216 Tao

I was at the comedy club again last night, and this time there were five different comics, and each one took their stab at me [my fault for sitting so close], and each one made their “Hey look at the Chinese, South Korean [which was new], or Asian guy -- he’s different, everybody stare and laugh!”

Am I funny? Am I funny looking? Is it that easy to laugh at me? How did it come to be this?

There might be people that would love to chime in and throw those two cents, but there have only been a couple people in Ohio, a couple in California, a few in Jersey, and one in Mississippi that I’ve been able to talk to about this.

Kristalyn said, “You’d be happier in California.” And at times I do start to believe her, not that sunshine, beaches, and traffic jams would be my “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” but she knows it would mean just a little less judgment. When I was there, I was nothing -- like I said before, I was translucent, because I was just another guy of some other ethnic descent. You can have your food, your customs, and your beliefs, but at the same time you don’t have to accept complete assimilation. Identity growth, verses identity defense, and that has been so much of who I have -- self identity based on the defense.

When I was a teacher, I remember saying, “it’s important to test your beliefs in order to know if they have the strength to stand on their own merits.” But defending yourself all the time gets tiresome and then you learn to stay silent. You let the ignorant talk. Correcting, educating, or whatever ethnic mentorship people would like to staple on it becomes the last thing you want to do.

That’s what I thought about when I was at Kathy’s wedding, yamikas and sushi, Yiddish and Vietnamese, but all of us -- family. My Aunt Van and Uncle Phung had just gotten back from a Lakers game and joined us all at Kathy and Kevin’s apartment, and somehow we were all watching “Road to Perdition.” My Aunt Van dropped her purse and sat cross-legged in front of the television. My Uncle told us about the game, and then she silenced him and asked Kevin in Vietnamese, “Who is that man that was just shot?” Kevin looked at her. Then we all looked at her. Still watching the TV, now speaking louder, she said, and again in Vietnamese, “What is his name, the one with the gun?” Kathy yelled out, “What are you thinking, Ma, he doesn’t speak Vietnamese!”

And that was the beauty -- she had forgotten, and he was family. A Jewish man mistaken for just another Vietnamese. And their wedding became a protest against yamikas and for more fresh sushi, Yiddish and Vietnamese, but all of us family.

Now please play powerful and heart-tugging Forest Gump orchestra music.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 27 at 4:33 PM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.