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.
Whenever the topic of conversation arises, I like to refer to it in grand terms, portraying it as an almost sentient being, a living entity that charts its own course and confounds my tendency to plan things. It ebbs and flows to its own secret music, and efforts to guide it will more than likely grate, resulting in an exchange that’s unpleasant or, even worse, plainly manufactured. But on a good day, left to its own devices, conversation wends where it pleases, resonates at a frequency agreeable to all parties, and turns into a quantity you didn’t know you needed.
This was a rich week, where I heard from Boo Bear, the Professor, and the Chief within days of each other. The exchanges varied in length and nature, but I appreciated them all. I was reminded of how I’m a genuinely terrible correspondent. I state this as fact, with minimal shame attached, and I decided to turn a pseudo-scientific eye toward the evidence. You know how I favor traditional channels of communication over the Book of Faces, which means I’m vested in e-mail, paper-based missives, telephone calls, and flare guns, in the absence of electricity or postage.
An impromptu audit of my outbox revealed, sure enough, that my e-mails were largely replies. I seldom initiate. On one hand, this is the very picture of sloth. Starting a conversation is, from a certain angle, the act of creating something out of nothing, and as such it calls for industry. Courage, even. At the same time, though, my communicative habits form a unique baseline, where I’m afforded a blank slate. I expect as much from you as I do from myself–which is to say nothing. This is why I find those occasional apologies about falling out of touch slightly bemusing. After all, I’m expending little to no effort to stay in contact, and that makes your initial e-mail all the more welcome. Indeed, I’m honored by it, and any communicative debts you thought you may have incurred are paid in full.
Not every conversation this week was engaging, naturally. One from today–a cold call–got downright annoying. The fellow was pleasant enough, and admittedly the deck was stacked against him. That’s because, like an interview or a business meeting, a cold call is usually an exchange that operates under the guise of a conversation, one in which nobody’s fooled. Against my better judgment, I picked up the phone for a blocked number and was promptly subjected to the talking points that are de rigueur for a sales call: Hey, I’m from so-and-so company and you guys are in Charlotte and, well, I happen to be from North Carolina originally, in a town about two hours from you, and would you like to spend money with us? I was rushing to something else, which accounted for a good portion of my impatience, but it was the geographical talk that exasperated the most. It’s, like, oh, you’re originally from the area? Then let’s be best friends, obviously, while you waste my time and I try not to sound like an asshole.
At 85 mph, I can get positively philosophical, and when I hit my favorite cruising velocity last week, weaving in and out of Thanksgiving traffic, it occurred to me I was participating in a great reshuffling of the American people. Certainly I recall Memorial Day traffic and the sheer volume of cars associated with it, but it didn’t hold a candle to this. This was an event to which I was party, and one of my driving excursions led me back to my cultural touchstone. Also, to be perfectly clear, the 85 mph pertained to the freeway and not the parking lot.
The supermarket was largely unchanged. It smelled the same. The wares were familiar. I also made it a point to confirm my customer archetypes, and I wasn’t disappointed at all. There on a shelf near the checkout lanes lounged the same carved Buddhas, chief among them a particularly big one with extra-large nipples priced at a hundred bucks. It was a potent omen, for the lore of the Far East tells of how his prodigious mammaries would swell whenever the lotus harvest was especially bountiful. I’m just fuckin’ with you, obviously–I think the statue was closer to, like, a couple hundred bucks.
Now, while I didn’t feel any appreciable amounts of kinship to anything in the store, exit doors notwithstanding, I can safely say I disliked the place less. Could I be softening? Am I becoming a model U.N. unto myself? Perhaps. Indeed, I even bought a pack of noodles, authentic in the indecipherable scrawl across its wrapper, and even now it sits in my pantry, waiting for– What, acceptance? I’m not sure. But I pretty much consumed about half an apple pie in preparation, partly because it was delicious and partly because I needed a counterweight to help right my cultural scale.