So I’m driving in a residential neighborhood. In a window on a particular house, I notice a sign that reads, “United We Stand.” It’s a trite sentiment, but it’s true. I almost couldn’t read the sign as I drove by, though, since there were protective anti-theft bars mounted over the window. And who says there’s no hope for the future?
You know what’s great about that movie The Ten Commandments? When the Israelites are fleeing from the Egyptians through the split waters of the Red Sea, the Jews are depicted as a bunch of old guys with bent backs and old mothers with small children. But later on, when they’re all partying and praising the golden calf, the Jews all magically become a bunch of sexy 20-to-30-somethings acting like college kids on spring break. God bless movies from the 1950’s.
I’m no cartographer, nor am I a computer programmer, but I do know a thing or two about local geography when it comes to city streets. I just referred to Mapquest for driving instructions to my brother’s work, which seem straightforward enough. So long as I drive my hydrogen-powered, emission-free flying car, I should have no problem maneuvering a direct merge from one street onto another one that lies two and half miles away. Mapquest has given me ridiculously roundabout instructions before, but this is a new low. Reduced to copping out and simply creating fictional road connections? Say it ain’t so, Mapquest.
I’m an American. I’m also Chinese. But don’t think for a second that I’m a second-class citizen. And for that matter, nobody should feel that way about him or herself.
The other day, while in conversation with my mother, I learned that one of her Asian friends “married an American man.” In other words, some oriental lady bagged herself a white husband. I love my dear mother, but I hate that insidious fog of prejudice that’s drifted its way into her subconscious and infected her vernacular. Aren’t we Americans too? To refer to white people–or Caucasians, to humor you PC Nazis–as “Americans,” we undermine the very meaning of the word. Implicit in that terminology is the idea that the typical and ideal American is a “fair-skinned,” individual whose ancestry and moral philosophy are rooted in all the correct, Western ideals.
My mother is not the only person “of color” (so to speak) to use that kind of language. I’ve known peers of various ethnicities who have referred to white people in just the same way. I know Chinese girls that are careful about whom they date because their parents prefer them not to go out with “American boys.” A Mexican friend once told me that she has a lot of Latin friends, but she doesn’t know too many “Americans.” The list of examples continues, but to carry on would be an exercise in tedium.
So many “American minorities” have been subtly brainwashed into believing that they are somehow inferior to and separate from the rest of the national community. We, the minorities, are only Americans insofar as we have the proper documentation to prove it. But aside from that minor detail, our citizenship is a mere technicality, for white people are the only true Americans. Prevailing attitudes of prejudice have become so rampant, that people are actually buying it.
Of course, it could be argued that many minority groups such as Asians, Indians, Middle Easterns, and Hispanics have a tendency to gravitate towards others in their own cultural group, thus making it more difficult for themselves to assimilate their minds and hearts into the national fabric. If such were the case, then people that belong to such groups would be much more at fault than I’ve let on. It’s a plausible counterpoint, and I even recognize that it may very well serve to refute my entire argument.
Regardless, my suspicions still linger. Prejudice doesn’t always parade itself in blatant and clumsy sheets accessorized by tall, pointy hats. No. It’s far more insidious than it often lets on. Sometimes prejudice roots itself in the most unlikely of places–such as the minds of minority members–where it gestates and fosters subconscious attitudes of inferiority.
No matter what the explanation may be, I still say that this damaging terminology needs to end. I’m as much an American as anybody else, and that is not subject for debate.
Kevin: come to the dark side
Tara: only if there’s good food there
Kevin: excellent food
Kevin: filet of tomato
Kevin: prime potato
Kevin: carrot chops
Tara: LoL
Kevin: rack of celery
Okay, so off the cuff, I’m not very good at naming vegetarian dishes. I should work on improvising.
Today is the one year anniversary of the start of my blog. Crazy, isn’t it? You know, I’m not the type that normally thinks in increments of time. When couples celebrate their five-month anniversary, I secretly ask myself, “why?” After the September 11th attacks, I was irritated that news reporters felt the need to commemorate the event on the 11th of each subsequent month. Every New Year’s Eve, I’m always questioning exactly why the turn of a new year is such a big deal. And even when my own birthday rolls around every May, I’ve been known to rain on my own feeble parade. And yet here I am, marking the birth date of my blog.
I guess in this case, the date means something to me because so much good has come from this little website. I originally started this blog because I wanted to force myself to write on a regular basis. I think it all worked out very well. As I read over my past entries, I don’t just see a collection of self-imposed writing assignments—I see a chronicle of my past, the minutia of my daily life that I would have surely forgotten, had I not written them down. So what’s so special about a record of KZ’s past? Well, maybe it won’t mean much to outsiders looking in (my friends included). But at best, anyone’s personal journal has the power to reveal or identify the simple truths of life. There’s truth all around us, waiting to be discovered, contemplated, and discussed. If I may conceit, I’d like to think that my blog has played at least a miniscule role in the grand search for truth.
But you know, maybe that’s expecting too much from a silly college student with little life experience. In time though, that much may change. Maybe if you stick around long enough, you’ll witness some kind coming of age through the gradual evolution of my writing. So many hopes, so many uncertainties. It’s just begun. I hope so, at least.
I’m sorry that I muddled up your search and diverted your attention from what you were originally looking for. I have no pictures of Rocky J. Squirrel, no gray comforters for sale, nor even pictures of Pamela Anderson or Dr. Aki Ross in a bikini. I only wish I could offer you a “‘go screw yourself’ cartoon,” pictures of men without pants, some relevant information on Charlie Brown, or even a true and accurate account of an actual possum attack. I wish you all the best, and I hope you find what you’re looking for: your cartoon characters, your desired merchandise, your anecdotes, and most importantly, your smut. Good day to you all.
The war with Iraq was resolved peacefully. Such an unexpected and unprecedented event has inspired all the world’s nations, and now world peace has been officially declared.
Just kidding. April Fools!
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