Response: Christina Ignatius & The Asians [Who] Took Over Orange County

 

Ms. Ignatius is savvy enough to realize she needs to spin her racist Facebook rant about/against Asians into “something funny” related to the movie Crazy Rich Asians (she goes so far as to claim “I really love them [Asians]” – can we make that a button?? – but stops shy of “I have a friend who’s Asian”) and further attempts to throw her prejudiced spittle into the spin machine by analyzing apologies in a thinly veiled, pseudo-legal lesson designed to pivot her followers away from the racism she let slip into public viewing.  She is not astute enough, however, to recognize or publicly acknowledge that she is, in fact, a racist.

People toss around the terms “racist” & “bully” & others with such destructive ease that I thought, let me read the post & judge for myself…  she lost me at Paragraph 3 with her UCRA (UCLA) comment & the post spirals out of control from there.

This can be understandably jarring for some.  A selfie of a pretty young blonde does not compute with the scary image filed away in my brain under the definition of racist in America.  There isn’t a swastika or white duncecap – ahem, hood – in sight & she also presents herself as educated.  But this is the real deal.  This is the face of racism in America.  Those outspoken extremists we see in violent clashes at rallies nationwide represent a very small percentage of the population.  Your average, run of the mill Christina Ignatius racist moves in socially acceptable circles and emits  scorn and vitriole in (usually) like-minded company only to brush it off as a “joke” when called out.  These are the people who would never be caught dead in a photo-op alongside modern-day white supremacist Richard Spencer, but they might be in the anonymous crowd nodding their heads when he or his co-hort Milo Yiannopoulos speak on college campuses or when certain news stations cast fear into the hearts of their viewers.

So here’s the deal: there are stereotypes (oh, hahaha – it’s funny cuz it’s true!) & then there is racism.  Here is my feeble attempt to clarify the two in the form of a letter to Ms. Ignatius.

Dear Ms. Ignatius –

It appears you have inadvertently wandered into a minefield of scrutiny and are now suffering the consequences of expressing your (racist) frustrations with Asians in the blazing limelight of social media.  No doubt you expected to garner hundreds of likes, then move along your merry day, latte or kombucha in hand.

Your subsequent posts (shown above) read like the literary version of a concussion.  Dazed & confused – likely the result of post-traumatic stress from the hearty Twitter/FB/Instagram clapback you received – you seem disoriented and unclear about who to be mad at (not your “dumb, so-called friends”, by the way – wrong answer) and, more importantly, you seem unclear and bewildered as to why people are (legitimately) mad at you.

To help you and your run-of-the-mill racist cohorts out, I’m going to address your post from the perspective of a fortysomething biracial mother of two.  I hope to clarify the differences between stereotypes & racism, perhaps touch on the difference between humor and, well, blatant racism, and I’ll likely have some suggestions for you at the end.  Please note that I will be sharing personal stories to illustrate my point – some I have held in the lockbox of my heart for a very long time & they haven’t seen the light of day, because seriously…  how often do you chat about racism over rosé when day-drinking with your girlfriends? 

Let us begin…

STEREOTYPES:

Asian Drivers
My mom, God bless her, IS the quintessential, crazy Asian driver.  Growing up in the suburbs of sunny southern California, I have sat alongside her in the car with a loose hold on the “oh shit bar,” cruising at a nice and steady 70mph down the 101 freeway when, suddenly, she has slammed on the brakes, reducing her speed to a side street worthy pace of 35mph in a matter of seconds, because she realized the 405 freeway offramp was ahead…  a long and leisurely 1 mile ahead. Every time I get in the car with her it feels like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, but ironically she has only been in 2 accidents in her entire life & only one, a very minor fender bender, was her fault… the other one knocked out her four front teeth because a woman ran a red light & T-boned her.

On the flip side, my mom would practically pop a Dramamine every time one lady in her Japanese posse drove on one of their outings, because she could not hold her foot steady on the accelerator pedal.  “Fast, slow, fast, slow, fast, slow!  She doesn’t know how to drive – I feel like I’m on a boat.  I get seasick EVERY time – why does she have a Benz if she doesn’t know how to drive it?” my mother would complain.

Yes.  Asian Drivers.  It’s a thing.

Name Brands

My Japanese brethren – most Asians I know – love a good label, sometimes to a fault (that’s a topic for a different time).  When visiting American malls or outlets, yes – they will practically buy out the store.  As an Amerasian, shopping with them is exhausting and I don’t know if even the Kardashian clan could keep up.  Whether an auntie was buying 20 Estee Lauder compacts (always in Light regardless of the actual skin tone of the recipient – again, clarification is probably best left for another time) and 20 tubes of Chanel lipstick (Coco or 99 Pirate…  also popular were Revlon lipsticks, for some reason, and I vaguely remember a certain rosy shade offered by  Lancôme), 3 dozen Coach bags or every Fendi wallet available (visible logo only, please), a Samsonite suitcase would be picked up at the end of the shopping spree and each auntie would haul that booty home like a drug mule after tossing her oldest looking clothes on top in a vain attempt to “hide” her purchases while mentally working out how to squeak through customs without paying any fees…  It’s so prevalent that Kevin Kwan even references this in his Crazy Rich Asians trilogy.  But this is the catch – they weren’t being greedy.  They were being generous.  In Japanese culture, you bring presents to the people left behind as a sign that you were thinking of them while you were away.  Not just your family, but also coworkers, your hairdresser and classmates.  This is not  an optional thoughtful gesture but an obligation in a culture where hospitality and manners are held in the highest esteem.  It is stressful – if you forget someone, it’s a big deal.  So, yes – Asians may make a run for it when they see a Fendi store or a Coach outlet, but they’re probably thinking, “Thank God – that store is fully stocked & I can buy ALL of my omiyage (Japanese word for “gifts” although it means so much more) in one spot!!” Cost of goods stateside is often a fraction of what it is overseas and, of course, many Asians who have the means to travel to the U.S. on vacation or to  live here are financially well-off…. that’s good news, because they’re infusing our economy with their yen and yuan.  

If you get annoyed because they’re “pushy” (and some are – I was practically mowed down by a tourist at Versailles last week, because she was intent on getting an up-close look at some gaudy golden tchotchke), let me offer this perspective…  Instead of fighting traffic down the 405 in Irvine or trudging along PCH on a Friday night to some hot new brasserie, imagine you are trying to get on the subway at rush hour.  In downtown Tokyo.  At Shibuya station.  Seriously, commuters literally PUSH the human wall deeper into the sardine can, aka subway car, like cattle (Moooooooo….!) so that 1-2 more individuals can squeeze aboard before the doors close.  Shoulder to shoulder, boob to back, there is no room to move…  Cozy!  If that was your everyday state of normal, tell me  it wouldn’t be hard to get out of the pushy habit! 

Stereotypes – sometimes true, sometimes not.  Usually relatable, almost always funny.

RACISM:
My mom goes on food kicks – lemon meringue pie was big for awhile. Every Friday night for what felt like a century, my mom would bring out the fluffy citrus confection with aplomb after dinner plates were cleared.  Before that, she had discovered English muffins & tried every brand until she found a favorite (Thomas, of course) and that became breakfast EVERY DAY until we moved to a different house over a year later.  In my early 30s, practically every time I called my parents, they had just returned from Denny’s, because they apparently have the best chocolate malts (and a senior discount) – this led me to wonder about their cholesterol levels as well, but no matter.  Later they upgraded their craving to the chicken pot pie at the Grill On The Alley near their home (it IS really good), but when I was in college, my mom was in a phase where she couldn’t get enough of the cheddar biscuits from Red Lobster… don’t ask – I don’t know what prompted this unquenchable need for cheesy drop biscuits, but I have a hunch it had something to do with her love of a good deal and seafood.  In any case, there we were, waiting to order (probably post-outlet shopping).  When the waitress showed, my mom asked an innocuous question. 

“What?” the waitress said loudly. 
My mom asked again.

“I don’t under-staaand you.  Can you speak clearly?”

My mother repeated herself very slowly, this time with direct eye contact.

A huge, exaggerated sigh was emitted from the waitress. 

I quickly jumped in and asked the question, we got an answer, placed our order and the waitress retreated, but not before we heard her muttering under her breath that some people need to learn the fucking language, because this was America, after all.  I could feel my mother’s anger and humiliation burn across the table.  We said nothing.  We did not react.  We carried on.

 

Born & raised in Japan, my mom can’t say her r’s & l’s – she has tried in vain, but to no avail.  So in lieu of practicing r’s & l’s to satiate racists everywhere, she has spent the last 50 or so years living in the United States where she has served for decades both on the Board and as a volunteer for a nonprofit foundation for first-generation Japanese women living in America (to help them cope with loneliness & homesickness, to help them navigate resources in their communities, to send VHS recordings of Japanese shows to women where Japanese television was not available, to let other immigrants know that women just like them are sprinkled across the USA, supporting them).  She raised two daughters, published her writing in various Japanese journals & she has done so much more – I can’t think of anyone who goes out of their way more often to help others than my mom.  So I think she gets a pass on her r’s & l’s.  And this is coming from her daughter who graduated from UCRA, who she never told to marry a doctor.  I don’t know thousands of kanji (Chinese characters) & all of their dual meanings, so she also wins the literacy game. And yes – she has an accent, but she speaks and understands English better than I will ever speak/understand Japanese. 

All of this should be irrelevant.  But when individuals’ human value is reduced to a couple of consonants, they often feel the need to justify their existence.  As if that could quench the thirst of racism. 

This is but one of many little incidents that, no doubt, many children of immigrants can recall from their childhoods.  Or their experience earlier today.

Growing up, name-calling (obviously) took place.  It wasn’t like bullying where it happened day in and day out.  It was more of a sucker punch.  I would be skipping along the sunny path of life and then – BLAM! – I was reduced to a speck with the utterance of a dirty word. 

That time a kid took my beautifully sculpted diorama of Australia out of my hands, ripped out my beloved koala “pencil hugger” & threw it on the bus floor while yelling, “You’re nothin’ but a Jap!” 

That time my neighbor’s dad, with his sandy hair and handle-bar mustache, pulled me aside, squatted down at eye level and told me that the reason his daughter would never go to school with me was because all the (Vietnamese) refugees took up all the teachers’ time and it wasn’t fair, because white kids were smarter than the yellow kids.  Yes, he said yellow.

Slant eyes, unpure, China doll (objectification – yay!), half-breed, VC (cuz a kid could easily be mistaken for a Vietnamese Communist), and GI trash – just a few of the names that were thrown my way; even though they felt incongruous to my being, each one felt like a lashing, a reminder from someone that, in their book, I was shit.  That last name, GI Trash, stung more than the rest, because it reduced my parents’ love story to an act of wartime procreation.  My mother was (temporarily) disowned by her family, because she broke with tradition and married an outsider, a “G.I” who voluntarily dropped out of college to enlist in the Army after his best friend was killed in Vietnam.  My maternal grandparents reconciled with her through many tears after the birth of my sister one long year later.  My mother went on to love and support her husband and her family in an unknown country while my dad completed his Bachelor’s degree and, later, she held down the fort while he earned his MBA and law degrees.  But racism doesn’t see the struggles, the love, the sacrifices. 

That time a distant relative bragged about how my dad had saved my “Oriental mom” from China (again, my mom is Japanese) and how she must love her Kansas lifestyle compared to the “paper houses” from whence she came; and yet, like so many racists, he was ignorant of the fact that my mother’s family has a long, storied legacy of its own and, if one bases marriage purely on lineage and financial standing, it was actually my middle-class, Midwestern father who arguably”married up.”  Do not think it is lost on me that my grandparents initially rejected my mom’s choice in husband, because they may not have liked the color of his skin, either.

So much heartache because of assumptions; pride before comprehension.  And for what?

That time when, walking home from school, an ABC (American-born Chinese) friend told me that her parents said they thought I should have never been born, because races should never mix… umm, awkward.  We still had two blocks to go before she turned down her cul-de-sac….  needless to say, we are not Facebook friends, but I will always remember her name.

Growing up, I don’t remember ever having a conversation about any of these experiences, even with my Asian friends.  I think we all knew we shared a common bond and, at the time, I never thought my Caucasian friends would get it – when you’re a kid, all you care about is fitting in and having friends and not being the “weird one.”  I wasn’t about to start telling people about all of my “that times.” 

After one particularly jarring incident in college, I confided in some acquaintances immediately thereafter, hands still shaking, and they dismissed it – me – out of hand.  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way,” they had said.   They weren’t there…  how would they know?  I had felt it.  Seen it.  The silence in the crowded room had pierced right through me & the blood from the broken skin on the palms of my hands, the result of unconsciously digging my nails into my flesh after clenching my fists for the 30-minute walk home, well, that told the story they did not want to acknowledge.  The ugliness of hatred.

My parents taught me to keep my chin up & carry on.  Laugh the loudest or ignore the barbs outright.  Show the world that racist, misogynist, fill-in-the-blank bullshit could not break me or taint me.  React with lightness, not darkness. 

Rise up. Be better. 

When I read your post, written in August 2018, and I saw your picture, I thought, what a cute and perky twentysomething.  You look like the kind of girl who could have been in my study group in college or who I might have sweat alongside this morning at OrangeTheory. 

But my heart was pounding.  Memory after memory flashed through my mind as I read your ugly, racist rant… and the words you used!  Rice rockets?  Marry a docta?  How you described Asian women poaching “sucker Caucasian male lawyer friends” for dollars??  Where is the joke?  Who on Earth is laughing?  I’m not. 

Your post makes it all too clear that when we live in a world where people shamelessly – no, SELF-RIGHTEOUSLY – publish such vitriole on social media, we still have so much work to do.  

Life is too short to hate one close-minded, self-righteous racist, let alone all of them.  So I don’t hate you.  Reading your post makes me bone-tired – it brings age-old painful memories to the surface.  But I don’t hate you.  And changing your mind, well, only you can do that.  But here’s my challenge to you:

1. Travel.  No, darling, not to Paris (if you dislike Asian tourists already, the boutiques in Paris might serve as too great a challenge).  No, instead immerse yourself in a metropolitan Asian city.  Then explore.  Get lost, then ask for directions.  Oh & don’t forget to look for the obnoxious American tourist (there’s one in every group), shouting in slowly enunciated English at some poor shopkeeper who *only* speaks Hokkien, Cantonese, Mandarin and a little Japanese or Korean.
2. Take a language class.  Ok, not Spanish…  I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I already know too many people who believe Spanish is only useful so they can communicate with the gardener and nanny.  Anyone who grows up in SoCal knows a little Spanish & your (future?) gardener and nanny probably already speak 2-3 languages/dialects.  Instead, take on something with an unfamiliar alphabet – Russian, Cantonese, Greek, Japanese, Arabic, Korean.  Then go to a restaurant and try to order in the owner’s native tongue…  hard to do at Japanese restaurants in SoCal, since they’re mostly Korean-owned, but at least you can say you tried.
3. Teach English as a second language. Get a taste of how hard people work to get a firm grasp on a foreign language so they can thrive in the English-speaking world.  Go abroad to some little town outside Beijing or Nagasaki and teach.  Experience the kindness and hospitality offered to strangers, even to someone as unworthy as you (I say this not to be unkind, but to point out that someone who is blatantly racist & judgmental toward an entire group of people probably has not earned kindness…  undeserved kindness is often the most humbling & life-changing, though).

 

As an auntie in my own right, I am going to provide some unsolicited advice (something we Asian women are stereotypically known to do… see that?  haha – nobody is put down & it’s funny…  cuz it’s true). 

Here goes – Stop blaming your “dumb so-called friends” for sharing your toxic post and take responsibility for your role in this little physics experiment called “cause & effect” – you spewed racist, ignorant shit and you are receiving an opposite and equal reaction in response…  Own it & see this as a broader opportunity to conduct a little introspection.  Your weak attempts to cover your racist rant under the guise of humor or to pivot your followers toward a sad attempt at, well, what exactly WAS that “legal ramifications of apologies post” all about, anyways?  Nobody buys bullshit on the open market.

If you give yourself half a chance and put your racist assumptions to the test in the light of day, you will find that they will disintegrate.  Learning to live together in peace with equal opportunity and brotherhood as core central values  – while including numerous cultures, languages, upbringings, religions and more – that is not for the faint of heart, but it is what I believe we are called to do as Americans.  And we will not be successful at it if we hide behind our ignorant, tribal beliefs (yes, I believe racism has a tribal, primal element to it).  

As a young person who is racist, you are already behind the curve as far as the advancement of humankind.  Asians – we’re not leaving.  Hispanics – not leaving.  Blacks & Arabs & Persians – standing strong.  Why make enemies when you can instead make friends and, more importantly, break bread with people from different places and eat some of their insanely delicious foods?  

One last word, as an Amerasian…  many of us have babies and they are like social ninjas – blue-eyed, blond-haired stunners, black-eyed, cocoa-skinned beauties and everything in between.  These kids devour the foods of their grandparents’ homelands with gusto.  They are raised with a deep respect for their ah-mas and Obaachans as well as love and pride in their rich, multicultural heritage.  My children are just as proud of their Japanese lineage as they are of their French & Italian roots.  As they should be.  These people will be your coworkers and your bosses or the boy (or girl) you are crushing on and you will find that your toxicity, your racism – should you choose NOT to address it – will be even more isolating.  

Sincerely,

A Proud Biracial American & Bruin, Class of 1997