Off to Hong Kong for (hopefully) my last visa renewal for quite some time, so won’t be posting for a few days. However, when I get back, maybe I’ll actually write up those “Hunxue’er in Hong Kong” posts (ala “Hapa in Honolulu”) like I said I would a couple months back . . .
Never can get enough of those “mixed-culture” cities . . .
So . . . um . . . yeah. Anti-intellectualism . . .
Where to start?
Um . . . I guess I’ll start with this:
The other day, I saw a “call for papers and proposals” (on Racialicious) for the Critical Mixed Race Conference (CMRC) that’s hosted by DePaul University in November, 2010. Seeing that, I thought to myself, “That sounds pretty interesting, and I feel like I’ve got a lot of experience/ideas to offer,” so I checked it out.
Went to the website and read:
“Critical Mixed Race Studies (CMRS) is the transracial, transdisciplinary, and transnational critical analysis of the institutionalization of social, cultural, and political orders based on dominant conceptions of race. CMRS emphasizes the mutability of race and the porosity of racial boundaries in order to critique processes of racialization and social stratification based on race. CMRS addresses local and global systemic injustices rooted in systems of racialization.”
Um . . . uh . . . what the —- did that just say!? Read it again . . .
Hmmm . . . well . . . still not entirely sure, but it’s definitely an academic conference . . .
Looked through their various “Proposal Guidelines,” etc., and I quickly decided that I shouldn’t bother submitting any proposals for seminars or anything else – because I’m not really what they’re looking for. I’m not an “academic.” When they request a bio emphasizing “teaching experience,” they’re not talking middle school. I haven’t published any academic papers on the subject. I’m not a “leading expert in the field.”
I’m just a mixed-race youth worker and teacher that (sometimes) does spoken-word and writes a (vaguely political) blog on the side . . .
Waitaminute.
I’m a mixed-race youth worker and teacher that (sometimes) does spoken-word and writes a (vaguely political) blog (about race and other forms of oppression) on the side.
And I’m “not really what they’re looking for?”
What’s wrong with this picture?!
So I thought about it for a little bit, and it seems that it comes down to one of two scenarios (with – quite possibly – a “mix” of both): 1) This conference is for a bunch of academic “intellectuals” that just aren’t interested in hearing from “common-folk” like me; or 2) They are perfectly welcoming of folks like me, but they are a bunch of academics who don’t know how to communicate that effectively using “normal” terminology and speech.
Whichever situation it happens to be, the root of the problem is more clear – this is that dichotomy of “Academic/Intellectual” vs. “Everyday Person” that pops up all the time. Either we cannot communicate across the divide because we don’t want to (i.e. “they” think I’m “beneath them,” or “we” think “they’re too snooty/elitist”) or we don’t know how to.
Breaking it down, I’d suppose that it started with the latter (we don’t know how to), which led to further misunderstandings that ended up with the former (we don’t want to).
Because it all starts with language. I could take the quoted paragraph from above (from the CMRC website) to most non-native English speakers, and they would think, “is that really English?” Take that a step further – I could take it to most native English speakers, and they would think, “is that really English?”
I think I’m a pretty smart guy. I even have an educational background that has exposed me to language like that before, and it still took me a number of passes to figure out what that paragraph really says:
“CMRS brings in perspectives from different races, nationalities, and areas of study to look at how the ‘System’ is built by the racial majority. CMRS talks about how there is no way to draw a real line between races – when does a mixed-race person become “white” or “black,” etc. ? is it skin-color, blood, or something else? – to blow up stereotypes and inequalities based on race. CMRS looks at racism in the U.S. and abroad.” (*1)
Looking at it “decoded” like that, I suddenly realize that “CMRS” is me. Seriously. Just take the exact paragraph and wording above, swap out “CMRS” for “the CVT,” and it pretty much sums up what I do.
Kind of eerie, isn’t it? It’s like asking a Ouija board “when am I going to die?” and having it spell out “Y-O-U-A-L-R-E-A-D-Y-H-A-V-E.”
Really. I still kind of have chills about it. Okay, shake it off . . . get back to the point . . .
Anyway. So it turns out that I am exactly the right fit for this conference (to a scary degree), but if I hadn’t taken the time and mental energy to figure that out, I would never have realized that. And – probably – even though I did figure it out, “they” probably still wouldn’t realize that. (*2)
Miscommunication ensues. I get mad at the “academic elite,” “they” decide that I’m “unqualified,” and the divide widens.
Which is sad, really, because I think we both could get a lot out of this. We “common folk” on the ground could really benefit from all the research and resources that a group such as this could offer (if it could be translated into language we understood). Academics in the field could benefit from a very different – and valid – perspective from folks on the ground that “study” race from within the microscope.
It’s just one more situation where this human tendency to take sides and draw a line in the sand is holding us back. It’s no different (structurally-speaking) from racial misunderstanding or any other misunderstanding between different oppressed groups that end up cutting each other off instead of working together.
So how do we bridge that gap? How can we connect?
Easier said than done, but – we need more “generalists.” That’s it. In a society and culture that tends to emphasize – more and more – the need to “specialize” and “focus” on just one thing, we’re losing common language.
“Academics” create more and more specific language, defined only within their fields, and the applicability is lost on the “normal” people who could most benefit from the knowledge. Most people dismiss “science” because the terminology is so confusing -even times when the actual concepts and application are elegantly simple. The minute Obama starts using some fancier words in his speeches, folks are looking to cut him as an “elitist.”
So we need folks who are interested in both areas – who are sort of “bicultural” in terms of “Academia” and “normal life” – to start translating. Events like the CMRC are probably culturally-sensitive enough, on an ethnicity/nationality level, to translate a lot of their stuff into non-English languages. But why don’t they also translate it into “normal” words? (*3) It’s a bit ironic that a conference all about the blurred lines between racial groups isn’t quite there in blurring the lines between academics and "the rest."
Because how cool would it be if events like the CMRC commonly consisted of a diverse blend of “academics,” “community organizers,” and just plain old “normal” folks who are simply living the experience of race (mixed or otherwise), all dialoguing and taking each other seriously?
Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy to achieve. Again, it would take very conscious steps and “translation” (without condescension) to pull it off. And I’m not offering myself as the model of the solution because I’m certainly not immune to this dichotomy, myself. On either side.
When I run into somebody who proudly references their Ivy League degree and/or unnecessarily (in my opinion) uses “big words” in everyday conversation – I admit I generally dismiss them. I assume they have no “real world” experience. I cast them as “elitists.”
On the other hand, my own writing isn’t necessarily “accessible to everyone.” (*4) In a response to my post on “Hybrid Vigor,” a commenter referenced my “science jargon” – and they were absolutely right. A good teacher is able to take the most complicated topic and explain it in the simplest terms – and I’m not there yet. It’s difficult walking that road, and I don’t mean to suggest that it’s easy (or that I am necessarily able to do it).
But it needs to be done. Because as long as we stay divided along these lines, well-meaning folks on both sides are going to drop the ball. We’re going to miss it when a particular piece of academic work shines light on a solution – but the folks on the ground aren’t paying attention or don’t catch it in time to put it into practice. Politicians are going to dismiss real solutions that come from “non-experts.” Etc.
It happens all the time.
So our job? We’ve all got to get studying.
Those of us who’ve gone a bit too “academic” need to start figuring out how to make our work (and language) more accessible to the rest of the world – and need to understand that a good resume isn’t a necessity (often isn’t) for a good idea. Those who’ve dismissed “academia” and “science” need to put in the work to better understand it, and then translate it for ourselves and others to broaden the distribution. (*5)
If we all start doing this a little bit? Certainly not an end to the problem, but it’s a beginning, and it may set things in motion for some great things in the future.
Because, in the end, it always comes back to the whole "divided we fall" concept – folks working against oppression (in any of its forms) are folks working against oppression, period. And it makes no sense how we so often try to do it independently (or in spite) of all those other people fighting that same fight out there. We need to constantly keep ourselves humble, get over our egos and fears, and link up to do some real damage to a damaging system.
As for the CMRC? Well, if any of the folks running that show want to get a hold of me, you know where to find me . . . Of course, it turns out I’ll be out of the country when the actual conference goes down, so I won’t be attending this one, but I’d love to get in the mix for next time . . .
(*1) Sh–. That was a good 15 – 20 minutes of brain-power “translating” that one.
(*2) There is a stated emphasis on having panels with “community organizers” on board, but it’s unclear whether or not a “non-academic” with that kind of background could fly solo or has to be paired up with an academic “expert.”
(*3) The concept is a little patronizing, I suppose, but I know I would appreciate it, if done correctly. And people are already doing this: science writers like Malcolm Gladwell (on whom I have very mixed feelings) have become quite popular for their ability to cull through current research and make it more accessible to (more of) the masses.
(*4) As a funny side-note on this topic: I didn’t even know what the term “intersectionality” meant until a commenter on this site told me that’s what I do, and I looked it up.
(*5) Along those lines, I am going to start posting regular "Science of Oppression" pieces breaking down current research as it applies to oppression (the causes, effects, and – hopefully – solutions).
This post isn’t going to rock your world or give you any insight into "the System." It’s not going to challenge preconceptions about race. It’s not going to aid the battle against oppression or help you do much of anything at all.
But I don’t care. Because – sometimes – I just have to do things for me.
In my time out here in Shanghai, I’ve been teaching Primary School classes, but – to get extra income – I’ve also been doing some one-on-one tutoring. Four days a week, I’ve been going to the home of a 7 year-old Chinese boy (we’ll call him "K") to help him with his homework and get him to practice his English. He’s in international school, so his English is pretty solid. And since his mother (his dad doesn’t live with them) can afford to put him in international school AND pay for me to come in and hang out most weekdays, it’s not like they’re hurting, financially. I’m just a replaceable cog in the machine – one more tutor in a long line of tutors for K.
I took the job for the money. Because it was easy, and it would enable me to do the things I wanted to do out here. I could quit any time because – who cares? – it’s just a "tutor" job. I didn’t have to put any effort or mind-power or soul into it. It was nothing. And yet . . .
All those justifications go out the window because – a kid’s a kid. And I can’t work with a kid so closely without getting attached. Without forming a relationship. It’s not about "making a difference" or really helping him improve his life in any sort of way – it’s just connecting to a kid, enjoying it, and having affection for the little guy.
And that’s why it tore me up yesterday to tell him (and his mother) that I’m going to have to stop tutoring him in a couple weeks.
The reason’s a good one: I just got an offer I can’t refuse. Honestly. It has to be a sort of "secret" for now, but I’ve gotten the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of an organization that is doing something that has the potential to really go along with all that I do and want to achieve in my life. A chance to gain experience (and some clout) in a direction that is going to come in really useful a few years down the line when I’m trying to go bigger with my reach. In short – a chance to help a WHOLE LOT of kids.
But, in order to be able to do that right, I have to stop working with just one kid: K. And the reasons for it don’t mean a thing when the end result is the same: I’m not going to be hanging out with him, anymore, and he doesn’t really know why.
He’s the only-child representative of the "One Child Policy." He comes home from school, and he sits around with his grandma and grandpa, who don’t really have the time or energy to play with him. Shanghai parents are scared to let their kids out, so he doesn’t get to play with other kids during the week. He’s lonely. So when I come over – it’s play-time. And work-time (because that’s my job), but it’s not like with those other adults.
We share snacks, for instance. I come over shortly after he gets home from school, which just so happens to be the middle of his snack-time. So he carries all his snacks over to the big desk where we work together, and we usually spend the first 5 to 10 minutes chatting about random things while he eats, crumbs spilling all over his homework assignments for the day.
A couple minutes in, he’ll look over at me shyly, and he’ll start digging into one of his bags of snacks. Maybe he’ll grab a shrimp-cake puff (don’t know what else to call it, it’s like a cheeto made out of shrimp-stuff) and drop it onto the desk in front of me, saying "that’s you." I thank him and eat it, and then he’ll grab a few more and more carefully lay them out in front of me. Or else we have "my favorite" – these sort of gummi (but not sweet) sea-weed snacks that come individually wrapped. He gets really excited about these, because he knows they’re my favorite (always making sure to say, "these are your favorite"), so he likes to share a lot of them with me. Or maybe it’s his cardboard tube of sweet gummi snacks. As he digs through them for the orange ones (his favorite), he makes sure to isolate the purple ones to give to me (again, my favorite).
So we snack (messily) while he asks me questions (I ask him some, too, but he prefers to do the asking): "do you like tiger or rabbit better?" (tiger); "do you like tiger or eagle better?" (harder, but still tiger); "do you like tiger or cheetah better?" (this one’s a bit of a trick, because we both know very well that cheetah is his ultimate favorite, but I’ve got to be honest . . . so . . . tiger).
It’s time to get to work now, but he’s a master staller (and I can’t blame him, because there’s no way I ever wanted to do homework when I was his age . . . or any age, really). As I break out his math, he’ll reach into his bag and pull out his most recent drawing: a pencil illustration of six Pokemon characters (divided into a "good" and "bad" team) fighting it out. It’s really good, and I can’t help but getting into it. Next thing I know, he’s describing the battle, complete with sound effects (a lot of spit flying as he makes crashing and exploding sounds), and I’m totally with him, smiling.
And then I remember we’re supposed to be doing homework. So I try to re-focus (myself and him) and have him choose which homework assignment he wants to start with. He stalls some more, telling me what he learned in science today. I allow myself to be distracted (I’m not going to cut him off), and then shake it off and go back to his homework . . .
And, in the end, we always get his homework done. It usually involves me breaking out the stop-watch and seeing if he can beat his times from before; or asking him, "how long do you think it will take you to answer these five (math, or reading, or science) questions?" He’s quick, and he likes to shoot for lower and lower times, and he’s generally up to the challenge (although he still likes to try to distract me by randomly asking about tigers or sharing about cheetahs as we go).
But the best days are when he doesn’t have much homework, and we finish early. Because then we just get to hang out. We’ll knock a balloon back and forth, asking each other questions (sometimes related to his schoolwork, often not). We’ll play Hangman (never thought about the cultural oddness of that particular game until K asked me why we’re hanging him . . .). Or – the best – we’ll draw.
Because K loves drawing. He’ll draw on his homework. He has piles of drawings in his schoolbag. He asks for breaks to draw all the time. So when we get to just relax and draw together? Brilliant. Because I was just like that when I was his age. So we’ll get some blank sheets of paper, and he’ll choose something that we’re going to draw together (maybe he’s into skeletons today, or dinosaurs, or – most often – Pokemon). And then we’ll pass the paper back and forth, each of us drawing a little something to try and make a bigger scene. Somedays – I’ll just sit back and watch him draw, because he’s really inspired, and there’s no time to waste by passing it over to me.
And in those times, as I watch him, so fully focused and scrunched over his paper, I can’t but feel this completely undeserved sense of pride. Like he’s my kid. I call them my "biological clock" moments – when I just think to myself, "if this is how fatherhood feels, sometimes, I really think I’d like to try that." I think back to my own childhood and such similar moments when my dad would be helping me draw robots . . . some of my favorite memories. I relax so fully and utterly, and I just want this to continue for a while . . .
And then – time’s up. I am reminded that this is "just a part-time job." His mom comes in, signs my little timesheet, and I say goodbye to K. He says it back to me with some sort of goofy voice, I imitate him, and then I put on my shoes and head out the door, telling him, "See you tomorrow!!!" As the apartment door closes and I turn to the elevator, I can hear him yelling at me from inside. I smile to myself, get in the elevator, and count myself lucky to have it so damn easy that I’m getting paid for that.
Except – yesterday – I didn’t feel like that. After I had told K about doing this other job, he didn’t have much of anything to say to me. Just focused on his drawing and got all frustrated when he messed up (which he never does, of course). As I walked out the door, he didn’t say goodbye. Certainly no yelling as I got on the elevator.
I walked to the bus stop, jostled my way on, and stood looking out the window. Subway station. Walked down the stairs. Swiped my card. Waited with hundreds of other people – but didn’t see any of them.
This is the other side of the work I’ve chosen and love so much. So many goodbyes. All these great kids. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands of them, by now. And I keep leaving them. Sure – the reasons behind it all are legit. I haven’t moved on from any job until I’ve been sure that the next step will enable me to work with more kids, more closely, or with a chance to be in a position to affect even more kids in the future. And the kids, themselves? They’re resilient as Hell. They move on – quickly. But, in spite of all that, it never feels okay. I can never get away from that feeling that I’m abandoning them – letting them down.
How do I tell K – whose father doesn’t live with him – that I’m not going to be hanging out, anymore because I got this great job opportunity? There’s no good way to do it. It is exactly what it is – tutoring K versus this new job . . . and the new job won.
I am sure that K will have happily moved on within the month. He’ll be fine. There’s no psychological scarring here. I’m neither that important nor that impactful – in the life of any of my kids. But it’s just one more mark stuck in me. Just one more kid that I had to tell I wasn’t going to be there for, anymore. And, to make sure that I continue to make the right decisions moving forward, I won’t let myself forget it.
Not going to cry about it. Not going to dwell or beat myself up. But I’ll hold it, and use it as one more piece of motivation to do my job better than "well." Always.
So here’s to K – a little guy I’ve only known a short time, but I’ll always be proud of.
And here’s to all my kids back in Portland – who I had to say goodbye to half a year ago, but who I will see again come June (*1) . . . I told them I’d be back.
(*1) Heading back to Oregon to work this summer with a bunch of my middle school kids. Then probably back here to Shanghai in the Fall to continue with this new opportunity (and to stop by for some of "my favorite" snacks with K from time to time . . .).
Today is St. Patrick’s Day, here in China. Last weekend a bunch of foreigners (mostly white folks, but not entirely) had a little parade and got drunk at the ex-pat bars that carry Guinness. I may actually try to track down one, myself, today (I am a quarter Irish . . .). When I tried to explain this particular holiday to some Chinese friends, they just summed it up with (in Chinese), "Oh, it’s a foreigner holiday."
And that’s basically what it is here. Just "Foreigner Day." Where all these ex-pats (no matter their actual nationality or ethnic affiliations) are "celebrating" the holiday as a sort of link back to the "Western" world. So it seems most appropriate on this special day to talk about privilege . . .
So here I am, this straight, mixed white-Chinese-American male living in Shanghai, China. (*1) I saved up my money for the last 6 years and quit (sort of) my teaching job back in the States to come here. Now I’m teaching English to Chinese kids at a pay-rate two times higher than what I got paid as a teacher in the States. Take the different cost-of-living into account, and I can work half the time I did Stateside and live with an increased quality of life.
I eat like a freaking king here. I hardly ever cook for myself. I can dress like crap, leave my hair uncombed and unkempt, and walk into pretty much any restaurant whatsoever and have them not only allow me in, but give me good service because they assume I can pay for it. (*2)
If I’m wandering around the city, and nature calls my way, I don’t have to find a messy public restroom – I can just wander into any fancy hotel and use their bathroom without harassment because it’s perfectly reasonable for them to assume that I’m a paying customer (although I am most definitely not).
I mostly take the bus and subway, but any time – if I felt so inclined – I could get a cab all the way across town and be able to afford it.
If I wanted to, I could gain the interest of any number of attractive women (far more attractive than I am, myself) simply because I represent possible money, power, and a ticket to the States.
And I’m a freaking teacher. I dress in baggy pants and t-shirts – not suits or designer labels. A large proportion of the people here have much more money and fancy stuff than I do. And yet I get to carry around all the privilege.
It’s great!
Really. I mean that. I get a kick out of all of it. I definitely appreciate it. How can I possibly complain?
I stand out here, as well, of course. I get mildly hostile stares (sometimes). I often have trouble communicating. I don’t fully feel “accepted” or part of the community. Sure, sure.
But let’s compare all of this to my life in the U.S.A.:
Back in the States? I go to a hardware store with a friend, dressed as I am here (probably a little more kept-up in appearance), and the manager follows me around the store, eventually confronting me and asking if I intend to buy anything. (*3)
In the States? I work 50 to 60 hour work weeks, busting my ass as a teacher, and I get paid a fraction above poverty-line wages. (*4) When certain groups of people find out what I do for a living, they immediately lose interest, or try to find out what I really want to do, as a career. The kids I teach (so-called “at-risk” kids in poverty) make fun of the car I drive (that’s kind of funny to me, though).
In the States, the few times I get to go to a fancy restaurant, I get stares and the overwhelming feeling that I just don’t belong there.
I stand out in the States. I get mildly hostile, questioning stares (often). I have trouble communicating and being understood. I don’t fully feel “accepted” or part of the community.
And even then, I always feel lucky and blessed to have it so good. Because I still live (mostly) as I want to – with all sorts of great opportunities, privileges, and abilities.
Hmmm . . .
So how does being an “other” in China (or any other foreign country – I lived for a year and a half in Tanzania, too) really compare to being “other” in the States?
In terms of standing out, feeling a little awkward – not so different. Well, actually – it’s certainly much less negative out here. Nice to have people assume that I am capable of doing things, instead of the other way around. So I guess it’s better.
And, either way, the huge difference is that I chose for it to be this way here in China. I came here to take advantage of an opportunity. Not to escape oppression or for safety for myself or family. Not to climb out of poverty or to try to improve a difficult life. I came here to take advantage of an opportunity – to learn and grow and connect to part of my blood.
Because I can. Because I have the privilege of doing so. Because I can get a visa and afford the ticket and then – easily – find a job out here.
And once I do those things and am really living out here? The privileges just keep piling on (like the ones listed at the beginning of this article, but many more, besides). I get to live a life so very different from that which I can live in the States. The burden and weight of being “other” just doesn’t really apply here – because I asked for it. I became this version of “other” on purpose – because I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to do so. And if it starts to get to me? I have the privilege of leaving it behind pretty much any time I want. No life-time of weight to bear if I don’t want to.
So what do I do when white folks tell me that they “know what it’s like” to be a racial minority in the States because of their time abroad? I try not to laugh. Or choke. Or scream.
Because – no. No you don’t. Not even close. (*5)
The only way that living abroad can possibly connect us, in terms of understanding a different racial experience, is in a way completely opposite to how you think.
Because now, from my time living abroad, I can kind of better understand what it’s like to be white in the U.S. And it’s kind of fantastic.
Really. Here I experience the benefits (and frustrations) of everyone assuming I have money or an easy life experience, simply because of my race. I get to taste the privilege of positive assumptions about my power or capabilities. My attractiveness as a romantic partner is enhanced. It’s easier for me to get jobs over equally-qualified “other” candidates.
And sure, I’m not a numerical majority here, but if I want to be surrounded by “people like me” (in this case, foreigners), there are plenty of bars, restaurants, and whole neighborhoods I can go to within a 20-minute taxi ride to get that (compared to in the States, where there is literally nowhere I can go for that, in a public space).
So, please, don’t insult the intelligence and invalidate the experiences of racial minorities in the U.S. by claiming that it is anything at all like a white U.S. expat living abroad. Because it isn’t. Living abroad is an amazing, full-frills vacation, in comparison. (*6)
On the other hand, getting to experience this privilege is wonderful. It’s liberating. And I fully appreciate it and will not take it for granted. I will take full advantage (as long as it is not negatively affecting other people, especially those whose country I am visiting).
Because there’s nothing wrong, inherently, with having privilege. It’s not my fault I’m so privileged out here. However, the only reason I can carry this privilege is because of the existence of injustice. And if I am going to carry the benefits of injustice, I best fully acknowledge that privilege and be very careful in how I use it here. (*7)
And that’s the key. I can live with privilege – love it and appreciate it – but I have to be mindful of it and aware that it is most definitely a dangerous tool. Privilege is nuclear fission – capable of making my life so much better and easier, and just as capable of destroying other lives beyond repair. It’s silly to needlessly lament my own privilege or try to hide it – but I have to make sure to use it for uplift every chance I get. I’ll take a privileged "vacation" across the world, but then it’s my duty to take advantage of this time to learn and increase my understanding, so I can reduce injustice and – ultimately – give up my privilege.
Having privilege is having the option to not do anything – which is kind of cool. But true justice is choosing to forgo that option and using privilege (and, again, giving it up) to level the field. Anything else is oppression.
And that’s the ever-so-hard part – letting the privilege go. Because I can easily argue that I deserve this. For all the B.S. I put up with in the States, I deserve this break from it all. I worked hard. I earned it. I lifted myself up, overcame obstacles, bla bla bla.
But the fact remains – every time I take advantage of this privilege ("earned" or not), I’m taking advantage of somebody else getting a boot pushed right into their back, knocking them flat to the ground. Somebody who worked just as hard (probably harder) and deserve it more than I do. But "those are the breaks," right? Nope. That’s privilege and injustice.
And there’s the balance. Always fight for justice, doing what you can to reduce your privilege to give others a taste. But while I have a little bit? Well, I’m not going to take it for granted, that’s for sure. I’m going to revel in having a bit of the burden of race taken from my shoulders for a little while; enjoy the reduced stress. I’m going to appreciate it.
Because we all should. Acknowledge it and live it up. Eat well and smile. Sleep better and live lighter. And then go do something. (*8)
(*1) Although most people don’t think I’m white out here, that’s more or less the treatment I get. Darker foreigners would have a somewhat different experience, I’m sure.
(*2) In relative terms, "service" isn’t exactly the same here, culturally, as in the States.
(*3) Yup, true story. A hardware store. I was trying to buy sandpaper and a screw driver.
(*4) Also a true story. It’s a “non-profit” thing, I guess. But I should say I also get solid benefits, and since I’m single with no family, I’m doing okay.
(*5) I’m talking about U.S. citizens here, of course. The exception I can come up with would be a white person who came from poverty and moved to a foreign country and had to work their way up from scratch – maybe picking up garbage and sleeping on the floor for a few years – in an attempt to improve their lot in life.
(*6) And I mean that almost literally, considering how I get to live out here.
(*7) Worthy of another post, but this is largely why I’m very hesitant to get involved in any romantic relationships out here, because of the very pronounced power dynamics and privilege imbalance.
(*8) And I mean "do something about injustice" here – not just "go out to a nice restaurant dressed like crap" like I’m about to do . . .
** Regarding the image – the CVT is in no way affiliated with Moon Publishing or the authors of the book pictured. Just seemed appropriate for this post (and incidentally a book I read before coming here that mostly assumed whiteness for its readers). **
I’m mixed. Chinese mother, white father. I don’t particularly look like either of them (nor do I look definitively “Chinese” or “white”). Ethnically-ambiguous mixed kid. In a country (U.S.) that likes to think of “race” as an either/or thing (and usually just “black” and “white”). Hmmm.
Now there are a lot of ways I could have handled this growing up. Being the smart-ass that I am, I chose to make a game of it. I now know that it is a game that many other mixed folks have played, as well (probably since the dawn of racial categorization), but here I’d like to introduce it to those who have yet to play: The “What are You?” Game.
This game has its origins in the common way in which people across this country try to figure the race of ethnically-ambiguous “others” such as myself: by asking the oh-so-polite question, “What are you?” (*1)
As a kid, when I was first asked this (probably long before my first conscious memories), it was up to me to figure out the true meaning behind it; because (most of the time) the asker was fully aware of my species and gender, and they had no interest in my religion, position on the football team, or any other possible answer to this question other than my racial background. But why did they ask it like that?
Okay. For those of you non-ethnically-ambiguous folks out there, just try to imagine, for a moment, how you might start to react to this question when asked regularly over the course of your life:
You’re a child and – over and over – people come to you (adults, children, teachers, whomever) and ask you what you are, with no context clues suggesting that you are playing “let’s pretend.” It’s not Halloween. You’re not wearing an elaborate costume. No, they are honestly questioning your identity in a way that so thoroughly strips you of pride, humanity, and belonging – and doing so as if it’s just a matter of course, and fully acceptable to do.
They are not asking about who you are – your interests, what you do, the important people in your life. They are simply asking you what you are, and in such a self-entitled manner that turning you into a thing like that comes with the expectation that you’ll give them the answer they want without any negative reactions.
Imagine what that does to a kid’s sense of identity, their self-esteem. Imagine the message it sends them about their place in the world. It’s no wonder that the majority of mixed folks I have known have – at some point – considered themselves isolated and without community.
An ethnically-ambiguous kid (or adult) will never be able to avoid this question (or similar variants). It’s going to come at them throughout their lives, often at the most unexpected times. Most ambiguous people have to figure out how to deal with this on their own through trial and error – seldom does anybody else help them navigate this particular aspect of their lives. However, as an experienced player, I now believe that there are some general rules that apply any time we’re asked this question. Whether it’s at a club, at work, or while waiting for the bus, it pays to be prepared. And I’d like to do my part to help folks skip as much of the “trial and error” as possible by giving just a little bit of simple guidance. (*2)
So – for all those mixed and other ethnically-ambiguous folks (and/or parents of mixed kids) out there playing at home, I bring you:
The “What are You?” Game (U.S. Edition) Rules and Regulations
Minimum 2 players, no maximum.
Object: You.
Goal: Retain as much dignity as possible while dealing with racial ignorance.
Materials: All you need is yourself – an ethnically-ambiguous human being – and somebody else’s lack of respect.
GAME PLAY
Be born into this world. Interact with other human beings. Game-play should ensue shortly.
When to Play/Who to Play With: The “What are You?” Game can be played at any time, anywhere. It can be played with friends and family, but is best played with casual acquaintances and outright strangers. Any time another human being asks you the question “What are You?,” the Game has begun, and your humanity can be earned or lost. Again, it is important to stress that this can happen at any time, as ignorance has no concept of appropriate boundaries and/or timing.
GETTING STARTED
Game-play is commenced once another person (“the Asker”) asks you (“the Person”) “What are You?” It is then your turn.
POSSIBLE PLAYS
– “Just Deal” – this technique entails humoring the Asker and just giving them the response they are looking for (i.e. your racial/ethnic background); least time-consuming, but will cost you 5 Humanity Points (HPs), paid to the Asker
- “Go Off” – if you give in to anger and let your Asker know exactly what you think about their questioning, you have elected to “Go Off;” “Going Off” usually involves expletives, loud volume, and possibly aggressive physical movement; “Going Off” might feel better at the time, but it costs 8 HPs, paid to the Asker, as they leave the situation believing that you are “oversensitive,” “irrational,” or “dangerous,” possibly reinforcing their own racial and/or gender stereotypes
- “Play Dumb” – choosing to act like you don’t know what the Asker is getting at means you are “Playing Dumb;” “Playing Dumb” involves asking questions like “What do you mean?” or giving answers like “Pisces,” “a lawyer,” “the Queen of Dance,” or “a carbon-based life-form;” a “self-entertaining” tactic, “Playing Dumb” can leave you with 0 to 5 HPs, depending on the Asker’s reaction: a confused look allows you to break-even at 0, while having your Askers explain themselves and possibly understand the disrespect inherent in their question can earn you 5 HPs
- “Flip the Script”* – this tactic involves turning the question back on the Asker (similar to the “Playing Dumb” technique of asking questions); “Flipping the Script” involves a response of “What do you think I am?” which subsequently changes the power-dynamic, as your Asker will now feel uncomfortable, wanting to make the right “guess” without exposing the obvious ignorance that caused them to ask in the first place; also “self-entertaining,” “Flipping the Script” earns 2 HPs
– "Create-a-Play" – players are not limited to the above tactics; creating your own plays not only increases your problem-solving skills, but can also increase the richness of the overall game; "Create-a-Plays" are self-scoring – earning up to 5 HPs for plays that enhance self-dignity and/or cause the Asker to become aware of people outside of themselves; losing up to 5 HPs for plays that decrease self-pride and/or cause the Asker to feel "right"
*Game-Note: “Flipping the Script” can also lead to playing other Ethnically-Ambiguous-based games such as: The “What do You Think I Am?” Game (make note of all the different responses to the question you get, see if you can guess other people’s assumptions based on environment, other person’s background, etc.) and the “What Can I Convince Them I Am?” Game (try different body-language, outfits, etc. to see if you can elicit a specific, incorrect guess).* (*3)
CONTINUATION
New “Askers” or “Persons” can join in at any time. Game play continues indefinitely, “Persons” and “Askers” taking turns playing tactics or responding until physically separated or “understanding” occurs.
HOW TO WIN
Unfortunately, due to the unending nature of this game, there is no way to achieve a final, decisive “victory.” However, if you can keep your head up and realize that the other players are doing so out of ignorance, and that it has nothing to do with you personally, then you are a “winner.” Being however you feel best in the world – no matter other people’s ridiculous opinions and/or questions – also results in a “win.”
Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Contact an ethnically-ambiguous role model in your life, or e-mail the CVT at “choptensils AT gmail DOT com.”
© 4000 BCE Ethnically-Ambiguous, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
(*1) I have since learned that this question (and specific terminology) isn’t particular just to the U.S. I have been asked “What are you?” (in those words, directly translated from the asker’s native language) referring to my ethnic background in Malawi and China, as well.
(*2) I would also love for any readers to chime in with further rules and/or regulations that I may have missed.
(*3) These games can be dangerous, however, as they may be misconstrued as attempts at “passing,” which is often interpreted as a “self-hating” maneuver.
(*4) For the record, I’ve been thought to be all of the following (and probably more I don’t remember; most common to least): Hawaiian, Samoan, Native American, mixed-Asian, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Puerto Rican, East-Indian, Inuit, Maori, Persian, Tanzanian, mixed-African-American, Russian, Greek, Italian, Spanish, and a whole lot of “how should I know!!???”
(*5) Regarding the image – as far as I know, Vin Diesel neither endorses nor condemns this particular Game, but I bet he’s had to play it before.
(*6) Regarding formatting and no image . . . internet in China just plain sucks. Spent all this time making an image that doesn’t seem to want to post, and the formatting is screwed (I think) . . . this is really irritating.
There are so many versions of strong female role-models out there in the world – and I (as a man) am not the person to define any of them. That said, I think it’s about time I share a bit about the most direct influences on how and why I do what I do today: a couple of badass women that I was lucky enough to be descended from.
A few years before my grandmother died, I was visiting her at her apartment in Oakland Chinatown when I tried to make a play for her affection.
I told her, "Hey, Ah-bu, I’ve been thinking about learning Tai Chi."
The idea behind this was that my grandmother lived Tai Chi. (*1) She had been a practitioner for decades, she used to teach it, she knew some of the famous Chinese masters personally. So my thought was that learning Tai Chi myself would be a great way to really connect to her – and that she’d be really excited about that. I was conscious of her advanced age, so it seemed like it was now or never if I wanted to flatter her in this way.
So I laid it out there and eagerly watched her face to see her reaction.
Would she be moved, emotionally, or just excited for me?
Maybe both.
I waited . . .
She responded.
"Really? Why would you do that? Tai Chi is for old people."
And that, as they say, was that.
I suppose I was a little taken aback at the time, but that particular response shouldn’t have surprised me – because my grandma didn’t humor people. She spoke her truth when she felt it needed to be said. She walked it, always. And in doing so, she was a badass. Seriously. (*2)
I played football in high school, and my grandma loved that fact because, to her, it was an indication of my "toughness." More importantly, it provided her with a decent challenge: every time I came to visit, Ah-bu would greet me by standing in her horse-stance and telling me, "Try to push me over."
I’d hem and haw and try to get out of it, but she wouldn’t take "no" for an answer, and I’d have to go for it. I’d give her a little push, and she’d say, "No. Try to push me over." So I’d push a little bit harder. She wouldn’t budge, and she’d say again, "No. Try to push me over."
This would happen a few more times until I was thinking, "Fine. You want me to try to push you over? Well, be careful what you ask for," and I’d give her a two-handed shove not even slightly acceptable for a young man pushing an "old lady," and – needless to say – she never moved an inch. She was in her 80s at that point.
Into that "advanced" age, she also liked to travel. Wherever seemed interesting at the time. Totally on her own. No "tour groups" for her – she would just decide on some place she’d like to go see, figure it out, and go. With her less-than-perfect English, small stature, and "old age," she still had no fear in pursuing her interests independently. And she was so dynamic that, wherever she went, people just ended up wanting to get to know and share with her. (*3) There would be no quiet, slow, "retirement home" for her. She lived in her own apartment til the day she died (at 94).
But she was much more than just the spunky grandma that I remember from my youth. When I think about the era and place she grew up – early 20th century China – it blows my mind. .
Because, before she even came to the States from China (as the Communists took over), she was even fiercer (if that’s possible) than when I knew her. In a nation and era where women were seen to have only minimal value, she was no "submissive china-doll." No – instead, as a teacher, she saw the need for better schools (and, specifically, good schools for those in poverty) and chose to do something about it. In spite of being "just a woman" taking on a corrupt, man’s government, she subsequently drummed up support and funding (I’m sure she didn’t soften her words when she made her pitch) and founded two different schools in China. Both of them are still running today.
Had she been able to stay in China, I imagine she would have accomplished so much more. But my family had to flee (let’s just say my grandfather’s life was on the line), and my grandmother ended up in the States, trying to start all over.
I often think of her as a woman born outside of her place and time. If she grew up in the current China, I’m sure she would have been leading the charge towards the "Rise of the Dragon." I can’t imagine the amazing things she would have done if she had been born in the States, and/or was younger during the Civil Rights Era. I can easily imagine her standing opposite Yuri Kochiyama raising a fist with the Black Panthers.
But she lived when she did, and did so much with it.
And her strength definitely trickled down to my mother. During the 60s, when women were just getting a chance to fight for equal rights and adjusting the contemporary view of "femininity," my mom rode a motorcycle. (*4) A big one.
She was also a black-belt in Judo. She once told me how – when she was in her 20s – she was so happy to convince my dad’s girlfriend at the time to join her dojo . . . because then my mom got to throw her around and practice choke-holds on her. Because, you see, my mom thought the girl didn’t treat my dad right, and that seemed like a good way to handle those particular feelings. (*5)
My mom defined her own form of femininity, and she wasn’t about to "hold back" on account of the dominant culture’s messaging. Just like my grandmother, she found what interested her, and she pursued it – unafraid of societal judgments and definitely not looking for a man to "protect" her from anything. She would survive through her own strength, thank you very much.
Of course, she might have made that a little too clear: in the span of one decade, my mom had to have brain surgery after a brutal motorcycle accident; she was hospitalized after receiving hundreds of stings all over her body after swimming through a swarm of jellyfish; and she nearly drowned when her houseboat capsized in a typhoon in Deepwater Bay (HK).
But she powered through it all – getting back up stronger each time and never letting any of that keep her from doing what she wanted to do. (*6) And, in spite of all these "setbacks," my mother didn’t let fear keep her from going for what she wanted; if near-death wasn’t going to stop her, other people’s perspectives on what "she should be like" certainly weren’t going to, either. (*7)
Clearly, she wasn’t the stereotypical "ideal," quiet, submissive, Asian woman. Not at all. But, maybe, judging from my grandmother and all these other badass women I’ve met and observed here in China (as well as in the States), she is "just" another representative of real Chinese (and other Asian) women.
And when I look back at all this, it changes my insecurities about my parents’ relationship, as well. It makes me feel stupid and guilty for ever thinking (and even intimating) that it could have been based on any form of "ism." Because my dad loved my mom for her fire. For her guts and boldness. For her strength and independent nature. If he had been looking to fulfill some sort of "Asian fetish," he would have steered clear of my mom – because she would have had no problem kicking his ass when she caught on.
And it speaks to the kind of man my father was (and is, of course). He never had any insecurities about who would "wear the pants." (*8) He was masculine enough to happily marry and give his life to a badass, strong woman, with no desire to change any of that. (*9)
And maybe his mother had an influence on that one. In fact, I’m sure she did. My paternal grandmother had no patience for "frivolous" people and behavior, so she happily welcomed another powerful female into the family. This resulted in me being able to proudly claim the roots of my own fire: the strong, badass women on both sides of my bloodline. The males gave me a lot, as well – but I wouldn’t have the passion and fury I do (that which moves me to do what I do) without the coursing, hot blood of these women in my DNA. And that’s straight fact.
So here’s to the badass women of my family and the rest of the world. Wherever you go, you bring the heat. You don’t cater to the crowd or a media opinion, and you sure as Hell aren’t "submissive." In so many ways, you are inspirations and role-models for your own gender – but you also can teach we men (who are smart enough to pay attention) about real strength and power and how to use it. (*10)
I say it most sincerely: Thank You. And keep doing everything it is that you’re doing, because this world needs it.
You’re all so damn beautiful.
For more female-focused love, check this out: Girl Power
(*1) When I visited her on her literal death-bed, she couldn’t open her eyes or respond in any way, but her hands were carrying out Tai Chi movements all the while . . .
(*2) In this case, my mother’s mother. However, my Russian grandmother, on my dad’s side, was equally badass, in her way. Unfortunately, I never got a chance to know her too well, as she died when I was still a kid (which is why I don’t reference her as much in this post).
(*3) My favorite picture of her is of her standing in the bright sun somewhere in Central America, a massive, live iguana in her arms, and a big old smile on her face. She was around 82 at the time, I think.
(*4) My favorite picture of her has her clad in black leather, sunglasses on, on a big, badass motorcycle (not a Harley, but reminiscent thereof), in somebody’s living room. Apparently, it had had some problems, so that’s where she fixed it.
(*5) Obviously, I’m not the first in the family to have a bit of a violent streak.
(*6) Fortunately, she also learned from those experiences, so there were no repeats.
(*7) One of those pursuits was author – she wrote mystery novels based around a strong Chinese female detective. Sadly, that was one area where society was able to stop her dreams; "they" weren’t "ready for that kind of story."
(*8) Incidentally, I don’t really remember my mom wearing dresses or skirts too often, and she certainly was never anything other than gorgeous.
(*9) It still cracks me up when I visit my parents during football season, and I hear my mom watching a game on tv, screaming and yelling and cheering – while my dad avoids it by heading outside to care for his roses (he absolutely hates football). I often wonder if it’s these little bits of gender (and stereotype) role-reversals in my immediate family that have enabled me to see these types of things a bit differently in my own life.
(*10) Does this mean that a "stay-at-home" mom who doesn’t ride a motorcycle can’t be a "badass" woman? Hell no. My mom turned to attempted authorship around the time I was born because she wanted to be around to raise me and my brother – and I’d like to think she did a great job of it. It’s not the way of dressing, the literal muscle-strength, etc. that makes a woman "badass" – it’s just doing what you do without giving a sh– (one way or the other) for what "they" (of which I am included, of course) think about it.
(*11) The photo is actually Yuri Kochiyama, not my grandmother or mother . . . but she looks eerily similar, in this picture, to those I’ve seen of my grandmother when she was around the same age.
Seriously – I don’t know what the problem is . . .
CEOs warn against Armenia "genocide" bill
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