I just thought of something else.
People, generally those who aren't Asian, will always work a variation of the following into conversation with me:
"Hey, you know, I have a cousin who's Asian. Japanese, or something, I think."
That's great. Really. I'm glad your family is diverse and you're not only a bunch of melatonin-challenged folks (no offense, white people - you know I love you). But what do you want me to do with this newly found (yet undesired) piece of information? Am I supposed to throw chopsticks into the air into a celebratory moment, to commemorate the fact that you know another Asian person? Or do you expect me to say,
"Oh, what's his/her name? I probably know them." Because we all know each other, just like I know everyone in the state of New York.
Some of my favorite variations of this conversation faux pas (I have really had these said to me):
- "My niece wants to set me up with a Japanese woman .. I don't know if I'm ready, though." (After talking about his divorce)
- "My nephew studied in Japan - he really liked it. Japan's kind of close to Korea, isn't it?"
- "My wife's Japanese." (with absolutely nothing to segway into this statement)
- "I have a cousin who's South Korean. Maybe you know her?"
Please.
Stop.
For the love of God, just stop. I appreciate the attempt at making a connection, but .. what about art? Music? The Beatles? Tattoos? Anything - I really do have many other facets that have nothing to do with slanty eyes and a penchant for sticky rice.
- May (you look beyond the surface).
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About Me
- May
- She is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with a hint of MoMA and the Whitney. She is Walt Whitman's "Myself" in "Song of Myself." She is an incomplete stanza of a finished poem. She is the subtitle at the bottom of the screen of a foreign film, spelled wrong. She is the low E string of a guitar. She is the G chord on a piano. She is the Tube, the NY Subway System, the T, the Metro, and everything in between. She is one of the grains of sand on a beach, anywhere in the world. She is the needle, injecting ink into someone's skin. She is the bubble racing from the bottom of a pint of Guinness. She is the Flat Iron building. She is the imaginary film in your digital camera. She is the musty smell of an old book you found in the back of a dusty bookstore. She is not one but two twins of the Gemini sign. She is the middle line at the bottom of the peace sign. She is the "you" when Paul McCartney sings "All you need is love." She is her. No one else.
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