Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Two years ago, on a summer evening not unlike this one, I held forth on Asian culture vis-à-vis sanitation vis-à-vis free-market dynamics, all in three paragraphs. Your hair was fairly blown back, I believe, and tonight we’re returning to the scene of the crime. Think of this as our own spin on Asian Awareness Month, though I loathe to call it such because–let’s be honest here–it won’t last for a month and, more importantly, both you and I are probably aware Asians exist.

I visited the same grocery store last week and, as soon as that familiar fishy smell collided with my nose, declared the establishment a cultural touchstone, a regular way for me to gauge my relationship with my heritage. Bottom line? No change. I still detest it. The store itself had undergone some changes over the months, with the sanitation rating in particular jumping more than ten points–proof positive that the civilizing influence of standards had finally reached these parts.

Even so, the overwhelming sentiment for me was revulsion. Sure, the place was empirically cleaner. The 96.5 spoke to the high likelihood that a cat wasn’t taking a shit in the bok choy anymore. No, I was the issue, specifically my streak of cultural self-loathing, so I framed myself against the larger context, tried to connect with the population at large. And I did, in a way.

Shoppers invariably fit into one of three groups. You’ve got the natives, who are clearly at home. This is their Safeway, you know? They evince a familiarity and comfort with each aisle. Then you’ve got your mixed couples, with the non-Asian counterparts likely displaying bewilderment or a kind of practiced stoicism that will carry them straight through checkout. Finally, you’ve got your wholly non-Asian couples and families who trek through the wares with an amused look, almost as if they were living a Discovery Channel feature on curios and sundries of the Far East.

My current identity lies somewhere between the second and third groups. I feel like a National Geographic photographer at certain points, outside viewing in, albeit one prone to periodic fits of disgust, like a fellow in a pith hat in the Serengeti who suddenly wants to punch the giraffe he’s filming. And were I to have a mixed family at this point, a trip to the Asian supermarket would necessitate a stop at a Cracker Barrel shortly thereafter, where we’d proceed to smear Americana all over ourselves. It would be the only conceivable remedy. I know I should want to be closer to the first group. I just don’t know if that’s the script talking or what.