On Thursday, I experienced a bout of in-my-face racism. Another in the large bundle to tuck into my be-gracious-he’s-just-ignorant sack. Another experience to be gracious and forgiving and understanding and mature about, because this kind person just doesn’t know, or some other crap like that. This old white woman was malicious to me though, and I will never tolerate or be understanding about malicious racism.
On Thursday, I sat at the bar at a café, drinking coffee, finishing an assignment. An old white woman, looked like any other kind grandma, asked me to leave my seat so that she could eat. After all, it wasn’t fair of me to be taking up seating at a busy café when I was done drinking my coffee. I said no, perhaps she should ask if she could share a table with one of the number of people sitting alone at tables, I paid for my café time, I’d been there all of fifteen minutes, perhaps she should ask one of the other three folks at the bar with me if they’d leave, they were also done.
She tries to be friendly with me, asks me where I’m from. I tell her San Francisco. She asks me where I’m really from. San Francisco, Ma’am, I’m from San Francisco. But really though, where are my family and I actually from. “China? Japan? I love Korea. The Philippines? Vietnam?” I ask her, Ma’am, please don’t be racist, there are vacant seats at tables, you don’t have to displace anyone that way, please don’t pick a fight with me. I turn away, seething, to write.
The girl sitting next to me is Chinese-American, newly sworn in as a citizen. She has been here for a while but still speaks with an accent. She finishes eating, gets up, turns to grandma, and says to her, crying, you make me feel like an outsider in my own country. Grandma puts a comforting arm around her, Honey, in America we always ask where people are from, it isn’t a bad thing.
Grandma sits down next to me, eats her sandwich in five minutes. When she finishes, she turns to me. Malice. Hatred. She wants to hurt me.
“You are the worst example of your race that I have ever met.” “You are so evil, you must be Japanese.” “You will never make it in this country like that.” “Go to hell, lady. Go to hell. Go to hell.”
I fought back. Of course I did. “Why? Because I’m not docile, or deferential, or silently backing down?” “Don’t make foreigners of Asian Americans.” “I love this country and am a public servant. How dare you.”
She tells me to go to hell, go to hell, go to hell, glaring at me, storming off. The kind white people sitting around me are outraged afterwards. I’m glad they didn’t intervene. I want to fight my own fights.
Grandma, I believe in Jesus and would never wish hell on you. Don’t you dare wish it on anyone else. Don’t you dare make another American feel like they don’t belong. Don’t you dare demand that another Asian American be docile, deferential, silent, or acquiescent. Don’t you dare pick a fight with one of us and expect us not to fight back.
I went back to school, and I cried. I hate that I cried, but I was so angry, so frustrated. How many more times will this have to happen? How many more times do I, my parents, my brother, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my friends and loved ones, my teachers – how many more times do we have to be made foreigners in our own country?
This is why we have to speak up. This is why we have to be loud. People need to know. Because while this little encounter may have ended with nothing but some tears, racism is insidious, and as we can tell all too clearly from history, it kills and maims and excludes and denigrates. The largest mass lynching in U.S. history was of Chinese people in Los Angeles – 18 Chinese Americans dead. Over 120,000 Japanese Americans interned during WWII - zero German or Italian Americans. My parents’ business competitors circulate papers calling them dog-eating invaders. But nobody knows. And I will not stand for any of that.