drivers looked over at us quizzically. I smiled at them. “Carpooling rules,” I declared.
. . .
Is it true that white girls are messy?
It was the waterfall of blood that shocked me the most. But before I get ahead of myself, let me tell you why I hit him on the forehead.
My parents had never had a vacation without my brother and me until that week. Being the archetypical Chinese parents, our family vacations were to Adventure Land (a lame rip-off of Six Flags Great Adventure), Hershey Park (a lame rip-off of Disney World), and, um, that’s about it. It was just those two.
One day, a family friend gave my parents the bright idea to go to Hawaii. She said she’d watch over my brother and me; we could stay over her house and play with her two boys. One, Johnny, was a year older than I. The other, David, was a year younger than my brother. It would be fun, she said. You both deserve a vacation, she said.
My parents eagerly embraced the plan. Within days, they packed up bags for themselves and bags for us. It’ll be like a slumber party, they told us, only more fun! My brother and I were scared. It was the first time our parents had ever left us alone for a whole week. We didn’t know what to make of it. A week at that age seemed like a year.
They dropped us off, kissed us on the cheeks, and drove off in a puff of smoke. They really needed a vacation.
We were still in elementary school at that time. Since they were in a different school zone, Johnny and David went to a different school. The family friend had to drive us to our school every morning and pick us up every afternoon.
At night, we played with Johnny and David. Mostly David, because Johnny was older than us, and consequently too cool for us. David excitedly shared his all of his toys, so we engaged whole new worlds of playing; it was enthralling.
Slowly, my brother and I got over our initial fears and began enjoying ourselves. We each had brought over our favorite Transformers. Together, with David’s Robotech robots, we held interstellar galactic battles like never before. The family friend didn’t yell at us to be quiet like our parents did, so we climbed all over the furniture with reckless abandon.
When the weekend approached, we were both happy to be returning home and sad to be leaving this second home. That Saturday, one day before our parents were to return, Johnny decided to invite my brother and me to play with his older friends.
They took out some water guns and made the teams. My brother and I were on one team. All of the older boys, which numbered three, were on the other team. David didn’t play for some reason, though I don’t remember if it was because his brother didn’t want him to play, or if he didn’t want to play.
A glorious water gun fight ensued. My brother and I ran around in circles, helpless to the onslaught of the older boys. We ran into bushes, hid behind trees, jumped over fences, all the while getting a large dose of water on our backs and butts.
At one point, the boys wouldn’t stop shooting my brother and me long after we ran out of water and gave up. We threw our guns on the ground and screamed that we didn’t want to play anymore. This wasn’t as fun as Transformer and Robotech battles; this was a slaughter.
The older boys laughed at us. My brother and I stood before them, sulking and shivering and soaking wet. Johnny walked up to me with his gun aimed at my head. I told him we didn’t want to play anymore. He answered me by filling my mouth full of water.
Then something snapped. Or more appropriately, I picked up a large branch of wood, swung it at Johnny, and snapped it in half on his forehead.
He staggered backwards with his eyes wide open. He dropped his gun and his mouth dropped open. A waterfall of blood rained down from his forehead. His eyes popped open as wide as his mouth.
He stood there for what seemed to be my entire childhood. I can still see his wide eyes staring up at the blood. They were as big as plates.
The next scenes happened in a blur. He rushed into the house with his friends right behind him. I looked at my brother and he shrugged. The family friend took us all to a nearby hospital. My brother and I sat in the car as Johnny’s mother led him to the emergency room. We waited for what seemed to be another childhood. I ran over countless scenarios of punishment that I was going to receive from my parents. Or maybe even from the family friend. Or both.
Our parents returned the next day looking tanned and cheerful. The family friend greeted them enthusiastically and asked them how it was. As the adults talked in the living room, my brother and I retreated to the car and waited in there for them. I looked at my Transformers like it was the last time I was never going to see them again.
Johnny had received a bunch of stitches on his forehead but didn’t have any permanent damage. He had to wear a large bandage on his head for several weeks. My mother told me this after I told her what I did.
She was shocked. The family friend had told her that Johnny had an accident and fell. She didn’t tell her that I hit him. In fact, she told my mother that my brother and I were a delight to have.
I wasn’t sure how to take that, but guilt wracked me for weeks after that incident. My parents took it well; the adults had collectively agreed that it was just boys being boys and didn’t say anymore about it. None of the countless scenarios of punishment came to be. My parents were so relaxed after their Hawaii vacation that they just wanted to sit around and drink pineapple & coconut juice.
Dreams of Johnny’s wide eyes and the waterfall of blood haunted me for weeks. In time, they went away and were replaced by the usual fears of being picked on at school and homework to do.
Our families never did anything together again. My brother and I never saw Johnny and David again, nor David’s cool Robotech toys.
Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here. Perhaps it’s: violence doesn’t solve anything. Perhaps it’s: vacations should be taken periodically. Or perhaps it’s: if you do something wrong, you won’t get in trouble for it if your parents are away on a much-needed vacation.
. . .
Have you ever done anything wrong while your parents were on vacation?
“Squeak squeak squeak!” went the little toddler’s shoes as he raced by and out of the pearl tea cafe. His harried Mom raced after him and grabbed his arm.
“Wait, honey. Mommy’s still waiting for her order,” she said as she pulled him back in.
“Squeak squeak squeak,” went his shoes as he followed her back in.
“What interesting shoes he has,” I said. “I’ve never seen shoes that were designed to squeak like that before.”
“I’ve seen those shoes in Chinatown shops,” Kathy said.
“Really?” I asked as I took a swig of my pearl tea. “They sound like those squeaky toys that dogs chew on,” I added as I chewed on some tapioca pearls.
“Heh. I usually see those with less Americanized Chinese families.”
“Ah,” I stated, rubbing my chin. “You mean fobby families.”
Kathy giggled and took a sip of her pearl tea.
“Squeak squeak squeak,” went the little boy’s shoes as he raced out of the store again. His eyes were transfixed on a dog outside.
His Mom, with her hair hovering in several disorganized directions, came after him again. Exasperated, she tugged him back in.
“Those shoes can be kind of annoying,” I said. “But for that Mom, they must be very useful.”
Kathy looked over at the little boy. “Oh?” The Mom was at the counter, waiting for her order while her little boy stood behind her, eyeing the dog.
“Yea. He seems to be quite a wanderer. But since his shoes squeak, she can hear him wander off. That’s helpful if she can’t keep her eyes on him all the time.”
“Ohhh,” Kathy nodded.
“Case in point,” I said, pointing at the little boy.
“Squeak squeak squeak,” went his shoes again as he raced by a third time.
“Honey, no, wait, come back here!” shouted his Mom. She sprinted to her son and instead of towing him back, picked him up and carried him to the counter.
“Looks like the Mom learned her lesson,” I observed. “We won’t be hearing him squeak by us anymore now.”
The little boy struggled in his Mom’s arms. His feet pounded against each other, emitting faintly audible, yet distinctly recognizable squeaks.
Kathy turned to me and grinned. I rolled my eyes. At the counter, “squeak squeak squeak,” went the little boy’s shoes.
. . .
Why do you think those shoes are squeak?
Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?
Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. ‘Tis a true story, a story from my youth.
I was in grade school, only eight or nine years old. My family and I were in some nondescript Chinese restaurant near our house. It was the kind of place that uses fluorescent lights and has greasy tables. You can smell the grease and oil down the street.
We were given a booth with plastic seats and plastic chopsticks. And this was a good seat. Whenever Chinese waiters see a Chinese family in a mostly-white town, they always give them extra-special treatment. If you’re not Asian and you’re hearing this, sorry, but it’s true. Sucks for you.
My brother and I sat across from each other. My Mom was next to me, my Dad across from her. Menus with slippery plastic covers were placed on the table. I picked up a menu and opened it.
A cockroach fell out of my menu and into my lap.
Let me repeat that.
A friggin’ cockroach fell out of my friggin’ menu and into my friggin’ lap.
Now I hate bugs. Absolutely hate them. When I was a kid, they terrified me. So I flipped out and batted the cockroach off my legs with noisy fervor. The other patrons looked over and probably thought I had a wild ferret in my pants or something.
My Mom, on the other hand, calmly looked over and said:
“Don’t worry, all Chinese restaurants have cockroaches. Do you want sweet and sour chicken or sesame chicken tonight?”
We stayed and had dinner there. Stomachs of iron, I tell you, stomachs of iron.
. . .
Do your parents have stomachs of iron?
