But growing up Asian is awesome, right?  Don’t I get the perks of Asian stereotypes, for instance, “hard working,” “model minority,” and “smart?”

Sadly, it depends, like most stereotypes, on your appearance.  I’m on the darker end, so I get all of the totally awesome racial traits like, “possible shoplifter,” “ignored in lieu of lighter skinned folk,” and my new personal favorite, “terrorist.”  Good times.

I do have to recount an interesting moment that occurred during the media hoopla about the Justice of the Peace in Louisiana that wouldn’t marry mixed race couples.  That guy resigned, by the way.   My girlfriend was talking about that judge when she said,

“You know, that’s awful, I don’t know what I would do in that situation because—WAIT!  WE’RE IN AN INTERRACIAL RELATIONSHIP!!  HOW DID WE NOT KNOW?!”

She didn’t actually say that.  What she did say was in fact way more eloquent and thoughtful, and not filtered through my gross, light hearted hyperbole.  However, I’m not exaggerating when I say that we were both kind of shocked.  We had never really thought about it before.

We were just, well,  “us.”

I’m at one when I hear the question.

“How long did it take you to grow that hair, man?”

“Too long,” I answer, without thinking.

“Damn straight.”  He looks at my hair again.  “You Japanese?”

“Nope.”

“Hrm.  Chinese?”

“Nope.”

He goes through the list.  Each gets a negative response.  “Korean?  Thai?  Burmese?  Laotian?  Vietnamese?  Malay?  Mongolian?  Hmong?”  To be honest, I’m kind of impressed.  Yet, at the same time, kind of disappointed.

He pauses to think.  “Taiwanese?”

“Sorry.”

He pauses again, with a puzzled expression.

The walk signal changes and I step into the crosswalk.  “Filipino,” I say without turning my head.

Midway through the crosswalk I wonder if even that word was a fair description.

My brother had this to say about it:

You know, I’ve been to Communist China, and the South still scares me.

And I can understand his fear.  Still, that wasn’t my experience when I went to The South (Proper caps) exactly one year ago.

The South still has a public relations nightmare to clean up after that whole state’s rights issue that got blown way out of proportion. Then, as usual, the only people you see on the television are folks that appear to be straight out of Deliverance.

So they’re generalized, just like the Chinese are stereotyped, and Blacks are stereotyped, and Mexicans (as in people from Mexico) are stereotyped.

I went to the South and the worst thing that happened to me was that I got called, “a cracker.” Which was meant in jest regarding a grocery list and saltines and a carful of white boys and me.

And there was the tendency for waitstaff to make little assumptions.

“So table for three?”
“Four, actually.”
“Oh, you’re with them?”

I feel like I got a pretty good experience with the silent majority.

Folks, who are for the most part, just like you and me, but they just happen to be living south of the Mason Dixon line.

“Did you know those houses go for around one point nine million?  That’s ridiculous.”

I nod.  “Yeah.”  The houses are huge, but right on the corner of a pretty busy intersection with lots of traffic.  I wouldn’t turn it down the house if it was given to me, but if I had one point nine million dollars hanging around, it’s not exactly the house of my dreams.

“That’s the problem with this city,” he continues.  “There’s no one I can talk to, it’s people who live in houses like that or welfare mothers.  Nobody like me.”

“Uh, yeah.”  The light still hasn’t changed, and there are a few more cars waiting for the left turn.  Slowly, I’m disliking the direction that this conversation is going, and I decide to ignore the guy.

“And they’re the ones that keep having babies!  The welfare mothers!  You know, I’ve got two almanacs at home.”

The derailment of  his train of thought jars me internally, but I keep watching the traffic light.

“It’s the same problems with all those other countries in the world.  They’re having babies faster than we are.  Especially those Muslims and Asians.  They’re like cockroaches.”

This is the point in the conversation where, for the first time, I look at the man directly.

We make eye contact for the briefest second.

And he stops talking.