Why do Asians really get straight A's? Why do Asians really become doctors and lawyers? Many people believe that the reason has to do with the pressure to perform and the pressure to conform, however, it goes much deeper than that—much, much deeper! This tell-all, didactic novel reveals the truth about Asian culture, which will shock you to the marrow of your bones and open a hidden world of long-guarded secrets.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anson Chi, born and raised in New York City, is an author, retired engineer, ex-politician, former model, transgressor, and truthmonger. His novel (1st edition), Yellow on the Outside, Shame on the Inside: Asian Culture Revealed, has been well-received internationally. He currently lives wherever you want him to live. (What does that even mean?)
Yellow on the Outside,
Shame on the Inside:
Asian Culture Revealed
Anson Chi
Yellow on the Outside, Shame on the Inside: Asian Culture Revealed
2011 Edition - Published by Truthmonger Books
Copyright © 2008-2011 by Anson Chi. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Any part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, disseminated or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, uploading via the Internet, or by any information storage and retrieval system; in other words, share and spread this book like hotcakes! Knowledge is a right of the people.
United States Constitution - The First Amendment
"...no law...abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press..."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All parts of this book are done by Anson Chi.
Website: http://ansonchi.webng.com/
For questions or comments, please contact ronpauler@gmail.com
THANKS TO:
You, the reader
(Bands that kept me focused while writing, in no particular order)
Warsaw · Joy Division · New Order
The Stooges
The Velvet Underground
Belle & Sebastian
Interpol
The Verve · Richard Ashcroft
The Smiths · Steven Patrick Morrissey
The Cure
And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead
Many, many more...
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A NOTE TO THE READER
I don't usually like to write an introduction—any introduction, including a note to the reader—since we all want to get to the nitty-gritty, but suffices to say, this note is important or else I wouldn't have written it.
This didactic novel is based on Asian culture, specifically East Asian culture which includes the following subcultures: Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, Thai, Chinese, Filipino, etc. This novel is not based on the Asian culture of Russia, Tajikistan, India, or even Iraq—which are all countries in the continent of Asia. I must state this distinction of clarification so that there's no confusion in regards to the ethnicities and racial heritages mentioned in this novel.
Moreover, the philosophy of this novel targets Asians in general, not specific. When I say Asians overachieve to get straight A's, for instance, I'm not saying every Asian specifically—I'm saying Asians in general. I must state this distinction of clarification so that there's no “but there's the exception of...” since there are always exceptions to every rule.
Furthermore, the information in this book is not intended to offend; it is intended to change. Please finish reading this book before formulating any prejudices, in order to acquire the full grasp of my message.
All in all, this novel is based somewhat on my life but mostly on the lives of others, specifically the experiences, the austere upbringing of the characters, the opinions, the philosophies, the principles, the tenets, and the events—some of them true, even the characters, though I have disguised all their names. Of course, not everything is true because this is a novel after all, thus, you can't sue me; not that you would anyway.
So without further ado, please enjoy the journey from the gospels of a former Asian.
Outset
1
Doctor or lawyer—my only two options. These would be your only two options if you have Asian parents. You would think that you would be able to pick your own career, since you know, it is your own damn life. But not when you have Asian parents. So my only two options: doctor or lawyer. I wonder if my parents even know why I should become a doctor or a lawyer. Is it because doctors save lives and lawyers protect the innocent? I bet they didn't know that doctors these days are only trained in surgery and prescribing medicine and pretty much nothing else; doctors don't know anything about proven alternative medicine, homeopathic remedies, chiropractic therapy, acupuncture, yet they make all the big bucks. And they're treated like gods because they supposedly know it all, even though they haven't cured one disease since what—smallpox? As a matter of fact, heart disease, cancer, diabetes, even acne is on the rise and more prevalent than ever before! Shouldn't these reputable, knowledgeable doctors, with such advanced medical technology, know why there are so many new diseases? And why is there nothing being cured today, not the common cold, not even polio? Maybe it really is all about the money since doctors make big bucks on the sick and dying but not a penny once you're cured. Because once you're cured, you're no longer a customer—I mean patient; I guess the medical profession isn't all that benevolent or caring.
Perhaps I should consider becoming a lawyer; after all, it is my only other choice. I could go to law school and graduate magna cum laude, then my parents would be really proud of their only son. Besides, attorneys work really hard to protect the innocent—or do they? I read in the paper about how a group of lawyers filed motions against DNA testing for prison inmates sentenced before 1970, because many of them would have been found innocent, if they were indeed tested. And if they were found innocent, it would obviously be catastrophic for those insidious lawyers; money over morals, I suppose. Now, I'm not exactly Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama, but I'd like to be able to sleep at night knowing that I didn't put someone innocent in jail for the rest of his or her life. And besides, they do have lawyer jokes for a reason. My personal favorite: “What's the difference between a lawyer and a gigolo? A gigolo only screws one person at a time!”—hilarious!
So I guess my parents want me to become a doctor or a lawyer for completely different reasons, other than what's important, like saving lives or protecting the innocent from an unjust, inequitable system; reasons being money and status, which of course, lead to power. My parents really want my little sister Jordan and me to become doctors—or lawyers if we couldn't hack it in medical school—just so we can make lots of money and then they can brag to all of their friends. I really can't think of any other reasons, since third place on the totem pole of Asian career options is engineering, and there's nothing moral or ethical about being an engineer; only the paycheck matters, so in the end, it all boils down to money.
So since it's really all about money, I guess I might as well become a prostitute, because I'll make just as much as any lawyer, and both professions are just as equally immoral. Plus, I won't have to put up with going to class anymore and I'll save my parents so much money; it's a win-win situation for everyone. Too bad Asian guys have small you-know-what, down you-know-where, so prostitution is out of the question. Of course, I'm just joking about becoming a prostitute, but I really may not be joking if I don't get into medical school.
Between you and me, what I really aspire to be—ever since I was a wee laddie born and raised in Irvine, California—is a writer. I remember telling Mommy that I wanted to become a writer, inspired by scores of the greats: Chaucer, Hemingway, Joyce, Faulkner, Ellison, Orwell, Gaiman, among many, many others. But she gave me a look, with harsh, derisive eyes, and shouted, “Write? What you write? Bullshit? Stupid boy!”—that pretty much ended my never-got-up-and-running career as a writer.
Well, I guess I'm done with my diatribe. I tend to digress inexorably whenever I have to sit here at the library waiting for Jordan to get done with her studying and her research. I don't even know why she uses the UCI (University of California, Irvine) library, since she goes to Stanford University, for crying out loud. Jordan should stay at Stanford, even on the weekends and not have me take her around everywhere. Just because I wasn't smart enough to get into Stanford doesn't mean I have to be her personal chauffeur.
Instead, my little sister decides to come to my school and take up my time. And she constantly reminds me of how she got a full scholarship to attend Stanford—big deal! It's not like UCI is deplorable by any means—not that it's all that great either. Everyone knows that it's the school to settle for if you can't make it to any of the Ivy League schools. And you're always reminded of how you didn't make it, especially when you drive to UCI on Harvard Avenue, which passes Stanford, Oxford, and Columbia Court Apartments and runs through the prestigious streets: Cornell, Columbia, Berkeley, and last but not least, Yale Avenue. I guess they're telling us that UCI is just as good as any of the Ivy League schools. Somehow, I don't think street names and apartment courts are going to measure up to that standard. I would have gone anywhere else other than UCI, but I didn't have a choice in the matter since my parents are paying for my college tuition. My parents love the idea of me attending college here in Irvine because it means that I have to live at home, which means that they have absolute, tyrannical control over every little detail of my life—the dream of every Asian parent.
So Jordan goes to Stanford while I settle for UCI. She was always Mommy and Daddy's pride and joy, the wunderkind of our family. Mommy would always say to me, in her FOB—Fresh Off the Boat—broken English: “Johnson! Why you can't be more like Jordan? She very smart and always the best at everything.” Daddy would then add, in his much more FOB, broken English: “Johnson! We don't want just do your best. We want you be best. You first in family to go college. You need make us proud.” Asians here in America would call Asian foreigners FOBs because of their thick and heavy accent, as if they really just got off the boat from Asia. FOB is quite derogatory, needless to say.
Whenever my parents would scold and yell at me, I would drift off into reverie and think about Emilie Lee, the most beautiful girl who I've ever laid my eyes on. I've known her since middle school—okay, the truth is that I don't really know her, but I've been in almost every class with her. Let me tell you that she's absolutely stunning in every way: tall, thin, and statuesque. Her eyes are wide but nicely shaped and deep-set with a gleam of chestnut. And her hair—oh my god, her hair—like pure, fine silk matted in black velvet. I can't believe I sound just like a damn romance novel! And she has the most radiantly clear, lightly sun-tanned face that makes her ivory teeth shine so luminously. But it's her insatiably full, lush lips, turned down slightly at the corners, that speak her most resounding feature—well actually, her most resounding feature is her ass. And if you must know, most Asian girls have an ass that's flat like a brick wall with breasts to match. But Emilie totally defies the natural laws of Asian genetics by having abounding, voluptuous breasts and a captivating lower exterior. It's a good thing that she didn't make it to any of the Ivy League schools, or else I wouldn't have the absolute pleasure of staring at her in class. And it's also a good thing that she was forced with the proverbial two options of “doctor or lawyer”—just like me—so that we ended up taking the same pre-med biology classes for our final year here at UCI.
“Are you daydreaming again?” Jordan asks, sneaking up from behind in order to startle me on purpose. She loves to catch me daydreaming, especially when I'm sitting at a table near lots of people, so that I'm embarrassed as hell.
“No...just thinking,” I reply apathetically.
“Well, we've been here all morning. Have you gotten anything done?” Jordan asks, with a more patronizing tone this time.
“Time flies when you're thinking hard.”
“Whatever. We have to get back home. Mommy and Daddy are waiting for us.”
On our drive back home, I notice the natural—or rather contrived—scenery of Irvine. You'd be surprised at how untarnished and strictly parallel the roads are, with concrete walls along the sides of these roads holding factitious vines and descending sidewalks neatly paved with erect signs posting the words: No Parking At All Times. The City of Irvine doesn't like parked cars because they taint the perfect, suburban atmosphere. Even the trees are in on it, perfectly aligned as if they're bowling pins set in an array of rows. But you never notice these things, especially when they become a part of your everyday life—like the copious number of exact-styled homes with impeccably cut, green lawns, surrounded by spaciously rectangular gardens of every flower of every color. I just happen to notice these things this time around because I really don't want to talk to Jordan. Besides, she's humming this rather nettlesome tune while I'm driving. She always has a surreptitious way of annoying me even when she's not trying. I can't decide if Jordan is the greatest bane of my life or my greatest envy.
2
As I pull into the garage, Jordan hastily reaches into the backseat for her mountain of books. It's obvious that she plans to walk into the house to present herself as a studious, diligent daughter, while I walk in empty-handed like a forlorn beggar on a rainy day. We get inside, and I immediately notice a myriad of new MCAT preparation books on the living room table, obviously driving the point home even further that my future career is completely controlled by my despotic parents and not by me—thanks, Mommy and Daddy!
“Johnson. Why you have no books?” Mommy inquires, with a dour and inquisitive look. “You no study?”
“Jordan studied hard for the both of us. I'll just live with her when she becomes a rich, successful doctor.”
“Don't make jokes. I want you study hard. You need make us proud,” Mommy scolds with affirmation.
“Yes, Mommy...I'll study hard so I can be a good doctor,” I reply apathetically.
I quickly scurry to my room, before she fires a fusillade of other potshots. I can sum up why Mommy and Daddy are the way that they are with one, single word: culture. Mommy and Daddy are from the old country; and their parents grew up in the old country; and their parents grew up in the same, old country. All of them pretty much grew up with the same antiquated ideology of culture, a culture based on austerity. Therefore, my parents are very stern and stubborn in their ways, more so than normal parents, if there is such a thing as normal parents.
Mommy and Daddy both grew up in a destitute village and had to work very hard to come to America, or so they would say. Mommy and Daddy always lecture me on how they've sacrificed so much to come here to America, for opportunity and success. I wonder if they've ever considered coming to America for freedom, since it's the land of the free and the home of the brave. Then again, with all the dumbing down these days, America's become the land of the sheep and the home of the slaves. But I just find it rather interesting that they didn't come to America for the freedom of religion; or for the freedom of speech; or for the freedom of assembly; or for the freedom of anything. In fact, I've never met an Asian parent that's ever mentioned coming to America for freedom, liberty, or patriotism. I've only heard Asian parents mention opportunity and success—opportunity to make lots of money, their credence for success. It's quite obvious that they came to America just to make money, since in the end, it's always about the money.
Basically, the truth is that Asians would never move to America, if there were no opportunities to make lots of money. The sole purpose of their lives is to “follow the money.” This posit—a word in which no normal person would know unless he or she's been forced to suffer countless hours of after-school SAT classes—is the first of what I call my Asian Pride Theorems, starting with money, then status, and finally, power.
With just my three simple Asian Pride Theorems, I can reveal all the truths about Asian culture—whether it's Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Filipino, Thai, etc.—and all the reasons why Asians do the things that they do. First, Asians are obsessed with money and will do anything to get it. Second, money is conducive to the status that Asians seek, hence “doctor or lawyer.” Third and uppermost, Asians want power: the power to control, the power to influence, the power to persuade, the power from attention, the power over relationships—these “personal powers” do not seem like a big deal (since they're not exactly big powers like governmental or corporate power) but trust me when I say that they're everything to Asians. I know that it's hard to believe what I'm saying, that smart, straight-A, hardworking Asians can be so devious and diabolical. But just give me a chance with this backstage pass to my life and you can see everything for yourself.
Anyway, what's even worse is that my parents changed their religion from Buddhism to Christianity, just so that they could fit in with our church-obsessed neighbors—talk about selling out! Their explanation is that they're minorities and need to do whatever it takes to get ahead, including switching religions; regardless, I know they sold out.
Speaking of minorities, the majority of people here in California are actually comprised of minorities, not Caucasian. And as everyone knows, Native Americans were here first when they massively outnumbered early European settlers, so technically, Caucasians were minorities—even by virtue of blood. The vast majority of Caucasians in America have mixed blood: Jewish blood, Spanish blood, Native American blood, and even African blood. Also, don't you find it ironic that the word Asian is mixed into the word, Caucasian? Summarily, by virtue of blood, Caucasians are minorities just like the rest of us. But since there has to be a class of elites and a class of peons, I guess we'll have to be the minorities—even though Caucasians were here second just like the rest of us. And since we're the minorities, we've been emblematically segregated as Asian Americans, African Americans, and even Jewish Americans, but the strange thing is that I've never heard of Caucasian Americans. More importantly, why can't we all just be called Americans, since all of us are, after all, Americans?
My parents wouldn't care, though, since they only care about money, status, and power—big surprise! I remember last summer when my parents purchased a new BMW 550i, because the outdated BMW 3 series that we had was exactly that—outdated. They explained that we, as a family, needed to “keep up” with the rest of the residents in our neighborhood, in order to stay competitive. If that isn't a good enough reason to buy a 550i, I don't know what is—I love sarcasm.
So let's say that we really are competing with our neighbors and the rest of the residents in Irvine. Who set up the competition then? Who are all the contestants? Do they even know what they're competing for? Oh, that's right: status, the second of my Asian Pride Theorems. They're competing to see who is on top of the “suburban food chain.” Let's say, hypothetically, that my family's on top. Now what? Do we get a trophy? Do we get a lifetime supply of ass-kissing from other Irvine residents? We don't get crap. Actually, what we get—unbeknownst to my parents—is people talking behind our backs and people spreading gossip. I'm sure they're all saying, “Look at Johnson's family buying that BMW 550i, trying to show us up.”
I often wonder what would happen to all these pretentiously arrogant people here in Irvine, if—or actually when—the big earthquake comes; it can happen at anytime since all of California is on a goddamn fault line. Then their opulent homes, expensive cars, and every precious, material possession would be lost at a moment's whim; would they still be “on top” then? These pretentiously arrogant people are just like everyone else. They have to put on a pair of pants, one leg at a time, just like everyone else; they have to take the same nasty shit in the toilet, just like everyone else. The only difference is that they have an extra electronic digit in their bank account—whoop-de-do! I don't see why it's so special to be “on top.”
Also, I find it rather ironic that we had to buy our vainglorious BMW 550i from a dealer, so in essence, the dealer would be “on top”; but then the dealer had to get his line of BMW's from the person who owns all of BMW; then the person who owns all of BMW is required to pay taxes, fees, and other expenses to another person “on top.” So even if you go to the very top—say for example, the king—it's still not the top. How many kings have fallen throughout the history of human civilization? Last I checked, kings—and queens—of our current day and age, only have purely ceremonial roles and no governmental power. Britain's Prime Minister has more power than the Queen, same with Norway, even Thailand. I guess that means no one really is “on top.” It's all illusory perception that's completely—and ultimately—bullshit.
An unexpected knock comes at my door. I guess the parental unit is ready for another verbal onslaught. The door opens even before I can say “Come in”—so much for privacy.
“Johnson. You go to Palo Alto this weekend. Your Auntie miss you very much. You never visit,” Daddy commands firmly, with a noticeably condescending tone. I guess it's Daddy's turn to play “bad cop.” Then again, neither of my parents ever plays “good cop.”
“Why can't Jordan go? She goes to school up there and Auntie likes her better anyway.” Auntie really likes Jordan more—a hell of a lot more.
“Jordan see Auntie all the time. You need be good and go.”
“But I have plans this weekend!” I really don't have any plans, but sitting at home doing nothing is much better than having Asian relatives criticize you.
“You have new plan. Go see Auntie,” Daddy shoots back, giving me a serious, stone-cold look—that can't be good. I usually give up whenever he gives me that look.
“Yes, Daddy,” I confirm unwillingly. And then I consider inviting my best friend Gabriel, since best friends are supposed to suffer with you.
“Can I ask Gabriel to come since it'll be a long drive?” Gabriel and I grew up together here in Irvine. He has to deal with the same shit that I have to deal with, except he doesn't give a damn, or at least, he plays it off like he doesn't.
“Gabriel Aoki is bad,“ Daddy scolds, very harshly, “and very bad influence on you. You two always go play and never do homework. He never care about straight A. He just like you.” Here he goes again with the straight A's.
“Why are you always talking about straight A's? It's obvious that you only want Jordan and me to get straight A's so that you can brag to all your friends about how much better your kids are than theirs.”
“Not true! I care about you and Jordan future.” Yeah, right; I'm sure we've all heard this before.
“You only care about comparing us with all your friends' sons and daughters and bragging about who gets the best grades. I'm not stupid,” I say smugly, feeling pretty damn good for calling him out.
“You always talk back! Jordan never talks back. She very good...not like you.”
“Fine. I'll get straight A's...only if you learn how to drive. I swear, it's because of you that everyone thinks Asian people can't drive.”
I could tell that Daddy is a little hesitant on how to reply. He finally musters, “I drive very safe. Not crazy like Americans.”
“Sure, Daddy,” I reply sarcastically. “If you say so. It's funny how Asian people can solve complex math problems like differential calculus and get perfect SAT scores with our eyes closed, yet, we can't drive worth a damn.” I might as well have a little fun arguing, since there's no chance of me winning this one.
Daddy shakes his head, sighing with reproach. “I no want argue. You be good when you see Auntie...not like you bad now.”
A gust of wind blows right into my eyes as Daddy slams the door violently behind him; I know that door won't make it past my graduation with all this arguing. But arguments like this one are typical in my loving, caring family; they happen all the time and they never seem to end. I really wish I could live somewhere far away, perhaps Timbuktu, which is in Mali. I know this because I'm Asian; we're supposed to know everything. But if I know everything, then why don't I know much about my parents and their strict, bizarre behavior? Like how my parents don't sleep in the same bed even though they've been married for what seems like “Four score and seven years ago.” And it's not just me; it's the same with Gabriel's parents. My parents argue and fight to the point to where a divorce is imminent, however, can't divorce because of custom, and more importantly, “saving face” in the Asian community, as well as “saving face” back in their native country. Saving face refers to always maintaining a good image in spite of bad circumstances. So instead of divorce, the next best thing is to sleep in separate beds and in separate rooms, so that they can get eight hours of sleep alone—aka personal paradise—and re-energize themselves for the remaining sixteen hours together—aka hell.
I told Gabriel about my “separate bed, separate room” theorem a while back and he agreed indubitably. In fact, he reciprocated with a story about the strict, bizarre Asian behavior of child swapping. If a child of one Asian family performs poorly in school, then that family will swap its child with another child, typically from a relative. This can be thought of as a military school program, to strengthen and discipline both children into exceedingly exceptional students. With all this swapping, Asian parents should become swingers themselves—stupid joke, I know.
Because of these types of strict, bizarre behaviors, it's no wonder that there's a lack of affection in Asian families. Most people don't know this, but it's very uncommon for Asian parents to hug their kids; and it's extremely rare for Asian parents to kiss their kids.
I remember hanging out with Joe Romig, an old friend of mine, back in the eighth grade. I would always go to his house after school because his mom would make the most delicious grilled cheese sandwiches. Food is every boy's weakness—just ask any girl. I don't recall doing much at Joe's house, but the one thing that always caught my eye was his mom kissing him on both cheeks, then his forehead, then embracing him with a very tender hug. I got scared the first time Joe's mom hugged me; it felt awkward because I wasn't used to it. I was used to getting hit by my parents whenever I did something wrong. Hell, I even got hit for just thinking something wrong.
I almost start to cry whenever I reminisce. Most of my past memories involve my parents spanking me with an old feather duster. A feather duster is a thin, rigid stick made from yellow bamboo with endless brown and black chicken feathers sprouting from the middle to the top. Of course, it's supposed to be used for dusting dirt, but instead, it's used for dusting the asses of Asian kids—bad and good. You're not truly Asian until you've gotten your ass whipped with a feather duster; it's a very sick and disturbing rite of passage for Asian kids. I don't get spanked anymore, much to my regret, but I still see that damn feather duster up above the mantle of the fireplace in the living room. My parents like to keep it there as a constant reminder of how I need to fear and obey, kind of like Tamerlane with his pyramid of human skulls, built as a reminder for his enemies to fear and obey. My parents really are like Tamerlane. But at least I had it better than Gabriel. His parents spanked him with a damn ping-pong paddle! We all know that Asians are good at ping-pong so I guess his parents wanted to get in a little practice—maybe practice their spin technique on Gabriel's ass!
Just looking at that old feather duster reminds me of severe spankings: feathers flying off then falling very slowly, simultaneously with the tears from my eyes, every time I received a lick. Spanking was pretty much the only affection that I've ever received from my parents. Every time I got spanked, I would remember Joe's mom hugging me. I've never told my parents about Joe's mom hugging me. They wouldn't care anyway. Asian parents like to use the excuse that hugging and kissing would make their kids soft, like “those Americans”—aka “White Americans.” Asians typically view “those Americans” as lazy, spoiled, and stupid—funny how they only say this behind their backs. It's also funny how they say "those Americans," yet they themselves are Americans, even though they don't consider themselves to be. This goes to show that they didn't come to America for freedom, liberty, or patriotism but instead, just for the opportunity to make lots of money.
Anyway, my parents don't want Jordan and me to grow up weak, with all that hugging and kissing. But I don't think that it's weak for parents to show a little emotion and affection. In fact, I think it would actually help make things better. I think Asian families would be a lot more caring and nurturing and not so uncommunicative and distant. So instead of focusing so much on money, they should perhaps focus on compassion and love. After all, Asians can love money as much as they want, but money never loves back. Anyway, I don't think a hug is too much to ask; I really don't. I could honestly care less about a big house, a nice car or all the money in the world. All I really want from my parents is a hug.
3
I got up this morning feeling very fatigued and exhausted, because both of my parents woke me up at six o'clock, so that I would be ready to go visit Auntie up in Palo Alto. You would think that they'd cut me some slack and let me sleep in since it's Saturday but not when you have Asian parents. I've never been to boot camp, but I'm sure this is pretty close, the only difference being that I'm not required to wear camouflage and shoot innocent civilians. I could complain some more, but then I start thinking about my cousins over in Asia. I have it so much better than them. I remember staying at their house a few years ago, and they were getting up early for school, even during the summer! In fact, they had to wake up at five o'clock in the morning, just so that they could get ready for tutoring. After that was done, they had to get ready for more school at seven o'clock. Then after school let out at five o'clock in the afternoon, they still had to go to an after-school tutoring class! By the time it was over, they barely had an hour to eat dinner because of all the homework accumulated that day. I bitch and moan about how I have it bad, but I'm living in paradise compared to my cousins.
Now what really upset me about the whole situation with my cousins was that they accepted this lifestyle without any objection. They never complained, and they never said a word about their struggles to anyone. So before I left to fly back to America, I took the time to talk to them about their abject enslavement. I felt bad for them; I still do. I just had to know why they didn't stand up to their parents. Their answers were the same: “That's just how it is here. If you don't get good grades, then your parents won't love you.” I couldn't believe what I heard. How does getting good grades equate to love? Plenty of kids got bad grades and still grew up to become successful—Albert Einstein, for instance. I really got upset when I heard this from my cousins. And I felt such remorse for them as well. No wonder Asians grow up all screwed up, only caring about money, status, and power.
Now I know that it's not just with my family. It's pervasive with Asian families all over the world. So there's really no difference between an Asian parent in America and an Asian parent overseas. Asian children are basically sheep, raised and herded by their parents. And these prize-winning sheep become doctors or lawyers, aka cash cows for their parents—like an investment or retirement fund. Then when Asian parents grow old, their kids—or retirement fund I should say—end up paying for their retirement and taking care of their every need and desire. No wonder Asian parents want their kids to become doctors and lawyers—that's where all the money's at!
Anyway, I'm spending way too much time talking about sheep and cows, and besides, I need to hit the road asap, considering the fact that there's always traffic in LA—24/7, every day of the week. Many people may feel that the greatest mystery of all is the origin of the universe or life outside of Earth, but the real greatest mystery of all is traffic in LA; why is there traffic all the freaking time, even at two o'clock in the morning? A government agency needs to be set up to meticulously analyze traffic congestion, since our tax dollars are being wasted anyway, and it might as well go towards solving a problem that everyone agrees to fix.
All of the sudden, I realize that I'm really in no condition to drive, still sleepy and tired from having to wake up early; so off to the kitchen I go for some delicious, organic coffee—at least there's one good thing about being in this house.
As I start to make a fresh pot, I notice a myriad of calendars on the wall by the refrigerator. My parents would always leave six years worth of calendars, plus the current year. The reason is because the number '6' represents good luck in Asian culture. One thing about Asian parents is that they are completely obsessed with good luck. There's even a book published each year, forecasting the good luck days to get married and the bad luck days not to get married.
At Asian weddings, there's always a tea pouring ceremony in which pouring tea for your relatives is required in exchange for money and gold—talk about using an excuse to get money! Speaking of excuses to get money, the Chinese have an egregiously blatant way of doing it. If you are invited to a wedding, you are required to pay a fee at the reception and if you don't go, you have to pay a portion of that obligatory fee—no exceptions or you'll lose face! No wonder China leads the world in paper production—invitations get sent out like hotcakes! And when you give money at a wedding, it has to be an even number or else it's considered bad luck. Now get this: Asians are also required to give money at a funeral—an odd number or else it's bad luck! As if giving required money isn't enough, Asians are even picky about the parity! I can go on all day about Asian superstition, but I really have to get going. I haven't even started packing yet.
Since it's an Asian custom to always dress to impress, especially with my relatives, I start by reaching for my Louis Vuitton suitcase from the top shelf of my closet and setting it on top of my bed. Then I put in a few Banana Republic stretch polos, with matching boot-cut indigo jeans and some Hugo Boss dress shirts with dress pants. I even throw in some designer Dolce & Gabbana boxers and John Bartlett socks to make my traveling wardrobe entirely pretentious. Now dressing up nice and genteel is not uniquely an Asian culture custom by any means, but wearing expensive, designer apparel to every event is. Asian people always get dressed up—even to a barbecue!
I remember seeing this one girl at Gabriel's barbecue, all dressed up in Gucci from head to toe. Normally, guys can't tell one designer from another, but I knew she had on all Gucci because everything she wore had a damn 'G' logo: her sunglasses, purse, even her earrings. Asian people love to show off logos; I'm sure designers are having a field day with all that free advertising. I know I sound like a hypocrite because I wear all this designer stuff—and unfortunately, I am. I'm still trying hard to break away from the ethnocentricity of Asian culture. And it's really hard to break away, especially when you just want to do the right things to please your parents. The problem is that my parents' idea of the “right things“ may not actually be the “right things.”
Anyway, my parents bought all this designer stuff for me because they were sick of me wearing my nasty-ass t-shirts and jeans with holes the size of cannonballs. Plus, they love the power to control me—my third Asian Pride Theorem. They also said dressing up will help me get a good job in the future; I hope they don't really believe their own crap.
Now that I finish packing, I just say a simple “Goodbye” to my parents, because remember, Asian families don't hug or kiss. Mommy and Daddy hand me some things to give to Auntie and also the keys to the BMW 550i—I wonder why? Nothing better than to show how well off you are, especially to your relatives, than by pulling up in a BMW and wearing all Hugo Boss, carrying a Louis Vuitton suitcase.
I pull up to Gabriel's house, only a few blocks down the street, since he can't be seen walking to my house in ostentatious Irvine—this shit just never ends. I honk the horn to let him know that I'm outside. I never did like to go inside Gabriel's house. There's always this smell—not malodorous or frowzy, but very distinct and somewhat discomforting. It's not just with Gabriel's house. Most Asian homes have a poignant smell; it really is an Asian thing. I don't know if it's all that damn stir-fry or incense, but the smell lingers forever. I told him about it but he says he doesn't smell anything. I guess he's so immune to it since he stays home all the time.
I also don't want to go inside because Gabriel's parents are relentless with their interrogation. They have this condescending way of conversing with people, especially with me. They usually start off by patronizingly asking, “Johnson. Are you doing well in school?”—which means: “Are you maintaining a 4.0 or are you failing?”
They would then ask, “Do you plan to go to medical school after you graduate?”—which really means: “Do you plan to sit around doing nothing all day if you don't go to medical school?”
Finally, they would say, “Jordan is so smart to get into Stanford. We know she'll do well after she graduates,” which ultimately means: “Jordan is better than you and you're a loser compared to her.” It's no wonder that my parents and Gabriel's parents are such good friends—four peas in the same, damn Asian pod.
Gabriel rushes out the front door, as if a mob is chasing him with torches and pitchforks. I notice that he's only carrying a small backpack. That's the thing with Gabriel; he always packs light wherever he goes. He says that Japanese people like to keep things simple and compact. I think he's just pretty damn lazy.
As Gabriel opens my car door, he throws a bag of weed into my lap—my angel from heaven!
“By the way, thanks for coming. I really didn't know if you had a purpose in life, but now I know it's to ride shotgun, so that we can get into the HOV,” I say jokingly, just to annoy him like a true best friend.
“Sure, no problem. But I thought my purpose in life was to satisfy your mom,” Gabriel replies, a supercilious smile on his face. He's always been good with comebacks.
“Yeah, that's really original.” I've always been awful with comebacks.
“Nothing original about satisfying your mom. Everyone's doing it.” See what I mean? Gabriel's a natural.
“Okay, okay. You win. Let's get going or else we'll get stuck in traffic.”
The drive from Irvine to Palo Alto is about six hours. I usually take the 101 freeway, but I'll take the 5 interstate this time, since I'm not too anxious to get to Auntie's place. Besides, Gabriel and I are toking up so I shouldn't be driving fast. Orange County cops—I mean pigs—love to pull you over for the smallest offense, even for driving one mile under the speed limit; that's when they get you for the big crimes like DUI.
Gabriel got sent to jail once for a DUI, because the arresting female officer smelled pot on him, even though he wasn't smoking anything; Gabriel just happened to be wearing a dirty shirt, possibly stained with pot residue. It was only his first offense, but they still held him in prison for a week! I didn't have enough money to bail him out since the court purposely brought his charges up to a felony status, and his bail jumped up to the cost of a new BMW. Plus, he didn't want his parents to know so he stuck it out for a week in the OC concentration camp. Gabriel gave his parents the excuse that he decided to go upstate for a week in order to check out some medical school programs—pure genius. Gabriel's true talent is knowing how to bullshit.
Anyway, to get released, Gabriel gladly agreed to the plea bargain of a misdemeanor conviction, accompanied with informal probation, but they still wouldn't let him out of jail! They kept him there the whole night, even after he signed the plea bargain! He told me that the reason they keep you there is because they don't want “convicts” and “hoodlums” walking the streets of Irvine. Instead, they let you out late at night, at a godforsaken hour, in the middle of nowhere, so that no one can see you when you leave. Remember how I told you that people don't walk in ostentatious Irvine? That's because they'll probably think that you just got out of jail! Irvine is trying so desperately to keep their little suburban utopia intact that they'll do anything, like violate your constitutional rights. That's why Gabriel's so anal retentive about my driving, even though I'm a damn good driver, unlike most Asians. He's always checking things to make sure we don't get pulled over: the seat belts, the side mirrors, and right now, the passenger-side airbag. (By the way, Gabriel says that smoking pot in the car is totally okay, since he believes that the medicinal properties of marijuana actually help ease and relieve the stresses of driving—that sounds good enough to me so let's toke up!)
Gabriel analyzes the passenger-side airbag with obsessive-compulsive hands, as if he's an inspection agent. “Why is the airbag on my side so small? It's like the size of a Game Boy,” Gabriel asks. He's the type of person that demands an answer to all of his stupid questions.
“It's the new superficial airbag, which protects the most important part: the face,” I retort, like a smart ass. “As long as the face is protected, 'cause the body doesn't really matter. We all know how important faces are here in LA.” If he likes stupid questions, then I'll give him stupid answers.
Gabriel turns his head and gives me a smile. “You're actually funny for once, Johnson.”
I smile back. It's always fun driving with Gabriel. I still remember the time when we first met. It was all the way back in elementary school. His parents moved here from Japan to start a furniture business, and he didn't speak much English when he got here. Actually, he didn't speak any English at all, now that I think about it. I had to show him around school and take him everywhere. I actually didn't like him at first because he was a FOB, seriously fresh off the boat. But we got along and we ended up hanging out a lot. I would always go over to his house to play Nintendo. Back then, the Japanese had the newest games to hit the market. So Gabriel made a lot of new friends in no time, because of that Nintendo. He was funny as a kid, too, and even made fun of himself for being a foreigner. That's the thing about Gabriel; he's always up for a laugh.
But I hate it whenever he makes fun of me for not being able to speak my native language, since I was born here in California. I keep telling him that the reason I can't speak my native language is because my parents never taught it to me. And the reason that they never taught it to me is because they're afraid that if I had any hint of a foreign accent, then I wouldn't be able to get a good job. He says that's stupid and I totally agree with him. In fact, most Asians born in America can't speak their native language, because their parents are so scared of an accent ruining their chances of becoming a doctor or lawyer. And you already know why Asian parents want their kids to become doctors and lawyers. Asian parents are even willing to sell out their own culture and relegate their native language, all in the name of money.
“Dude. How come you never look at your side mirror whenever you're driving?” Gabriel suddenly remarks, as I start to change lanes without checking my mirror. He's still in inspection agent mode.
I decide on another smart-ass thing to say to him. “Side mirrors are overrated. It's all hype.” I think that's smart-ass enough—at least stupid enough.
Gabriel gives me a bizarre smirk. “Overrated? It's a safety device, you idiot.” I can tell Gabriel is a little annoyed.
“Nah, side mirrors really are overrated,” I say to him, continuing to smile. “Don't worry about it.”
“I'm not worried about it. I'm just slightly concerned.” We both laugh. Then Gabriel slaps my right arm and says, “You know, Johnson, I was thinking about how you're the one that's overrated. But then I realized that in order to be overrated, you actually have to be rated first, which you're not, not even a tiny blip on the radar.”
“I know you're a huge blip on the gay-dar,” I rebut, hoping that he would stop his nonsense.
“I take it back about you being funny.” Gabriel slouches in the passenger seat and looks out the window.
I want to annoy him some more, since that's what a best friend's for. “Hey, man. Why don't you ever shave? You always have that nasty, thick beard. I don't want people to think I'm hanging out with a homeless person.” That should annoy him for sure.
“I'd worry more about the way you look, Johnson. You always have that short, spiky, one-dimensional, Bed Head haircut, just like every damn Asian guy.” He's right; I do have that “short, spiky, one-dimensional, Bed Head haircut, just like every damn Asian guy.”
“My mom pays for my haircuts, so I can't really grow it out,” I say, hesitantly.
“Mommy this and Mommy that, “ Gabriel responds cynically. “You have to break out of that typical Asian guy mold. Grow your hair out, stop wearing that Abercrombie and Banana Republic crap, and maybe go to a regular restaurant instead of those in Chinatown or Koreatown.”
He's right again, especially about the last part. I do admit that I'm always eating at a Chinese restaurant; or eating at a Korean restaurant; or eating at a Japanese restaurant. That's the thing about Asian restaurants. They all congregate together to form a Chinatown, Koreatown, or a Japantown. And it's interesting that I've never heard of an Iraqtown or an Australiatown or any other 'town' for that matter. The reason is because Asian people are fearfully insecure; they don't think they can get any business unless it has an Asian theme like Chinatown, Koreatown, or Japantown. They can't be unique so they have to share the same archetypal and cultural theme for their stores. They figure that they can make big money huddled up in a theme town—aka Asiatown—versus being unique and different by going independent. Why be a pauper fish in a big pond when you can be a king fish in a small pond? It's always about the money.
“What's wrong with being Asian?” I ask Gabriel, musingly.
“There's nothing wrong with being Asian,” Gabriel replies adamantly. “There is, however, such a thing as being too Asian. You live here in America, bro. A multicultural country. Living with just Asian culture is too one-dimensional, like your damn hair. ” He's actually right about “being too Asian.” I really do need to change but that's easier said than done. Gabriel's also right about how “there's nothing wrong with being Asian.” There's also nothing wrong with practicing Asian customs, as well as appreciating Asian culture. But the problem with Asians is that they don't wish to appreciate other cultures; they have an ethnocentric view that Asian culture is better than every other culture (Ethnocentricity is another reason why Asians congregate together in Asiatowns.) I see so many Asians with “Asian Pride” stickers on their vehicles and “Asian Power” tattoos on their bodies. They think that they are better, but in fact, they're not. No culture is better than any other culture, just as no person is better than any other person. Perhaps Asians forgot to read the Declaration of Independence, which states: “all men are created equal.” I guess they didn't bother to read it since they only came to America for the opportunity to make lots of money, not for freedom or equality.
In New York City, for instance, many Chinese people live in Chinatown and stay there for the majority of their lives, without even stepping outside once. They may say that the reason they only stay in Chinatown is because they don't speak English well enough to leave, but there are many non-profit organizations and schools that teach English for free, even at the student's residence for convenience. The truth is that many Chinese people don't want to learn English, because they don't want to assimilate. In other words, they think that their culture is the best—ethnocentricity—and that other cultures are inferior, particularly American culture. So why do they live in America then? Remember what I said about how Asians move to America, not for freedom, liberty, or patriotism? It's always about the money.
As Gabriel mentioned, America is a multicultural country, a country full of different cultures, with the appreciation of different cultures. Asians can learn a lot just by appreciating and understanding other cultures, instead of keeping their false ethnocentric view that Asian culture is the best.
“Gabriel. I'll grow out my hair if you shave your nasty beard,” I say to him, proceeding to make a deal. I know he'll be more than happy to oblige.
“You got it, Johnson. Anything to help your social life.”
Now that's something I really need help with. It's embarrassing to tell you this, but I've never had a girlfriend. Well, not a real girlfriend anyway. I've been out with girls and made out with a few but never anything long term. There's no way to have a girlfriend with all this pressure from my parents. Plus, Asian parents are very strict when it comes to dating. They don't want us doing it, until at least we graduate from high school. Some don't even want their kids to date until after college! Anyway, I won't have time for a girlfriend after I graduate from UCI because I'll be going to medical school right after that. And medical school will be even much more stressful so I'll have no time to do anything else but study. It's funny that the road to a successful career means death to your social life. Maybe I should just get neutered like our German Shepherd since he never has anything to worry about, except fetching the paper and taking a walk in the park, which reminds me of something that I've been waiting to tell you.
I was walking my dog a week or so ago in the park right by my old high school. I noticed a new, chrome-plated drinking fountain installed near the entrance of the gazebo. As I walked towards it, I could see three separate spouts: one at the top for adults, one in the middle for kids, and to my amazement, one at the very bottom for dogs! There was even a cute, little push pedal so that you wouldn't have to bend down and strain yourself laboriously since, heaven forbid, Irvine residents can't be caught looking like a day-laborer. Isn't this just unbelievable? Dogs even get their own drinking fountains. I wonder what people in third world countries would say about this. Right as I was about to leave the park, a snarly, hefty Golden Retriever ran past me without a leash—or even an owner. I noticed a copious number of dog tags around the neck so I knew it wasn't a stray. Then a car drove past me, with a young woman sticking her right arm outside the passenger window, waving a cane back and forth briskly. I thought it was strange that the car and the dog were both parallel, side by side, going down the street. I then realized that the woman was walking her dog in her car! Oh, for crying out loud! Has it really come to this? Irvine residents can't even walk their dogs by feet now; they have to do it by car! Isn't this just unbelievable?
All of the sudden, the low fuel indicator light comes on as I'm driving, so I start looking for a gas station. I didn't fill up before the trip since I'm really in no hurry to get to Palo Alto; I'm really not. I'm going to take my sweet-ass time since I know Auntie's preparing to unload non-stop criticism about me all weekend long! Sometimes, I wish I didn't have Asian relatives; sometimes, I wish I wasn't Asian.
4
I've been driving for several miles without seeing a single gas station, as the scenic route starts to become a little too scenic, with all the expansive farms and endless acres of apple orchards.
I take the nearest exit, in order to find something—anything. I end up finding a gas station at the end of a narrow, dirt road. It's so shabby and derelict to the point that it almost fools me into thinking that it really is abandoned. Nonetheless, with the limited—or rather only—choice at hand, I pull into the gas station. Now I'm not trying to be a prude or anything but this gas station is really run-down; I mean really run-down. There's only one pump in the entire gas station, for crying out loud! And this one pump doesn't take credit cards so I'm going to have to go inside to pay with cash. Gabriel and I both need to take a bathroom break anyway and a little rest will do us some good.
As we enter the store of the gas station, we can't help but notice along the walls are rows of mounted deer, bear, and fox heads, as well as a multifarious assortment of smaller, taxidermic animals. For a moment, we're thinking that we're inside a hunting lodge. But then we remember that we are Asian and Asian people don't do hunting lodges. We continue our way to the bathroom. After we're done, we walk to the front to pick up some potato chips, beef jerky, a couple of organic green teas—much to our surprise that a run-down, derelict gas station would offer such an esoteric flavor—a Sports Illustrated, and a Maxim for our sexual—I mean literary—perusal.
Gabriel is busy perusing the other magazines so I go up to the register to pay for our stuff. The cashier, himself, is just as run-down and derelict as the gas station. He's wearing a dark-blue, mechanics jumpsuit, heavily stained with motor oil and a multitude of other greasy crap. His stitch-labeled name tag reads Bob and I think to myself, He forgot to put Billy in front of it. He really does look like a Billy Bob with his dark tobacco-stained teeth, crooked thick-rimmed glasses and a beat-up, red Marlboro cap with a Vietnam Vet button. You can tell that this guy thinks incest is best.
I'm nice to everyone, as far as first introductions go, so I say “Hello” to the guy, and he just looks at me with his strange, beady eyes, not saying a word. For a second there, I think that he may be deaf, but he finally murmurs back with “Hello” as well. Then he asks, “Isn't there some rice you should be picking?” So there are rednecks in California after all!
I look straight at him, unaffected with poise. “Isn't there some cousin you should be banging?”
Billy Bob starts laughing, as if we're old chums sharing dirty jokes from high school. I guess he doesn't realize that he just got owned.
“See here, Chinaman. I'm just yanking yer chain.”
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