Wednesday, October 21, 1998
Confining stereotypes refuse to die
PREJUDICE: Caricatures of minorities still standard by which all
members are judged
The gods must be crazy. This seemingly shared reality we exist
in offers us many amusing contradictions. I vaguely recall some
authority figure sagely mentioning that one should never judge a
book by its cover. Yet here I managed to find myself in this world
where image seems to be the standard from which I am judged.
Los Angeles, the mecca of cellular phones, pagers and
sunglasses, contributes quite a bit to disseminating these values
to the American public via the media. How one manipulates their
appearance apparently does affect how one is treated.
Unfortunately, there are aspects to one’s appearance that can’t
be altered unless you are Michael Jackson. (I use the term
"unfortunately" because isn’t it obvious that we all strive to be
the same? One day, when I rule the world, we can all wear those
yellow, happy-face masks.)
As a kid raising Cain in my neighborhood in suburbia, my barely
sentient brain did not comprehend that I was different from all the
other kids. I just knew who was fun to play with, who had the
meanest dog and that President Reagan liked jelly beans.
Then one day a strange teenager wandered onto my street while I
was outside alone entertaining myself. I don’t recall what I was
doing exactly, but it had something to do with examining the lawn
in front of my house when the kid asked, "Hey, what kind of
Oriental are you?"
Startled, I stood up straight and found myself straining my neck
to look some tall, white kid in the eye. (Hell, everyone was tall
compared to me.) I didn’t reply, obviously eager to return to my
task.
"Are you a Å’Chinese’ or Å’Japanese’?" (He spent a
minute or so going through all the Asian countries he could
remember. Of course, he missed the country that my parents
immigrated from – Korea. This was before the 1988 Seoul
Olympics.)
I stared dumfounded and just said that I was an American. Not
satisfied with my answer the kid persisted and asked me if I was a
"Chink" or a "Gook." Needless to say, I didn’t know what was wrong
with me, but something obviously was.
A few hours later, I stood in front of a mirror realizing that
something was indeed not right.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get the yellow tinge out of my skin.
No matter how hard I scrubbed and no matter how raw my skin became,
I still retained this annoying yellowish pallor. (For quite some
time, I thought I was jaundiced, but damn, how could one have a
liver disease for 14 years?)
I figured this was a hopeless case. By the time a huge influx of
Asian immigrants flooded North Orange County, I managed to do a
good job of Americanizing my innards. I did so well that people
began calling me a banana or a Twinkie. (I prefer Twinkie because
it’s an evil but tasty junk food. You can keep the mushy
banana.)
These newfound labels did not disturb me as much as the old
stereotypes that refuse to die (and I’m not helping much by
restating them). Most people automatically assume that I have some
outlandishly high GPA and that I would rather sacrifice what I want
personally for the sake of harmony. (Would you like me to pour you
a cup of tea?)
Pardon my impertinence, but not all Asian American males baby
their lowered Hondas or Acuras while smoking packs of cigarettes.
Not all Asians know some form of martial arts.
When I used to work as a Community Service Officer (CSO) and
escort people, more often than not the "escortee" would ask, "How
are you going to protect me? You’re smaller than I am. Oh well, you
probably know karate or something."
"Well, no I don’t," I would reply.
The CSO program has a non-intervention policy, but that’s not
why I stayed out of martial-art lessons. While my brothers learned
Tae Kwon Do, I water-colored in an art class. (My dad went on a
rather long tirade about how it was unladylike to take a
martial-arts class. Regardless, he later enrolled me in figure
skating so I could become more graceful.)
It’s a shame that people still give credence to these
caricatures of Asian Americans, as well as those of other
minorities. Can anyone think of a stereotype of an American? I
understand that it is easier to break things down to specific
stereotypes, like the Irish can hold their liquor better than most
people. But, when I asked you what an American was, did you
envision a white man or did you have some abstract vision of a
freedom-loving, yellow, happy face?
Over the course of my college career, I’ve tried to better
understand what being an Asian American meant. I’ve enrolled in a
few Asian American studies courses and, after a few weeks, managed
to drop them. (I would sit in class and marvel at how many people
were so passionate about these classes, while I sat stoically in
the back trying to melt into the wall.)
Last year, I somehow managed to be on PacTies, the UCLA Asian
American Newsmagazine. The editor in chief at the time once said,
"For all that you care (about Asian American topics), you might as
well be a Julianne Smith." Well, I’m still working on learning to
care, because no matter how much I try to deny it, I am still an
Asian American.
One has to wonder how centuries of inequality and injustice
affect minority groups. Do people cringe when they hear, "Watch
out, angry Asian female?"… probably not, seeing that, apparently,
one must be passive and dainty in order to belong to the Asian
female category. (Hey, where did this Coke bottle come from?
Certainly not from the gods. Well, for those of you who have never
seen "The Gods Must Be Crazy," you probably think that I must be
crazy. Get thee to a video store!)
Thousands of years of injustices do not dissolve overnight. The
first step to overcoming discrimination is to speak out and to make
people aware of the problems. If one is left ignorant and
complacent, then stagnation and the status quo remain. There exist
glass ceilings to destroy and equality to be attained.
I admire some of the student activists out in the UCLA
community. They actually care about issues and mobilize to see to
it that things are done.
It’s easier to slip into an apathetic mood than to go around
protesting or holding candlelight vigils. (It was amazing how
quickly the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community
mobilized after the tragic death of Matthew Shepherd, by starting
letter writing campaigns to Congress in hopes of getting
anti-hate-crime legislation passed and holding candlelight vigils
in various cities.)
I was actually thinking of adopting a version of Theodore
Roosevelt’s theory on foreign policy. Speak softly and carry an
AK-47. I’m sure that image would be pretty intimidating.
An angry Asian female carrying a big assault rifle would
definitely grab people’s attention.Julianne Sohn
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