My Short History With Racism

Ah, the holidays!

Holidays are a time of forgiveness, love, and of course, shopping.

So it will surprise no one to learn that my sisters and I chose to spend the day before Thanksgiving at the mall. After all, what’s the point of spending quality family time together, if you can’t use that time to have your sister point to everything she wants so that all you have to do is wrap it when you get home?

On the way back from the mall, we were tired. Because Alice lives in New York, she hasn’t really driven a car since high school, and always volunteers to be the non-driver when we go out. Ann, on the other hand, has lived in California for the past eight years or so, which means that not only does she drive at 80mph on a regular basis, but she also knows someone who would have gotten a speeding ticket, only the cops couldn’t catch up to him to give it to him.

CJay and I had experienced Ann’s driving when we visited her in California last year. I sat in the passenger seat, and developed headaches from seeing the road spin by. After feeling nauseous a few too many times, I made CJay ride shotgun for the rest of our stay.

CJay bore it like a man, with a stiff upper lip and his eyes closed, but when we went home, he made it clear that if I went out with Ann in the future, I had better be the driver, for both our sakes.

Since Ann was out, and Alice was prone to remarking “I’m not responsible if anything happens” when she slid behind the wheel, I was the default driver.

Traffic was at a standstill on the way back from the mall. Apparently everyone who wasn’t heading to the mall was heading back from it.

I noticed that the Mercedes-Benz station wagon in front of us had a full carload. Sitting in the back of the wagon and facing us, were two little boys.

I didn’t really notice them much, because I remember the days when we had to sit in the back of my uncle’s station wagon, and I always hated seeing the people in the car behind staring at us.

So I was politely avoiding their eyes and talking to Alice and Ann. Suddenly, Alice said, “Oh, great, look at those racist kids?”

Intelligently, I replied, “Huh?”

She pointed at the car ahead of us. The two boys stared back at me. Alice said, “They were pulling their eyes at us, you know, making fun of our eyes.”

I still didn’t completely understand until I saw the youngest boy glance cautiously at his brother, and then slowly pull his eyelids to the side and carefully squinted at me, grinning the whole time. When I saw him, I immediately understood.

I held down my horn and honked at them until he stopped. I was absolutely furious. In fourth grade, David Bowie was hot, and Ian Duffield (ah, how well I remember you, Ian!) called me “China Girl” as we started heading into class from the playground. Even then, though, no one had done anything so directly as to make fun of specific aspects of my appearance.

In junior high, I was tormented by Jeff Levenson and another guy named Craig. Craig was subtle; he sat behind me in Social Studies, and would slowly push his foot against the back of my desk. Silently we would struggle: he would push forward, I would push back, and the blind old bat teaching our class would continue smiling and talking about events none of us cared for.

I was not subtle. One day when I became fed up, I kicked him in the shin and ran away.

Jeff Levenson had nothing against me; he had nothing for me either. He called me gook and chink whenever I passed him. He apparently found nothing wrong with doing this and also being friends with Phyllis, who was also Asian, and on my behalf tried to get him to stop calling me names. He refused.

Mercifully, though, I soon entered high school. In high school, the kids aren’t nicer or more politically correct; they’re just too busy worrying about how to fit in to make fun of other kids. Sure, the “popular girls” in school (ie, the ones who had boyfriends– and abortions, as I found out years later), would make fun of me if they happened to pass by, but they were more polite. When they called me names, it was more out of a sense of duty than out of any actual mean spirit.

But to have little kids making fun of the way I looked, simply because we happened to be driving behind them? Could this really be happening in 2001? And where the hell had they learned this behavior?

Yeah, I’m Asian. But neither I nor my sisters have tiny squinty eyes. If I squint, it’s more because my eyesight sucks. The boys in front of us apparently saw no irony in making fun of our eyes, while adjusting their hands to go around their eyeglasses. Sure, we all had bad vision too, but due to the magic of contact lenses, we didn’t appear to be any different. Or so we’d thought.

Both boys were now jerking their eyelids to the side. I held down my horn every time they did it. I wasn’t mad at the boys per se; after all, they were young enough so that I don’t think they knew exactly what they were doing. AT least I hoped that was the case. But I was plenty mad at their parents; at the rich, white comfortably suburban middle-aged parents who didn’t notice how badly behaved their children were.

I pulled into the right lane and drove up beside the Mercedes. I rolled down my window, but the 40something man in the passenger seat gave me a startled, frightened glance.

I wanted to tell them what their children were doing in back, and to tell them that frankly, what happened on September 11th would not have happened if everyone raised their children to respect and accept differences as a natural part of life.

Unfortunately, the scared man in the Mercedes apparently thought I was insane, as he made no move to roll down his window. My lane pulled ahead, and I lost track of them for a few miles.

At a red light further down the road, though, I pulled up to the stop line and noticed that the car in the lane next to mine (the first car in that lane) was staying at least three car lengths behind me. I wondered if the car held my Mercedes friends, and when the light turned green, I was mildly gratified to see that it did indeed.

As their car shot away, I saw the boys in the back pulling their eyelids at us again. I honked and gave them the finger; a futile gesture, but all I had left.

All I’d done was perhaps scared some middle-aged people into assuming we were some kind of dangerous Asian gang.

So the next time you see me walking the streets with my sisters, you’d better stay away. Those Asian shopping gangs that hit the mall with their winter coats and purses can really be dangerous.

Ten Steps Toward Raising a Tolerant Child

Posted by: ssjane | December 18, 2001 | 5:48 pm
Posted in: Rants