by Rhodeza Salisi

 

            Growing up as a Filipino-American, my ethnic identity and its associated stereotypes were never really brought to my attention, but as soon as I hit the ripe old age of thirteen, everything changed.  It was as if someone had examined me and stuck a big sign on me that read, “ASIAN.”  Everything in my life revolved around that one piece of information.

 

 

At school…

Freshman Year:

            I was walking past the gym when I was suddenly stopped by a random guy. “Hey, you’re Asian, right?”  Could this guy not see the straight black hair and small brown eyes?  Instead of pointing out the obvious and walking away, I slowly nodded my head.  Where was he going with this?  “Could you teach me some karate moves?  I was watching this movie with Jackie Chan in it, and it looked hella tight!”

            Didn’t the fact that I was one of those nerdy-looking, socially-awkward Asians whose only physical activity was to walk the tortuously long stairs at school to get to class (my legs burn just thinking about it), tip him off?  What the heck was I supposed to say to that?  “Of course I could teach you some moves, I do karate with Jackie Chan all the time!  First, let’s start off with the Crouching Tiger, and then move on to Squatting Monkey.  Hold out your hands with your palms facing up, put your left foot forward…”

 

Sophomore Year:

            It was April, which meant STAR testing.  When the last of the instructions were read, I checked over my name, barcode, school, blah blah blah to see if it was correct.  When I reached the race/ethnicity section, I suddenly found myself in a predicament.  Not instructed to fill out this section the year before, I was instantly stumped by the deceptively short yet sinister question: What ethnicity are you? (Please mark ONE only).  Looking at the seemingly organized list that grouped similar ethnicities together, I singled out my choices: Asian or Pacific Islander?

            Beads of sweat rolled down my temple as my mind agonized over the situation.  The teacher called out, “One more minute,” and I panicked.  My pencil tapped out an agitated rhythm on my desk as precious seconds slowly ticked by and thoughts raced through my head.  The Philippines is in the Pacific Ocean, but it’s also part of Asia.  Was there honestly a difference between the two?  Would I be in trouble if I marked the wrong thing?  Do the test people really check up on you?  Unable to reach a decision, I considered rebelling against the instructions by marking TWO bubbles, or making up my ethnicity by marking something completely random. 

Deciding that marking two bubbles would be too glaringly obvious, I went with my latter idea and pondered my choices.  White?  Black? Native American?  Other?  If I decided to mark other, the number of answers I could put in the blank would be infinite.  Yellow?  Rainbow? Rice?  Undecided?  My eyes scanned the list again and my cheeks turned red as they rested on the last choice: Filipino.  Oh.  Who put that there?!

 

Junior Year:

            I survived another eight hours of boredom in the hell known as school, and then went home.  I headed toward my room, but before I’d even taken a step, I spotted my mom in the hallway.

            “Rhodeza, come to my room.”  Uh oh.  This couldn’t be good.  My mom never asked me to come into her room unless she wanted to give me something or I was in some kind of trouble.  She closed the door, handed me my report card from her dresser, then jumped straight to her point.  “Why don’t I see an A there?”  Before I could answer, she went on.  She was on a roll.  “How did you get this B?  It’s probably because you don’t study enough.  You never going to be good doctor now.  How you get in college with these grades?  They no good!  Ay, ginoo ko!  Dili ko katoo.  Nganong nahitabo man ni?  Sus kadakong dimalas.  Unsa na man ang atong buhaton karon.  Naa ba koy sayop, maong nahitabo ni?  Basin sayop ni, ang maestro maoy nasayop.  Dili ko makatoo nga makakuha siya ug B.  Walay college modawat ug B ang grado…”  Translation: This is not good.

Whenever my mom went on a rant, it was like butter dissolving in a hot pan.  First, her rant would start off solid, then it would start breaking down as she cut out words, and finally it would completely melt and spread out into something else as she switched to Cebuana and her rant increased in volume.  I looked over my report card.  A, B, A, A, A, A.  With these kinds of grades, you’d think any parent would be happy.  But not when you have an Asian parent.

As a wise fellow Asian once put it, “When you’re not Asian, A means awesome, B means great, C means you’re slipping a little bit, D means you’re not doing too good, and F means you just fail.  But when you’re Asian, it’s a lot different.  A stands for average, B stands for bad because all the other Asians are making A’s, and C stands for crap because you’re doing terrible and your parents will probably lecture or yell at you.  D stands for death because your parents are probably going to kill you or abandon you, and then F stands for fuck because your parents will probably try to abandon you or send you to boarding school.  Terrible things happen.”

 

Senior Year:

            By now, I still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that my identity hinged on my being Asian, so someone up there (God or Buddha, take your pick) decided it was time for me to face the music.

            Everywhere I turned there were random little reminders of my Asian-ness.  I’d sign up for classes and immediately spot the class “Asian Literature.”  I’d walk down the hall, see several Asians purposely cross my path, then disappear into the crowds.  I’d stare at a wall, only to find a poster advertising “Asian Graduation.”  Why couldn’t whoever it was up there conspire against someone else?

            Not only was I up against Him, but everyone else at school was in on it too.  If I brought rice for lunch, I’d immediately get the remark, “Man, you’re so Asian!”  Without thinking about it, I’d always end my notes with emoticons such as [O_o], [^x_^x], or [^_^] only to get a reply with the endnote, “What’s with the faces?  That’s so Asian.”  I accidentally walked into the Christian Club, only to realize that everyone was Asian.  Was there no one who wasn’t out to get me?!

 

 

At home…

            If someone asked me to summarize my problems at home, I’d give them two words: my mom.  I don’t mean to imply that she’s a horrible mother in any way, in fact she’s great.  I just meant that if you were to look up the definition of the perfect Asian mother, you’d probably see her picture there.  The black hair in an impossibly tight bun, the stern eyes, and one hand outstretched with her pointer finger sticking out, giving off a reprimanding aura.

 

Relaxation:

            I threw down my pencil and sighed in relief as I finally finished my homework.  Bending my fingers a couple of times to relieve the cramps, I got up and shoved the stacks of physics and calculus homework into my backpack.  I’m glad that’s over with.  I can’t believe I let mom talk me into taking these classes!  I frowned as I remembered the futility of my arguments…

            “You better sign up for these AP classes, or else I’ll ground you!”  Flames leapt up in her eyes as she continued, her speech becoming more and more incoherent.  “You never grab opportunities that come, you just sit there be lazy all the time.  When you grow up, you be like homeless on street!” She lost me as she started yelling in Cebuana.

            I shook off the memory, and flopped onto my couch.  I felt I deserved a break.  Besides, it was Friday.  I reached for the remote, flipped on the T.V., and engrossed myself in the drama of “Survivor.”  Just as they were about to reveal who the next person voted out of the tribe was, the T.V. went black, and I turned around to see who dared make me miss such an important moment. 

            It was my mom.  “You finished with your homework?”  Then she gave me “The Look.”  I instantly turned meek and nodded in the affirmative.  “The Look” meant she was in no mood to be argued with, and that irritating her now was asking for a punishment worse than death.  “Don’t waste your time doing nothing, go be productive.  Aren’t you always saying how hard your classes are?  Now go study.”

            With my head down, I walked past her with thudding footsteps, mumbling under my breath so that she wouldn’t hear me.  “Man, I never get to do anything!”

           

Going out:

            To say that my mom is overprotective would be an understatement   I’ve heard so many excuses from her about what could happen to me if I went out, that whenever I am allowed to go out, I spend the whole time just expecting something to happen.  My mom has a list of all possible disasters inside her head.  She always gives me a number of reasons as to why I can’t go anywhere.  I could ask her if I could walk to a store across the street, and she’d give me reasons why I couldn’t like: You don’t need to buy that, it’s not good for you.  Didn’t you see the news report about the serial rapist on the loose?  You might get kidnapped.  Someone could rob you.  You could get hit by a car.  What if a mad dog escaped from that pet store down the street and bit you?!

            I recently asked my mom if I could go hang out at a friend’s house, and I was immediately asked a flood of questions.  “Who is this friend?  Is it a boy or a girl?  Where do they live?  Will their parents be there?  Who will you go with?  What are you going to do there?  What does your friend look like?  What kind of grades do they get?  What do their parents do?  Will they have food?  Do they eat rice?  Are they clean?  What color is their house?  What do they drive?  Do they know what two plus two is….?”

            Believe it or not, this is her after she has mellowed out.  Before, she was so paranoid that I wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to let me go to a boy’s birthday party when I was six, just because he had a contagious disease called “Cooties.”

 

*          *          *

 

            By now, I have totally gotten used to people telling me, “You’re so Asian.”  A couple of weeks ago, after patiently suffering through another interrogation, my mom grudgingly let me hang out with some friends.  We hit up Chinatown, and had fun as we browsed through all the cute shops, cautiously making our way through the crowded streets.  Trying to spot me in the crowd would’ve been like playing a game of “Where’s Waldo?”  Easy, right?

            After a few hours, we decided to stop for lunch, and my friend brought us to this quaint noodle/sandwich shop.  We all ordered noodle bowls, and when our orders came, the waitress served us quickly and left.  Ready to eat, I looked around for a fork and spoon, only to come up empty.  Then I spotted them.  Long brown sticks of evilness.  They were the bane of my existence. 

            I didn’t want to publicly embarrass myself, so I unobtrusively picked up the large serving spoon, and started eating my noodles.  A minute later, one of my friends turned to me and said, “Deza, why aren’t you using your chopsticks?” 

            “It’s fine,” I answered, “I just don’t feel like it.”  Then I muttered under my breath, “And because I don’t know how.”

            Unfortunately, my other friend who was sitting right next to me overheard and yelled out, “Oh my God, you don’t know how to use chopsticks?!”  Sliding into my seat, I shook my head no.  My friends then proceeded to teach me how to use chopsticks, but after several pitiful attempts, they gave up.

            “Jeez Deza!  Are you Asian or not?!”