Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The prospect of discussing Asian culture again, when the last round of such talk happened naught but two posts ago, initially struck me as a violation of protocol. That’s because I have a rule that expressly forbids the discussion of Asian culture after having done so naught but two blog posts ago. There is a cooldown period I like to observe, you see, usually to the tune of four to six months, but it’s late tonight and this is what came to mind. Besides, you’re my captive audience, and– And don’t you dare close your browser window.
It begins, as it so often does these days, with a ping-pong paddle. Two paddles, actually, because that’s how we operate here. One has been with me for more than a decade, impulsively purchased from a Sports Authority on Long Island in the late ’90s. The other was a gift, shipped straight from the heart of China, encased in fancy packaging that, I imagine, spoke glowingly of whichever Chinese dude was endorsing the paddle on the box. You probably know where this is headed.
I gave the new paddle a try last Thursday. And I despised it. The balance was way off. The new rubber stunk up my desk drawer. I was also acutely self-conscious about the Chinese characters printed on the paddle face, not that anybody could even see them. Indeed, the new paddle was retired after a day, and when asked why I had chosen to shelve brand new equipment, the answer came naturally: “That paddle was from overseas, and it sucked.”
“All I’m saying is ‘Buy American,’ fellas,” I remarked to the approbation of my peers.
The comment was timely. Irrational, too, and racist on my part. I mean, let’s be honest here, my old paddle probably also slid off a conveyor belt in the Forbidden City. The word choice of “overseas” was deliberate. “China” could’ve rolled a lot more easily off the tongue, but it’s an association I don’t want. When push comes to shove–gun to head, tank to face, or whatever culturally appropriate imagery you’d prefer–I’d label myself as Taiwanese. This is only after I cycle through “Rhode Islander,” “Irish,” “part Golden Retriever,” and all the other ready answers I have when pressed about my ethnicity. In my mind, the fact that my parents hailed from the small, capitalistic island to the right of China makes a shit of a difference in turning the red side of my imported paddle a little less red, if you know what I mean.
It’s a complicated relationship. I’m cognizant of my roots, committed to severing them, and yet also occasionally aware of the futility of my efforts. I mentioned irrationality before, and to this I hold. Rather than use fresh, perfectly good product, I’ve committed to the pricier option of rebuilding my old paddle with materials carefully vetted for their countries of origin. Ridiculous, I know, and yet absolutely important to me. I’ve spoken about my preferred ratio before. All this? It comes from the same place, where I’d rather be one in a hundred than one in a billion. That’s good math, which I would know, obviously.