Me, a Role Model?

When I think about what my future kids might be like - in terms of their racial identity - if I were to marry a white woman, I often think back to a student of mine:

Three years ago, this student joined my school as a 6th grader, we'll call him "S." From appearances alone, he seemed white - light skin, blue-grey eyes, general "white" features. He hung out with all white kids, and he identified as white when it came up (which was seldom, because it seemed so obvious). However, I was surprised to learn that he was a quarter Japanese when he mentioned that his mother was half-Japanese during a conversation when students were talking about my racial/ethnic background.

S. and I established a pretty good relationship over the year, one of mutual respect (as far as that goes in middle school), and he seemed to trust me. So, one day, he comes up to me at the beginning of the school day to ask me what a word meant. I didn't understand when he said it, but it was clearly a vaguely Asian-sounding word, so I asked him where he had heard it. He said, "some gook said it to me on my way to school."

I had a little record-scratch moment, and I said, "Do you know what you just said?" And I saw this look of confusion on his face, as he realized that I wasn't so happy about it. But he didn't understand - he thought I was referring to the "Chinese" word he had asked me to translate. And so I found myself explaining to a quarter-Asian kid why he shouldn't refer to other Asian folks as "gooks."

And I thought to myself: that's how disconnected from his Asian identity this kid is. And that is how it would be for my kid. I thought this story would end there.

But it didn't. It's three years later now. S. still goes to my school, but he's an 8th grader now, about to head on to high school. We've know each other for three years, and I have watched him grow, and we have established a really positive relationship (he recently said he's going to be a math teacher when he's older). He's often been in classes where I've talked about race, and my own background, etc.

So - the other day, he's sitting at a table playing dominoes with a bunch of kids in class (dominoes is probably one of the best games for having kids practice basic math skills without the kids realizing it), and he jokes with one of his friends, "Hey - are you lonely at this table because you're the only black kid?"

The other kid laughs it off and S. says, "I'm just kidding. Besides, I'm the only Asian kid at the table. But I'm not alone, because - insert the CVT's real name - is here."

I didn't say anything. I was caught too off guard. At this point, I always have something to say when race comes up in class, but this time - nothing. I just looked at S. And thought back to three years ago. And smiled.

Because S. claimed his identity so casually - yet clearly - right in front of my eyes. He claimed an identity that is an overwhelming minority at the school I teach (and in the area where these kids live). He claimed the identity of a race that is commonly ridiculed and mocked by the kids and adults that he is exposed to regularly. And he did it proudly.

And I can't help but feel an extreme sense of satisfaction about that. I definitely can't claim sole responsibility for this change (I'd hope his mom played a major part), but I don't really think it's a coincidence, either. I feel that my presence and way of being in the classroom and willingness to talk about my own identity must have had some influence on him. I'd like to think that the respect I've earned from the kids I teach - while simultaneously proclaiming my Asian-ness - has made "Asian" less foreign to them. A little bit less "other." More acceptable.

Maybe even something for those few with Asian blood to be proud of.

I've tried my best to be a positive, conscious racial (and otherwise) role model for the kids, and I think I mostly achieve that.

But I never saw this coming. I never expected to see S. identify himself as "Asian." And I never would have expected those around him to accept that so easily (not one kid said, "no you aren't" or "what are you talking about?").

Which makes me have to ask the question: if that's what happened with one of my students, what would it be like for my own kid?

Sometimes the world changes, and it starts like any other day.

Of course, this is by no means the end-all, be-all moment. He might change his mind in the future. He might never claim his Asian-ness outside of my classroom. My students probably think of me as "the exception" to the "Asian rules." Or maybe I reinforce them, somehow.

Be that as it may - I got to see a kid and his relationship to his own racial identity change (in what I believe to be a positive way). And I played a role in it. And no matter what else happens, that fact remains.

And it feels good.

And it gives me some hope for my kids (if they ever exist) - no matter the background of their mother.

And that's kind of reassuring.

On "Baby"

On the box for the movie, "Baby" is compared to both "Boyz n the Hood" and "Scarface." And, since those movies are so completely different in style and general themes, that pretty much sums up how hard it is for movie critics to stay away from ridiculous generalizations and stereotypes.

They could have at least compared it to "Better Luck Tomorrow" (even though "Baby" isn't really like that, either) - except for the fact that nobody's ever heard of it (look it up).

So why did the critics have such a hard time having any legit movie comparisons for "Baby"? Because it's about Asian Americans. Gangsters. Asian American gangsters. Right. A lot of movies like that out there.

The movie is set in the early 90s (with flashbacks into the 80s), following the (brief - he's only 18 at his oldest in the film) life of Baby - a Cantonese American, son of a drunk, no mother - drawn into gang life for lack of other, healthier family. Let's just say it's not exactly an uplifting film.

And it's not a bad film. At all. The start is a bit rough, but by the middle of the movie, I was drawn in fully. It does a pretty solid job of depicting the quicksand-like fall into trouble that urban gang life represents - as well as the fact that juvenile justice facilities pretty much only guarantee that kids come out as criminals (whether or not that's how they went in) with no skills for living clean once out.

Of course, for me, I had other reasons to appreciate this film. First and foremost, obviously, was the fact that the majority of the characters (and all of the major roles) were portrayed by Asian Americans. How many American movies out there can say that? Better yet - different Asian ethnicities were portrayed by - sit down before you read this - different Asian ethnicities! Seriously. The Chinese folks spoke Chinese (Cantonese, actually), Vietnamese spoke Vietnamese, and there were Koreans, as well. Hell - there were multiple fight scenes where not one of the characters performed a spinning jump kick or any other form of martial art. I mean - damn. Is that even legal!?

And I'm not done yet. Being set in the 90s, the "Asian Gangster Chic" styles represented in the film were all too familiar (as I was a 90s teen, myself). Baby's hairstyle for the second half of the movie alone gave me a little bit of "back in the day" nostalgia for the days when all the Asian Gangstaz at my high school gave me shit for being an "Asian sell-out." It seriously made me miss them.

And, finally, it addressed something that gets absolutely NO attention in the media or otherwise - there are Asian American gangs. Lots of them. And I'm not talking about the freaking Triads or Yakuza, I'm talking Asian Americans. Kids who speak English just as well as (or better than) their ancestors' dialects. Kids who grow up in the same segregated poverty that the better-known, darker-skinned gangbangers come from. Different in a lot of ways, but so very much the same.

Of course, not so much the same that it's not insulting that the San Francisco Chronicle called it the "Asian American 'Boyz n the Hood,'" or that the SFist.com said that, "For Asian American movie watchers, 'Baby' is going to become their 'Scarface.'" Seriously?

We're not following the clean kid whose father is teaching him how to be a man. There is no glorification, no rise to power here. And why is it that this movie is obviously expected to be seen only by Asian Americans?

Oh, right - because it is. Trying to find an image to put on this post, I found the Korean baby singing "Hey Jude" instead about 8 out of 10 times. The only sites that reference it are Asian American film sites (or blogs).

Hell - the only reason I picked it up was because it had a picture of a bad-ass Asian dude, guns blazing on the cover. Probably the same reason most other folks will put it back down. It makes me wonder if non-Asian folks could even watch this movie without feeling like they had to totally suspend their disbelief the whole time ("yeah right - like Asian-Americans live like that - this isn't Thailand!").*

I don't know. This was a piss-poor movie review, but what else can I say? There's nothing to compare it to. Maybe it kind of was like "Boyz n the Hood" . . .

* I remember my brother telling me how, when she saw "Better Luck Tomorrow," my Chinese aunt said that she didn't like it because "Asian teens don't do that kind of thing." Ai yaa!!!

On "Pan-African" vs. "Pan-Asian"

So I took myself a (relatively) long break from writing in this blog during my Winter Break from work. And I needed it. But it's time to get back to work, and here I go.

While I was taking my break (outside of my quick-hitter about "Shooter"), a couple holidays went by: Channukah, Christmas, and Kwanzaa. Now, I, myself, (half-assedly) celebrate Christmas. But I've tried to do my part in at least partially understanding those other Winter-time celebrations that I did not grow up a part of. At this point, I probably know quite a bit more about Channukah than Kwanzaa.

So, being aware of that fact, I decided to do myself a little bit of Kwanzaa research over the break. I already knew the very basics behind Kwanzaa (that it had been created as an "African-American" holiday, drawing from various "African" traditions as a means to give African-Americans a true holiday of their own during this time). As a result, I had a basic appreciation for the intentions behind Kwanzaa, and the symbolism of its celebration.

But, as I got deeper into my research, I had some issues. While reading about the "Seven Principles" and the Swahili names given to them, I had a little bit of an itch. The problem being that I lived in Tanzania for a year and a half, and I actually speak Swahili (nearly fluently) and am very familiar with (recent Tanzanian history). And so I noticed that most of the words were taken from President Nyerere's terms for the socialist experiment he engaged in with Tanzania's fledgling independence. The meanings had been slightly altered to pertain to ALL Africans, but the roots were clear. And that all made sense - the problem being, of course, that - having lived in Tanzania - I know too well what a dismal failure that grand (and well-intentioned) experiment proved to be. Tanzania is now one of the poorest countries in the world and similarly corrupt, and so it just struck a sad chord within me to see those hopeful (but ultimately failed) terms as the foundation of the Kwanzaa celebration.

So I went further in and read of some of the traditions associated with Kwanzaa . . . and something about it all just hit me in a strange way. So much of it seemed like a bastardization of various African cultures. I had spent so much time correcting folks when I came back to the States about the difference between "Tanzania" and "Africa" - it just seemed so wrong that this whole holiday derived from attempts to further such confusion.

It really bothered me. And I had trouble understanding why. None of it pertained to me, directly. It's not my culture, or racial background. I don't have the same history. I live in a different time (Kwanzaa being conceived in the midst of the Civil Rights era). Why should I really care one way or the other? In fact, I should be for it, considering my heavy involvement in issues of race and general support for all things that give some pride and power to folks of color.

And yet it still bothered me.

And then I figured it out - my problem was that I was associating the "Pan-African" movement and ideals with all things "Pan-Asian." And I am not a fan of Pan-Asian happenings.

Because, to me, "Pan-Asian" almost solely refers to the bastardization of Asian cultures. To me, "Pan-Asian" represents all those things that cause all the non-Asian folks out there to think we're "all the same." We all look the same. We all eat the same food. We all speak the same language. Etc. To me, that's what "Pan-Asian" represents.

I hate it when I walk into a "Chinese" or "Thai" or "Vietnamese" restaurant that actually serves "Pan-Asian" foods. That people don't automatically realize that "Pad Thai" is a Thai dish and doesn't belong in a Chinese restaurant kills me. When people reference interchangeable Asian nationalities that eat dogs, I want to cry. When people listen to somebody speak Japanese and ask me if I can understand. When people think that Korean and Japanese cultures are "basically the same" (ignoring the history of hatred between the two). When people have "Asian fetishes" without realizing that Asian features run the full range of human skin tones, body shapes, and facial appearances.

All of this pisses me off to no end. All of this frustrates me and drives me nuts because I know I can do nothing to educate people out of any of it.

And so, when I relate "Pan-African" to "Pan-Asian," I have so much inherent distaste bubbling to the surface that I can't get over it - and so I find myself projecting those feelings onto Pan-Africanism.

And I realize that that is unfair. African-Americans (mostly) don't have the privilege of knowing their actual ethnic roots. They can't say which nation their ancestors came from. They can't know which specific traditions their ancestors took part in. They can't know which language their ancestors spoke. The ultimate insult and degradation of slavery is that it stole the slaves' past and history and traditions. African-Americans who have come from slavery can never know where they truly, specifically, came from. All they can know is the continent. And so an equal embrace for all things "African" - whichever nation or ethnic group that stems from - makes sense in that light. Because what else is there?

"Pan-African" and "Pan-Asian" are not the same. Not even close. I came from immigrants whose ethnic and national origins I know. And that gives me the privilege of getting all hot and bothered when other folks don't honor that specific heritage and instead lump me in with "all those Asians." African-Americans can't say the same - and so they do not have a similar privilege (or reaction). And, as a result, I find myself wondering if that can partially explain why so many African-Americans I know (friends and otherwise) don't really care to differentiate between various forms of Asian-ness. And why Asian-Americans and African-Americans continue to have so much trouble connecting and finding common ground in this country.

Who knows? All I do know is that a little bit of research and self-reflection can go a long way - and that has allowed me to appreciate Pan-Africanism on a whole other level.

What do you all think?

On Asian Domination

I really enjoy seeing Asian people being better at things than other races. I really do.

Isn't that kind of f-ed up?

I just got home from watching a hip-hop dance showcase that featured a number of different dance crews from the Pacific Northwest, and I enjoyed it a lot. It wasn't the best talent in the world, but it was good enough to make an entertaining show, and some of the dancers were pretty good.

But guess who the best crew was? Yeah - that's right - the all-Asian crew. And if you don't know much about the hip-hop dance scene (specifically b-boy, but other forms, as well), Asians kind of dominate on a general level, these days. And so there was a very noticeable Asian presence at this show (both performing and attending), and it was really nice. In this town, where I seldom see Asian folks outside of very specific areas, it was nice to not be the "only one" by a long shot. It's also nice to see so many other Asian folks at a hip-hop related event (even if it was just dance).

And it was especially nice to see the Asian folks represent by making most of the other crews look a little shoddy.

Because I LOVE to watch Asian people dominate. I got all into tandem diving during the Olympics because the Chinese men were so much better than the other competitors. I'm all about international b-boy competitions because the Koreans win so handily on a regular basis. I loved watching Jet Li kick European asses portraying Huo Yuan Jia in "Fearless." "Letters from Iwo Jima" was a fine film, but it pissed me off.

And, in some ways, it's so very odd that I root for all Asian people against the world in this way. Because I have as much in common with most Koreans, Chinese, Japanese, etc. as I do with the French (maybe less). I'm so damn American in so many ways, and yet I will always clap happily when Daisuke Matsuzaka strikes a guy out. I love it when somebody's Ford gives them engine trouble while I drive my Toyota without a hiccup at 165,000 miles.

But I'm not Japanese. At all. I have no Korean blood. The Mongols invaded China, but I'm still a fan of Ghenghis Khan. I've still never been to China.

And yet . . .

It's a testament to the power of race in America that I am this way. That, in spite of all the opportunities I have been presented simply by being an American citizen, I have more conscious loyalties to foreign nations that have no connection to my blood, just because of hair color and the folds of our eyelids. That I have lived through media representations and stereotypes for so long, that it makes me want to cheer every time an Asian man kicks ass publicly. That the dominant people of this country have considered me "foreign" so long that I identify that way.

It's crazy. Because I am so American. My mannerisms. The way I dress. How I talk. My values. All so typically American. But, somehow, I have been pushed away from that identification.

And it's not even just Asian people that I root for (although they're at the top of my list - just being honest). I find myself hoping that Brazil scores a hundred goals on the American soccer team. I laugh when the Kenyans win another Boston Marathon. I hope that Jerome Iginla is the key to his Flames winning ten straight Stanley Cups (in the NHL).

Because - no matter how much I have gotten from this country, and how "American" I am, through and through - I can never think of myself as fully belonging to this nation, because those running this country do not look anything like me, and never have.

And until that changes - every four years tandem diving will be one of my favorite sporting events.

On Being Asian

So what the Hell does it really mean to "be Asian"? Honestly?

I just came back from a meeting with one of the main organizers for an Asian-American youth conference - the ONLY Asian-American youth conference in this city - and it brought up a lot of different thoughts and insecurities for me.

My part in this meeting was to basically take over the operations and planning for the small-group workshops at this conference, as well as a number of other details that play a large role in the overall picture of this conference for high school students. And I went into it full of confidence because I have a lot of experience working with kids as a teacher, and also as a facilitator (which is the role I would be in for this conference). No big deal, I thought. I'm Asian, my identity is important to me, and I have no problem facilitating activities and discussions with kids of all backgrounds.

Seemed simple, right?

Not really. Because this meeting reminded me of something that I am always aware of, but that doesn't play a large part in my life: "Asian" can mean so many different things. "Asian-American" can mean even more. It can be people with Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Malaysian, Mongolian, or Eastern Russian backgrounds. It can be first-generation, second-generation and beyond. It can mean all sorts of mixes with all sorts of other races. It can encompass overachieving "model minorities" and "at-risk," gang-affected youth. It can mean me. And it can mean kids with backgrounds and experiences totally different from me.

And that's the funny thing - because I feel like I'm pretty damn good working with kids of all sorts of backgrounds. I can reach out and establish relationships with white kids, black kids, Latino kids . . . all no matter their economic background. And I do it all the time - that's what I do for a living.

But the fact of the matter is - ironically enough - that I have never worked with a large population of just Asian kids. Never.

And I suddenly found myself wondering if I can connect. If all my ideas and plans that work so well for all the other youth I work with would work as well with this group of kids. And I know - logically - it shouldn't make any difference. It shouldn't. But, somehow, it does.

Because I've always had a strange relationship with my Asian-ness. In school, I was accused of being the "Asian sell-out" at times. It really bothers me that I don't speak Chinese. It bothers me that I've never been to China and don't carry out many "Chinese" traditions. I wonder how "Asian" I really am.

Because, in some ways, I identify more with brown hip-hop culture than Asian-American culture. I know more about indie-rock than I do about Malaysian, Thai, or Korean culture, for that matter. My upbringing was far from "traditional," and I love exploding Asian stereotypes that many Asian communities like to uphold (in regards to academic success and expectations, more quiet, passive demeanor). And I wonder how much I can really represent these kids whose conference I'm about to shape.

In my gut, of course, I realize that nobody - no matter how "Asian" they are - can really represent the hundreds of kids that will be there because "Asian-American" is such a broad category. A first-generation Vietnamese girl who grew up struggling with poverty will share little with a third-generation Japanese male who grew up upper-middle-class. Neither of them can be represented by a recent Indian immigrant. And that is part of the farce that is "Asian-American." That is being "Asian" at all. A quasi-racial category that spans such disparate ethnicities and cultures and religions - and yet is still accepted as a valid way to categorize people - by other races and "Asian" folks, themselves.

It's so ridiculous. To the point that it is practically a crime. Of course, we all know how seriously the dominant white culture takes crimes against other cultures, so I won't hold my breath waiting for a response.

And so I realize that my specific background is not that important when it comes to being part of this conference's organization. I identify with being "Asian" to a degree, and my confusion as to exactly what degree and how connected I am to that broad category only makes me more like all the other "Asian-Americans" out there (I presume). Which makes me perfectly suited (and qualified) to lead it.

And so I will. Because I'm Asian, and I think talking and thinking about all of these things is important. And that's that.

* On a sad (but not surprising) note - I learned that the budget for this conference is significantly lower than that of the African-American and Latino/a youth conferences in this city. Once again, I am faced with the sad fact that such a broadly-identified community either cannot or will not come together to try to effect change on a larger level. So many thoughts run through my head about the how and why (culturally, logistically, etc.), but the fact remains that - if I want to see something done right, it looks like I'm going to have to do it myself.