“What Kind of Asian Are You?”

I’m getting really tired of seeing that “What kind of Asian are You?” video. I might be the only Asian American (mixed race Filipino/Chinese/White) who doesn’t find it hilarious, even though I get asked that question on a daily basis.

First, the whole set up seems ridiculously middle class (not to mention dominated by Asian American SoCal politics): jogging along a road, a woman who has “progressed” so far beyond the “humble” roots of the diaspora now gets asked questions that seem to only point out that, despite her success, she’s still not white. She’s still treated like someone who doesn’t quite belong in a white supremacist nation…and that’s horrible?

To quote Malcolm X:

No, I’m not an American. I’m one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So, I’m not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver — no, not I. I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare.

The video angers me because it seems to buttress all those liberal assumptions that we live in a truly multicultural state (and we’re all truly just as American), so anyone who disrupts it (by asking our race) should be conditioned to do otherwise (by seeing how offensive it can be). White students are already too nervous to even mention race out of fear they’ll offend or ostracize someone, so they learn nothing.

The white man in the video, after his own stereotypes are pointed out to him, doesn’t learn much. Yes, he will learn to be more tolerant, to not voice his (naive) questions about difference ever again for fear of being ridiculed. He’ll be more successful in business and/or service work. He won’t embarrass his company, and maybe he’ll even fit in at parties. But he learns nothing about how the globalized lifeworld (with its reliance on exploitative manufacturing and imperial projects) really works. He’ll still bust out his I-phone to call and woo whatever Asian American woman his yellow fever directs him to at the time, not caring how many Asian women’s hands went into assembling that phone.

Because if there’s anything about naive young white men, it’s that they really need to learn to talk to Asian women in a way that veils rather than exposes their prejudices.  There’s just not enough of that.

Is this really where Asian American politics is now? As Peter Bacho recently pointed out to me, we’ve somehow moved from “why are our communist and anarcho-syndicalist unions being targeted by the FBI/CIA and from dictatorships in our own homelands?” to “why are we still not treated just like white people?”

Not to mention most Southeast Asian Americans or Hispanics or African Americans (especially males) would never even get asked this “what are you?” question. We’d just get stared right off the jogging path.

In other words, “What are you?” is a frustrating question only for certain Asian Americans. As this video might reveal, the chance for an Asian American woman and a cute young white guy to flirt along the jogging path gets stymied by that embarrassing and offensive concept of race. Would the video be just as funny if it were two queer men? Would it be just as funny if it were a black man in a suburban white neighborhood? Probably not, because the question would have a completely different tone in those contexts.

Do we really want to live in a world where we never get asked this question? When we, just like Irish/German/Scandinavian/French/Scottish Americans, meld in so well with American whiteness that we forget our ancestors, our own histories, so that in the rare occasion we get asked about our migration history, we simply scoff “I’m just American,” and they nod in agreement?

Growing up mixed race, with a white family who doesn’t seem to care about their history before arriving in the U.S., and with a Filipino family who cares immensely about their ancestors, has taught me one thing: I DON’T WANT TO BE “JUST AMERICAN.” It’s a violence and an erasure, a death that doesn’t even haunt. Having my racial differences pointed out to me, for all its difficulties and “offensiveness,” has kept me from totally obliterating my own interest in my past.

The question “what are you,” rather than being just offensive, also opens doors to observing the structural racial hierarchies that may be even worse today than in the past. When someone asks me about my race (as they do) it serves as a reminder that America is ultimately Anglo-Saxon supremacist, which seems more of a structural fact than an individual offensive gesture. When I go abroad, I get asked this question even more, but usually supplemented with “No, you couldn’t really be American. Let me see your passport.”

The question reminds me of our troubling past and our violent present, and I would like it to also remind the speaker. So I use the question as Robin Kelley suggests in his fabulous essay Polycultural Me –to put people through a “long ass lecture” that disrupts their own historical narratives of the U.S. What am I? Well first we need to begin with the coolie trade, the Filipino American War, incarceration, etc.

Here are some of my answers to the question:

“My family is from the East and the West. I’d guess by your Urban Outfitters T-shirt, you must be pure Native American.” Then launch into long-ass rant against cultural exploitation…

“My family was Christianized and came to live in a white, Christian nation, where every political leader has to acknowledge God in every speech” Then launch into rant about how homogeneously religious U.S. culture is.

“Do you really want to know?” Then launch into memorized lectures on the Filipino American War, the massacre at Balingiga, and the (in)dependence of the “homeland.”

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On “Grace and Jenny Are Punk Rockers”

Grace and Jenny Are Punk Rockers is now in the gutsy journal Scissors and Spackle. It was accepted by Jenny Catlin, before her 2-year round as editor ended, and who wrote a fabulous story in the journal Horror, Sleaze, Trash, that had lines like this:

We are aging at a rapid pace. We watch fake news and roll to our respective bed corners to sleep off the day and I cannot pretend his hard-on against my back in my sleep doesn’t bother me.

So kudos and farewell to Jenny. My story about a Filipino American reflecting on his adolescence and the women he knew may be less about being Filipino American and more about race in the Pacific Northwest, especially Portland, the whitest big city in the U.S.. That’s why the story follows a punk rock theme, and takes its form and tone from the Ramones’ songs “Sheena is a punk rocker” and “Judy is a punk.”

Grace Castillo was a punk rocker kind of girl. Jenny Perez took her to see our band at the One-Thirty-Eight in Portland. They both had color in their hair. We were drawn to each other like magnets, the only brown people there. They both seemed to like me, and really love my band. I was just the back-up guitarist, but I still got laid. Grace, with her dark brown Cebuano skin, completed the red plaid skirt.

I had the experience of seeing punk rock shows almost every week, only realizing in my late teens that I was the only non-white person at most of them. Unfair, I thought, for me, because I found punk rock so simple in showing the spotlight on urban decay and the injustices of the prison system and racial segregation.  Bands like Dead Kennedy’s and early Bad Religion sparked notions of global rebellion and suspicion. Not really considering the racial origins of punk rock, I thought it wasn’t fair that every show I went to was so white. Was there something wrong with how I felt?

That night I dreamt I missed the bus. Why a bus? I was taking an airplane.

Anyways, these feelings manifested in adulthood, perhaps, when I wrote Grace and Jenny. Stories like Trevor Houser’s “Shark Attack” in Smokelong Quarterly gave me a style I had to try out, and then encountering these Korean children chanting the lyrics: “Perhaps they’ll die” brought the song back to me.

I think I came to Grace and Jenny the same way the Ramones came to write songs. I kept expecting to read some simple, stupid story just like it, but I never did, so I just wrote it.