My Three Favorite Incidents of Racism

Ian calling me a racist in the comments inspired this post, so as inaccurate as he may be (what, just because I assume a guy who lives in New Orleans and has a scruffy beard and makes experimental short films and waits tables is some kind of bohemian, I'm the racist?), kudos are due to him for getting me to write about something, even if it's just about people calling me a gook.

As some of you may know, I am part un-white. By and large this hasn't had a huge impact on my life, as my outward appearance doesn't really expose my racial mix; I believe in more sensitive times I would be described as "passing," in that I could easily "pass" as a full-fledged whitey. I've always found that term amusing, in its own way; it's somewhat sinister, as if I'm some kind of minority secret agent, deceiving everyone into thinking I'm one of US when in fact it turns out I am one of THEM mwuhahahaha, watch in horror as I drink from the same martini glass as this white woman!

Also, however, I've had the small luxury of growing up in an era (and around people) that doesn't (don't) have as much of a problem with this kind of thing. It is extremely rare for my race to come up as an issue. Most people don't care, when and if they find out or are reminded I'm half-Korean. In fact, the most trouble I've had is with filling out forms, and trying to decide which boxes I should check. For a time, I decided to use the "other" field and write in "off-white," which I should do more often, come to think of it.

But the dearth of racist encounters I've had in my life has, perhaps unfortunately, made the few encounters I have had stand out in my memory, to the point where I have come to almost revere them as odd little curiosities, strangely endearing in their own ways. Part of this has to do with the fact that none of them are overtly hateful, or involved any great deal of pain or humiliation; in fact, I should probably count myself as fortunate that I can look back on them with any kind of fondness whatsoever. Were they more serious, or perhaps were I not so white-looking, that would not be the case. But nonetheless, it is what it is, and it is in the spirit of fun and not heavy-handed social commentary that I present to you my three favorite incidents of racism.

Number Three: Church

I stopped attending church (Catholic, if you need specifics) when I was about 14 or 15 years old. For the most part, it had little to do with any kind of strongly held convictions or moral outrage; instead, I was really just a whiny brat, and hated getting up on Sundays and being bored by readings from the Bible and other assorted churchy things. Maybe my mother let me quit going just so she could enjoy herself for a change, and not have to deal with this fidgety, complaining little bastard every week. Either way, I was not sad to see it go.

However, my time as a church-going child did produce one moment that has stuck in my memory forever (and no, it does not involve a priest, shame on you). I was probably about 10 or 11 at the time--just short of the age where I started to become a real pain-in-the-ass, church-wise--and I was sitting quietly during the Eucharist or maybe while everyone was silently praying, or while they were preparing that weird urn-like thing the priest would wave at us as he walked up and down the aisles. Amidst the stillness and silence, I noticed the boy across the aisle from me--my age, maybe a little younger--just kind of staring at me, in that expressionless way kids tend to stare at stuff like candy or their own shoelaces. I ignored it at first, but eventually my curiosity won out and I looked over at him, and when I did he very casually and quietly remarked, "You're a gook."

I don't remember if I actually knew what that meant at the time. I figure that I must have had some idea that it was Something That Should Not Be Said, since it stands out in my mind to this day. In any case, I don't remember having any strong reaction to it; I'm pretty sure I just turned away and got back to being bored. Maybe I shrugged my shoulders. Suffice to say, the idea of a small child politely calling another small child a gook in the middle of a Catholic mass never fails to cheer me up just a little bit. I'm not entirely certain that "gook" is the correct racist nomenclature to describe a half-Korean child, but I give the kid a break because he couldn't have been more than eight or nine, and probably hadn't fully developed his racist vocabulary yet. Not enough time spent with grandpa, perhaps.

Number Two: High School, Lunchtime

I was probably a sophomore. It was the year that my lunch period did not coincide with any of my friends', so every lunch I would mill around the vending machines, consuming my meal of Cheez-Its and chocolate chip cookies with a soda chaser. Every so often I'd bump into someone I vaguely knew from some class or other and put my stilted, awkward conversation technique to good use. Most of the time, I just tried to keep to myself, sometimes opting to go walkabout around the halls or the athletic fields, for lack of anything better to do. I preferred this option, in all honesty, because nothing will put you off small talk quicker than engaging in it with douchebag teenagers.

Case in point would be the day that I was standing around, minding my own business, munching on Cheez-Its and trying to ignore the skeezy couple making out next to the Coke machine, when some guy I vaguely knew from some class or other (let's call him Backwards-Cap Douche for clarity's sake) wandered over and, introducing himself by way of head-nod, blindsided me into a conversation. I'm sure there were pleasantries exchanged, maybe a comparison of meals or some such, but quickly the subject matter turned to the people around us, specifically the group of Asian girls chattering away nearby. By which I mean the Backwards-Cap Douche nodded derisively in their direction, shook his head with considerable lament, and moaned, "Man, there's too many damn gooks in this school."

At this point, I'm certain he expected me--an assumed fellow white person and possible fellow douchebag--to wholeheartedly agree with this assessment, and maybe offer my own racially-tinged complaint about the State of Things Today. Instead, I said nothing. I probably offered a weak smile and stuffed another handful of Cheez-Its into my mouth. I didn't agree with his statement, but I also didn't feel the need to rush to the defense of chatty Asian girls everywhere. For one thing, I hardly thought the opinion of one Backwards-Cap Douche was worthy of much response (other than perhaps shoving a handful of Cheez-Its into your mouth), and for another, I have to admit to enjoying the casual moment of racism that my supposed whiteness had convinced the unwitting Backwards-Cap Douche to share with me. I felt like I was being offered the rare gift of confirming first-hand my worst assumptions about the people around me, in a scenario that didn't lead to any physical or emotional trauma for anyone involved. I wasn't witnessing someone getting beat up for the color of their skin, or having their basic human dignity threatened by the idiotic rantings of some vitriolic shithead; instead, I was watching some tool I didn't really like in the first place damn himself with his own careless, hilariously awful opinions, all the while thinking that I, of all people, was a safe and reliable confidant for such views. Irony, as they say, is bliss.

Number One: The Loading Dock

It is that kind of racism--the casual, "you-know-what-I'm-saying," approval-seeking kind--that I find the most hilarious. I am fascinated by what makes a person think that anyone--let alone little old secretly-Asian me--not only wants to hear what they really think about people of various ethnicities, but would agree with the ridiculous things that they end up saying. Especially when those people are little more than strangers. At what point in their development as a human being did "personal distaste for people of certain races" become acceptable subject matter for casual conversation? I do not pretend to be a master conversationalist myself, but it would seem only common sense that you withhold that kind of information until you're sure that the person you're talking to wouldn't mind coming along to one of your Klan meetings. Or even, just to be on the safe side, until they actually accompany you to the Klan meeting itself, and perhaps have shown you one of their swastika tattoos. "Err on the side of caution" is the advice I would give to all the racists out there.

But as is usually the case, I am all for tossing common sense out the window in the name of providing me with entertaining spectacle. And so it is with incident number one, which occurred a few years ago at work. I had received a call from our receptionist that a man with a delivery truck was going to be pulling into the loading dock and unloading some stuff; I don't remember what exactly. So I go out there and I open the roll-up door and I see this truck backing in and I'm prepared to dutifully and quietly sign for whatever materiel it is the company has ordered, when out of the truck hops a guy who looks like he's about to punch somebody. Not me, I hoped.

"Man, what is the problem with that girl!?" he demanded of me, through a rather thick African accent. When I asked who he was speaking about, he replied "that girl at the front desk." From which I took him to mean the receptionist, who may have been a bit curt at times but I had never had any problem with. Anyway, being the brave defender of women's good names that I am, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I dunno. She's alright, I think."

Not good enough. This sparked a rant that, while I cannot remember it word for word, I do recall being absolutely delighted by, as I pretended not to take much notice of him, and helped him unload boxes from his truck. He didn't have to take this, I seem to remember him saying. He was a Man, and who was she to etc. etc., and he didn't come to this country just to be and so on and so forth, and young people show no respect and you get the picture. It was a well-done rant, hitting all the right chauvinist and grumpy old-man notes, and almost made me wish he was a drunk uncle or something so I could hear similar declarations every Christmas. And then, as we finished unloading the truck, after I'd signed the what-have-you and he was preparing to go back out on the road, he dropped the bombshell:

"Man! Fucking Koreans, man!"

At this point, I'd never wanted to laugh more in my entire life. I had trouble keeping it in. Maybe he saw that and considered it a signal of agreement; I can't say, and I don't much care. He left, pleased with himself I'm sure, and once I'd gone back inside I just busted up laughing. It was easily the most fun I'd ever had at any workplace ever. I tried to tell a co-worker about it a little later on, and though he was generally amused, I got the feeling he felt I should have been more upset about it. Which led to me wondering why I wasn't, and I came quickly to the conclusion that it was just too ridiculous to take seriously. What I had witnessed was not the vile hatred of a dangerous man; it was the impotent rage of a buffoon, made all the more wonderful by the fact that one of the very people whom he was raging against was standing right there in front of him the whole time. Well, half of one of those people, I guess. And the kicker was I didn't even realize the receptionist was Korean. She must have been half as well, I figured. Or maybe not at all, and that just made it even funnier.

So there you have it: my three favorite moments of racism. I hope this doesn't leave the impression that I find all racism as enjoyable; for the most part, it's distasteful, disappointing, and disgraceful. And to be honest, if all racism appeared in such minor and amusing ways as it fortunately has in my life, I gather it wouldn't be all that much of a problem. Sure, it would be nice to live in a world where everyone's buying the world a Coke and we're all holding hands across America and people of all races are living in harmony on pianos, but I'll take a cartoonish, ranting truck driver any day.

Although I am annoyed whenever a movie portrays a Korean as a broken-English-shouting shop-owner. Not because of the shop thing; I know plenty of shops run by Koreans. But the ones I've met are all super-nice, and actually speak English really well. And why are they always getting robbed in movies, too? That's just unfair.