3 days of 3 racist events, one by one, marching in like little ants.

Today is my divisional holiday party, and Josh’s class was having one too at the same time, so we traded the baby - meeting halfway at the train station. As Josh brought the baby to the train station, a woman approached him and asked, “Aw, what a cute baby. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Thank you. He’s a boy.”

The woman continues. “Wow, they don’t let a lot of boys out - mostly girls, but not many boys!”

It took me a second to realize when Josh called me, with the Rage, that this woman thought Josh adopted Matthew. That it is impossible for a white man to be the father of an Asian baby.

Even if we adopted Matthew, in what fucking world is it remotely appropriate to say this? As if an adoptive father isn’t a father at all? And since we did not adopt Matthew, does this bitch even realize how much that one phrase hurt? No. I only wish it would make me remotely feel better if she went up to white babies and their parents and said the same sort of shit, but it wouldn’t.

I don’t exist. I am silenced. I am insignificant. I am minor. I don’t count. My experiences don’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

If you would like to see an article that talks about how Americans view racism and how that very article indicates a racist institution, this is the article for you.

On its surface, it talks about a poll conducted for CNN about how serious a problem racial bias is in the United States. And then the article only discusses racial relations between whites and blacks. There are no mention of Asians. There are no mention of Hispanics except in relation to whites, i.e., “non-hispanic whites”. A highlight of this article says:

Only a few of either race say they are racially biased themselves.

Yes, because there are only two races. There are only two major ethic groups affected by racism in the United States, and the one other that is mentioned is in relation to the first! What about biracial people? What about everyone else in this fucking country, because all of us, not just the whites and the blacks, are affected when racism permeates things like the media?

The irony of this article would make me laugh if it didn’t really make me want to cry.

We did.

Josh met me with the small person and we headed to our voting location together. All of the workers oohed and ahhed over Matthew, and he accompanied me to the machine - I did the electronic ballot and Josh did the paper/pen ballot. The electronic ballot wasn’t bad at all - once I was done, I reviewed everything on the screen, the machine printed out a paper receipt and reverified.

There were two things, though, that irked me. One, voting for judges. That those positions are politicized is beyond the level of what I consider reasonable. Ugh.

The other is that there were a few offices where the candidate was running unopposed. I object to that. So I wrote in Matthew’s name for such positions as Water Commissioner. Lord knows this child makes a lot of water.

Everyone knows what happened five years ago today.

This is what you might not know what happened and why, despite the horror of today, I’ll always hold the memories of today in a special corner of my heart. I wrote about it a little bit last year, about how I drove down to New Haven to pick up a battered Josh, dusty from the remains of the World Trade Center, who had fled New York City after being awakened by a plane crashing into the building where he’d recently bought books for class. I remember him telling me that he thought it was a thunderstorm, so he’d jumped out of bed and unplugged everything, before he realized it was clear out. He lived three blocks away from the towers.

I, on the other hand, was safe in my suburb in Connecticut, worried like hell about Josh, who’d just the weekend before spent the weekend with me.

Today, the world stops momentarily to remember the deceased on September 11th. On the internet are stories upon stories of people who died, people who lived, people who have disappeared since that fateful day in 2001. How dare we only stop on September 11th, I want to shout out. Every time I look at Josh and see Matthew, who wasn’t even a glimmer in our eyes back in 2001, I think of how fucking close I was to not having the life I have before me right now. My life would be so different right now, if Josh hadn’t fled New York, and fled into my life for good.

He once asked me when I knew I loved him. It was on the evening of September 11th, as we lay in bed really late that night, after having eaten a crappy Domino’s pizza - the only delivery place in my suburb delivering that evening. The lights were out and we lay there, he in my arms. I don’t remember exactly what he said to me, but his voice was quiet and he told me about his day. I knew right then that I loved him, and that I’d always love him.

So today, I haven’t turned the television on (which, frankly, is less grand sounding than it ought to - we usually only watch the television in order to watch DVDs). I clicked on cnn.com but left. I haven’t focused on the losses on September 11th, because I am one of the lucky ones. I gained a family that day.

I’ll never, ever forget everything else that’s happened on that date, because I have a son, a son who wasn’t alive but needs to know what happened. One day when he’s older, he’ll learn in school about the events of September 11th and he’ll come home and sit on his father’s lap and ask him, “Where were you on September 11th, 2001?” and he’ll need to be ready to hear that story. And then I’ll take him onto my lap and tell him mine.

This is the first year I’ve ever heard of “white elephant” gift exchanges called “Chinese Gift Exchanges”. This year thus far I’ve heard it referred to as this at least three times.

World, listen. I would rather impugn the morality of a fucking white elephant than to hear the words “Chinese Gift Exchange” uttered in a tittering, giggling way. When my family exchanges gifts, we just give them to each other. “Merry Christmas!” “Happy holidays!” We don’t exchange numbers and plot to snatch a gift back from someone else. What the fuck?

While we’re at it, we also don’t do Chinese Fire Drills, either. The next time you see a bunch of people running their fool asses off around a car at a stop light, please email me with photographic evidence that they were Chinese.

Christ.

On October 24, 2005, Rosa Parks died. All of the media images and biographies surrounding her life history tell the infamous story of how one day she was too plum tired to stand on that damn bus and so she sat, and with this one act of defiance of sitting, launched the country into the civil rights movement. That’s the image I remember from school, learning about the civil rights movement.

And that image is wrong.

Telling the story of a tired Rosa Parks does a huge disservice to the impact of her actions. Here’s the deal: Rosa Parks was not tired - not physically tired, anyway. Before December 1, 1955, she had already chosen to dishonor the racist system of segregation - she walked instead of taking the bus, went home thirsty instead of drinking from “colored” fountains.

Rosa Parks was not physically tired.

What she was tired of was the pain of segregation and racism. Imagine growing up with the image that you are a second class citizen, made to use separate restroom facilities, water fountains, and elevators simply because of the color of your skin - and imagine how very, truly, exhausting that experience is. Mrs. Parks was a social justice and civil rights activist from well before that fateful December day when she sat down on that bus in Montgomery, Alabama. She was active in the NAACP and was sent to attend a desegregation workshop at the Highlander Center weeks before she stayed seated on that bus in Montgomery.

She deliberately decided to take on the Montgomery Bus System, and as an extension, the institutional racism of her era. To say she defied that bus driver simply because her legs were sore and tired does a terrible injustice to the intent and impact of her actions that day. She deserves more than that.

And in the years surrounding the boycott of the Montgomery bus system and Parks’ deliberate defiance, why hasn’t the world learned more about her deliberate disobedience? Why did the media, and then later on, history books overdramatize Parks’ defiance? Why? She remained seated because she decided enough was enough. Enough of the segregation, enough of the subservience, and enough of the bullshit. Her elected leaders weren’t standing up, so she had to. And I am so grateful that she did.

Her sitting down allowed thousands and millions of us to stand up. Bravo, and thank you, Mrs. Parks.

***

Last week, Josh took me to see Margaret Cho, who was in town doing a book reading and signing for her new book, I Have Chosen To Stay And Fight. This is the third time I’ve seen Margaret (twice when we lived in Amherst), and the first time I’d have the opportunity to say something to her. I babbled incoherently about how we loved her two shows we saw and thank you so much for signing my book! God, a mess. “At least I didn’t cry!” I said to Josh.

But there is so much I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her how energized I felt after the first time I saw her, at the conclusion of a long and difficult weekend of race deconstruction. I wanted to tell her how much I admired her willingness to stand up for what she believed in and demand better. I wanted to tell her so much, and all I could say was thank you. I’m hoping it was enough.

In Chinese, the word for America is meiguo. Meiguo means “beautiful land”. And it is. There is no place more beautiful, in my limited world view, than seeing New York City at night - the sky lit up with a thousand lights, or seeing a countryside in New England in the fall.

My mother, grandmother, and two uncles came to meiguo in the late 1960s. My grandmother was worried about my mom’s and my uncles’ futures and educations, so she brought them to the land of opportunity, where they would have their pick of the best colleges in the country, where they would eat good food and play sports with the best of people. In meiguo, you could be as rich as the princes and princesses of faraway lands. This is the promise that meiguo holds out to foreigners.

Before they came to meiguo, they learned the language - haltingly. English is a difficult language to learn from a foreigner’s perspective. You have to move your tongue and lips in a way that you have never done them before, so the result of hours of practicing was an accent that you just. could. not. get rid of. They knew it would take years of practice, but if it meant that they would be accepted in meiguo, then the practice was well worth the effort.

O, the images of meiguo they had were the traditional ones. They saw the glamourous actors and actresses, all White with beautiful skin and beautiful shiny hair. They looked forward to coming to meiguo, even if it meant leaving all of their friends and their lifestyle behind.

And they did. In the 1960s, they moved to meiguo. They enrolled in high schools, and enrolled in colleges, they got jobs - really shitty jobs, because that was all that their equality of opportunity afforded them. They did those shitty jobs so they could put food (American food) on the table, put clothes (American clothes) on their kids, so they can go to schools (American schools) and get a top rate education so they can succeed in this “meiguo”. They grew up, they learned the language, they had children, they moved around meiguo, searching for the pot of proverbial gold at the end of the tunnel that would allow their children to be successful, to be happy, and to enjoy life in meiguo, the most beautiful land in the world.

…

Fast forward to today. Or rather, Thursday. On Thursday, I found out about Abercrombie & Fitch’s new tshirt line. Normally, I am not a shopper of Abercrombie & Fitch, as their clothes are not my style.

But when I found out about these tasteless, offensive tshirts that mocked the way my family and my people speak, the deities which they respect and worship, and all of the other stereotypes that A&F decided to broadcast to the world, well, I was infuriated. Absolutely livid.

My friends, indulge me if you will for a moment. We’re going on a little trip here. I’m going to try to show you what it was like growing up for me. Hopefully you will then be able to appreciate, even for a moment, why those tshirts pissed me off.

In elementary and middle schools, I was one of the only students of color in my entire elementary school. I had White kids call me Chink to my face. They would make faces at me, drawing the corners of their eyes up with their fingers and thumbs to make it look like they had slanty eyes, just like me. If I spoke up, I was relegated to being nothing more than a “Goddamned Chink.” And coming home, crying, because of that, my mom and grandma would comfort me and console me, but tell me I have to do better than they did to even be taken seriously. I can’t get by with just being average. I have to excel.

In high school, I tried desperately to fit in to American culture, to be a part of meiguo. I permed my hair, I wore nail polish, I watched tv shows, I begged my mom to buy me the shoes, the clothes - whatever it took to fit in. And she did. And for the longest time, I think I did fit in. I forgot what it meant to be Chinese, to have that rich cultural heritage in my blood and as a part of my identity. I didn’t think of myself as Chinese at all, but thought of myself as White. I spoke the language perfectly, I got all of the jokes, I had the hair, I had the skin color. But even that wasn’t enough. Remember in high school when you had unrequited crushes? And how that would break your heart? “Why wasn’t I good enough? Is it because I dress funny? Is it because I’m too fat/skinny/short/tall/booby/non-booby?” I would ask myself all of those questions, but also another one, too: “Is it because I’m Chinese?”

In college, I have had White people tell me point blank that I was there not because I earned my place but because I filled a quota, despite having worked my ass off in high school and at my first college, earning above average grades. “You’re here because of affirmative action,” they cried. In college and in graduate school I felt the sting of being turned down for two jobs, and knowing in my heart, somewhere deep in my heart, that it was because I was Chinese. I’ve had people tell me, “I’m not racist - that you’re Chinese doesn’t make a difference to me,” in effect, completely denying and snubbing their nose into my cultural identity, although their ignorance and mine have allowed me to ignore the ramifications of those statements. I have had people laugh at me and call me Chink and Gook to my face. This happened in 1998. I have had to skip work or skip school and face possible work or school penalties because I wanted to celebrate Chinese holidays with my family.

And throughout my life, I have had people speak slowly and loudly to me because I apparently look like someone who doesn’t understand English. I have had White doctors suggest to me that I get plastic surgery so I can have the “fold” in my eyes, and appear more White. I have had people tease and insult and make fun and mock the food my people eat and the traditions we celebrate.

And just a couple of weeks ago, I remember calling my mentor in grad school and thanking him for having a profound impact on my life. It was all I could do to keep in my tears as I thanked him for recognizing and celebrating my cultural heritage. After so many years of assimilating within the White culture, feeling like I could really explore my Chinese American identity was so damned refreshing.

So when I saw these t-shirts that openly mocked and insulted my culture, my heritage, and my identity, based on fucked-up stereotypes of what A&F perceived people like me to be, I was more than just a little mad. I was more than just a little infuriated and outraged. Most of all, I was so, very, disappointed.

I was disappointed because in 2002, shit like this should not be able to happen. In 2002, we should be able to overcome stupid ethnic jokes because we (as a society) are better than that. And in 2002, Asian Pacific Americans should not be the only ones who are getting pissed off about how people of color are being marginalized in this society. I am disappointed because there are a lot of people who still don’t see why these shirts were offensive. I am disappointed because I was told that I should grow a thicker skin, that it was a joke, that I am not seeing the humor in the shirts.

Ha.

This man, Hampton Carney, a company spokesman for A&F, said, “We personally thought Asians would love this T-shirt.” He also issued an apology: “We’re very, very, very sorry,” Carney said. “It’s never been our intention to offend anyone.”

It’s funny. Josh and I were talking about this situation and we talked about how in the American society, if a wrong is committed, “I’m sorry!” is rushed out, regardless of meaning or intent. And Dana and I were talking about this situation and she said something in reference to an employee situation that made me think: “The most meaningful apology you could give would be to make sure this never happens again,” (talking about an employee who continually apologizes but repeatedly makes the same mistakes over, and over, and over…) and that is so true. A&F apologized, but for me? Too little too late. The best apology in my eyes would have come about a month ago, when the shirts were proposed. Hampton Carney should have stood up then and said, “We can’t run those shirts, we’re going to offend our Asian clients, it’s not right, it’s not appropriate, and we can do better than that.” But he didn’t. No one at Abercrombie & Fitch did, and that makes me sad. Sadder than you would imagine.

And all the apologies I’m hearing now? Let me give you some advice, sage reader. Never trust an apology that goes like this: “I’m sorry, but…” That “but” negates everything that came before it. Like the apology itself. “I’m sorry you felt offended, but that was intended to be a lighthearted joke.” And honestly? After all that has happened (both in the media and on the thread I started at 3WA), I am taking these apologies thrown here and there with a large vat of salt.

I hate that there are people who think this is an issue about being politically correct. It’s not. It’s about being respectful and sensitive, and not alienating 4% of the US’ population. It’s not about being thin skinned. And if it is, then so be it. I’m hurt, and I’m crying out over it. I’m fucking pissed off, and I wish more people were, too.

…

Yesterday, as the day evolved, I became restless and angry. I messaged Josh (who was waiting for me at home), “Do you mind coming with me to Abercrombie & Fitch tonight? I really need to go.” And he messaged back, “If you feel you have to go, then absolutely.” We went to A&F, and on the drive up, I was gearing myself up for a fight. A&F had supposedly issued a memo, recalling all of the tshirts, but some of the stores in California were still selling them. As we walked toward the store in the mall, I kidded around with Josh and made scowling, angry faces. “Do I look mad?” He just giggled at me.

Abercrombie & Fitch is an interesting study in cultural interactions. I was the only person of color in the store. Only. That included the mannequins and the posters of models wearing their clothes. The shirts were nowhere to be found. I felt like shaking the shoppers who were in the store, and asking them if they’ve even opened up a newspaper or a web browser in the past week. I was disappointed in them, too. We left, and went to get a snack before heading to the Apple store before heading home, but we passed by the A&F store once more. And in front of me were two Asian women walking into the store. I hope, hope, hope that they were in there looking to see if those tshirts were gone, and not there to shop. I just didn’t get that feeling, however.

…

I’m feeling somewhat mollified today, now that I’ve done what I can and made my peace, as the case may be. I’m not shutting up about this, though. We have been marginalized enough. Too much. And it’s not right, and I’m not going to stand for it. Not in my home, my country, my meiguo.