Two years ago, I was walking up the place I used to work and met the Staples Delivery Guy struggling to open the door.
I held it open for him, he thanked me, and mentioned how humid the weather has been in Cincinnati lately. Where are you from? He asked me.
I was two "where-are-you-from's" away from reaching the cap to my irritation, so I repeated his question, "Where am I from..?" as if I don't know, as if I need him to clarify exactly where I'm from, because he seems to know. "I'm from California."
I pretend to be surprised when he tells me that he actually meant, you know, where you...where...
"I'm Korean, if that's what you're trying to ask."
"Yeah, yeah," he laughs, relieved. "Does it get humid in Korea?"
I give him a tragic look as I walk away and tell him I wouldn't know, I've never been there.
The same year, I befriended an Old Rich White Man. At first he was endearing and elderly and eccentric. As we became closer, I realized he was exoticizing our friendship. He once invited me to a meeting he was having with two TFA Ohio executives so I could network with them if I was interested in such organizations. I wasn't, but I was desperate for a job post-AmeriCorps, so I went. It ended up being that my existence was entirely redundant except for the appearance of a young, Asian female sitting next to an affluent WASPy old man. I could tell it looked strange. I was so humiliated that I pounded TFA with questions I didn't care to have answers to, just to make it clear that I was at that meeting solely to network with them. Later, the Old Rich White Man would come visit my work, as he was a generous donor to the organization, and ask front desk volunteers to "go get the Chinese girl" for him.
Also in Cincinnati, I was walking downtown with a good friend of mine when this Black Girl Crossing The Street shouted at me and asked if I can cook good Chinese food. "I'm not Chinese," I told her.
"But you know what I mean," she said.
I said I don't know what she means.
A couple days ago, here in New York City, I experienced a more interesting interaction. Not between two Americans, but between one American (me), and one Mexican immigrant (him). As I wait for the train, he comes up to me to ask me when the train is supposed to come. He leaves and comes back to ask me where I'm from. Without hesitation I tell him I'm from California. I show no sympathy for his accent because we're both People of Color who, I'm sure, have heard this before, yet he clearly doesn't see what's wrong with it. He gives me a smirk. "I mean what part of Asia," he rephrases.
I said I'm not. My parents are from Korea.
Satisfied, he asks me if I speak Korean.
It's almost 1AM and I don't need to be having a conversation with a stranger about how fluently I can speak another language.
If I was him, I would be able to tell that this girl clearly didn't want to talk to me anymore by the way she was looking down at her phone with ear phones on and giving me short answers without reciprocation. But this man was unwavering.
"I don't speak it at all," I said, to spite him.
"That's sad," he said.
"That's sad?" I asked.
I'm American: I was born and raised in the states. YES-- by immigrant parents, but my education was and is American, my money is American, my friends are American, and my career path to improve American lives and America's system is all very American. Just because I'm not white doesn't mean I'm not American. And just because I say I'm American doesn't mean I'm rejecting my Koreanness. He doesn't know me AT ALL. He has no right to tell me that my identity is sad. How could he? How could anyone say that to a stranger? I was livid.
The Mexican Man Waiting For The Train tells me about his friends who, like him, have come from Mexico and are attune with their culture.
I don't fucking care.
The train comes, I run down several cars and I hop in.
