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There were times where I didn’t want my culture to define me. The word chink surfaced for the first time in middle school when I laughed at a joke that is no longer funny. I didn’t really understand the harm when I first heard it because I remember that I laughed with them. However, the more this word turned up, the more it evolved from something so benign to something terribly malignant. Sure, it could be used as a tasteless joke between kids in junior high but strangers in the streets could throw taunts and threats with it too. They could yell and laugh at how hilarious it would be to blindfold me with floss, beat the living hell out of me, and send me back to my communist homeland. However, while the latter developed a certain type of fear that left me wary of city streets, they would both ignite an indefinite amount of insecurity. I stopped wearing my glasses because a girl I liked giggled as she told me they made me look “chinkier”. I stopped studying because a friend grinned at the ‘A’ sitting on my quiz and stated how I was lucky to be Asian and naturally smart. I stopped eating rice because I was a stereotype. The perfect grades slipped and the piano in my living room grew dusty. It’ incredible how your intelligence, skills, and even things you were born with can be used as an insult isn’t it? It’ crazy how a thoughtless comment can have the same impact as a threat.
I wish I could say something about sticks and stones but my mother tells me not to lie. My mother also tells me the most incredible things when I need them the most. She pulls me aside one evening while the fresh bok choy boils and beef strips simmer in the kitchen. We have a conversation that was short and sweet just like her. In Tagalog, she tells me a quote which essentially states that being different doesn’t make you dirty. Of course, she also says that I couldn’t play video games if I had ‘B’ in Calculus. While direct translations of Tagalog don’t always resonate exactly as they should, my mom’ proverb and ultimatum echo in my mind to this day. I ingest her words and a steaming bowl of plain white rice moments after.
Unfortunately, the words of your loved ones can’t always help you. My father’ Confucian sayings can remind me to stay civil and to stay understanding. My mother’ encouragements can keep me sane. However, they cannot always contain the turmoil inside of me and I can only maintain my composure for so long. I crave to answer racist remarks with frustrated fists. I want to fight back. Luckily, maybe unluckily, my knuckles rarely blue because my conscious endures most of the beating. Don’t worry. It’ grown stronger now and I’ve learned to equip myself with more spirit than flesh. I’ve learned that I can help myself. It took nearly 19 years but I can be myself. Fortunately, the words of your aggressors don’t always hurt you.