Thursday, April 29, 2010

You may recall my cultural inclinations, which we’ve addressed in prior discussions, and some junk mail I retrieved today brought the topic back to mind. It was a glossy ad from Vonage that began with a mass of indecipherable Asian characters, followed by a patch of English: “Stay connected with your loved ones. Unlimited calls to China, Hong Kong and Taiwan.” The text was bookended by iconic depictions of what I presumed were famous skyscrapers from those countries. It bears noting that these buildings were woven out of–how to describe this?–Asian string, the silky kind you’d find in a tassel hanging from an authentic bamboo fan.

The purpose of this ad, I imagine, was to stir emotions of family and home within me, but it achieved an entirely different response. It wasn’t a strong response, mind you. I wasn’t righteously indignant at some grave racial injustice committed against my person. Mainly I was annoyed that someone at Vonage thought I was even literate, or that I would even want to speak with extended family in faraway places. You might say I wasn’t their target audience.

This piece of mail aside, I honestly haven’t been reminded of my ethnicity in a while, and for that I am grateful. I’ve mentioned before how I gravitate to environments where I’m the clear minority. The major perk here is a competitive advantage, with the major drawback being the potential for racial friction. The overt racism I’ve heard and read here these past few years lean toward the antebellum variety, though, the brunt of which is directed toward black people.

I do have one pet peeve, and it involves when Mandarin is spoken to me. An example, if I may: one of my neighbors asked me where my parents were born, and after telling him Taiwan the elderly fellow proceeded to greet me with a “Ni hao.” I’ve never understood why people do this. I don’t call every Hispanic person I see “amigo,” nor do I blurt out “Guten Tag” to every German I meet. I’m just not sure what is expected from me, you know? If it’s praise, then well done. Well done, you dumb shithead.

But like I said, by and large it’s been smooth sailing. The most racist comments frankly emanate from my own mouth. When I went to a Japanese joint for lunch with King Calm, for instance, I found the soup suspect and pushed it to the side.

“You don’t like miso soup?” he asked.

“Nope,” I replied. “I know. Miso uncultured, right?”

And when there is discrimination, it tends to be favorable. I’m expected to be smart. To calculate tip quickly. To evince an aptitude for the technical. It’s a free pass, like having a British accent or wearing glasses, and it suits me just fine.