Admitting My Skin

Admitting My Skin
Ken Ruan
CUNY Hunter College

It is strange. It is weird. It is absurd. It is redundant. It is a waste of time. It is feckless. It is obvious who I am and what skin I am in. These are my reactions to my friend when he reported that he was taking an Asian American-related course. I frowned in distaste and drew my eyebrows together. “You are Asian and you’re in America, why do you need to take a course about yourself? Haven’t you looked at yourself enough in the mirror?” I suppose my ignorant, stupid, and mildly unattractive comment has trouble reconciling with my later decision to take an Asians In America course. But I continue to question myself even after I left the class equipped and armed with new knowledge about my race and ethnicity. But did I somehow selectively remember key facts and filter out unattractive information, only retaining information that was kind and mellow to my wax-filled ears? Perhaps it was easier to swallow and to medicate the current rut that Asian Americans claim to face in “society,” or how we like to reify society so that we can place blame on it all at once instead of fine-tuning/fixing ourselves first.

As a recently introduced and enthusiastic activist for Asian Americans, I experience a tidal wave of emotions amid dying flames of interest. On some days I care about my “community” and on other days I could care less because I want to spend more time preening in the mirror and exaggerating my own business (feigning self-importance). My passion to help is only ignited when there is widespread outrage surrounding a certain situation. Otherwise I practice the stereotypical routine: Mind your own business, keep your mouth shut, and extricate yourself from involvement. Involvement leads to bad things. Being quiet is the best policy. But practicing neutrality or repressing my emotions (outrage) cannot be the current state of affairs for me. I figured that it was time to “stand up for what [I know] is right” and to make myself heard. Power is demonstrated in numbers and I have witnessed this in civil rights protest, led by the charismatic King Jr. But who do I have as a community leader? Who do I summon or even refer to when attacks are visited upon Asian Americans? There is no way that the only persons I can summon from memory is Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee. Perhaps John Liu. Perhaps Goku. Or maybe we can irritate Helen Zia. Times like these, I want to grab the microphone and approach the podium with fierce passion and zeal. I want to be the voice for Asian Americans … once I break out of my shy shell and overcome my evil Napoleon complex. But being the voice or poster-child comes with great responsibility and a burden of representation. My community needs me. Now I tremble and abscond to the comfort of my tiger mother.

When I attend Asian American workshops and events, I hear the word “community” recycled a lot and the phrase “let’s stick together” commandeer an eruption of applause. But after the vociferous crowd and makeshift atmosphere of solidarity dissipated, I realized that “community” was invisible. It existed in my mind as Benedict Anderson calls “imagined communities.” When I submit phrases online such as “All my fellow Asians, let us stick together. We got each other’s backs!”, I am imagining a community of Asian American persons all “standing up for their rights.” Somehow (in my careless and carefree mind) the Columbus Park incident in NYC came to mind. My “fellow” Asian Americans spread the video clip of police officers subduing an elderly musician online. This clip spread like wildfire. Immediately Asian students joined in calypso and vilified the police officers involved. The rest of the Facebook community followed suit and displayed virtual solidarity. They cursed the police out, going as far as using Kanye West’s lyric/condemnation of the police. Stereotypes were hurled around like it was nobody’s business. Immaturity erupted and trolling occurred. By the end of the night, a Facebook page was devoted to Asian American rights and the bashing of police. After observing this, I developed an aversion towards virtual protests and checkbook activism which Robert Putnam terms (In twenty-first century, there is amazing decline in civic participation). A protest outside the precinct was scheduled. When the day arrived (a community board meeting actually), no more than twenty persons who clicked “Attending” showed up. Somehow if power in numbers rings true, the community board meeting proved terrible support from the Asian American community. Or maybe we [Asian Americans] were too busy fiddling with chopsticks and perpetually preparing for an endless line of law school/medical exams. Weak. Feeble. Trembling. Fear. Quiet.

I always refer to myself as a human. When people ask me, “Are you Chinese?” I respond “I am human.” I negate the very existence of my race and in sum, I nullify my entire lineal history. In doing this, I deny my heritage, leaving only one day (Chinese New Year) out of an entire year to celebrate what it means to be Chinese American, to be Asian American. To stare at my yellow skin no matter how hard I try to whitewash it. To stretch out on my sofa and try to discern TVB dramas with a Chinese-English dictionary. To try to adore Raymond Lam. Somehow these are not the authentic ways to be Chinese American. So what is it to be Asian American? Let me spare DuBois from rolling around in his grave: perhaps I face double consciousness and I am not certain which part of me is more worth embracing, the Asian or American side. Right now, I am aware that White man, nice clothes, hot women, and fast cars are a portal I cannot refuse. I prefer the American side. I dispel the Asian side because “we [Asian Americans] have too many problems going on with us.” Perhaps we should stop selling bootlegged DVDs and knockoff Gucci’s. But my friend’s mother often patronizes from these vendors. To be serious for once, my mother slaves in a sweatshop and I deny her typical immigrant experience by terming her employment as “seamstress,” professionalizing it and glorifying it when in actuality, my mother does not smile and she does not consider any part of it glorious. To be bolted to a seat and to endure many hours around fabric while imbibing dust is nothing close to glamor (compare to character’s mother in Jean Kwok’s Girl In Translation). Or the American dream.

I am not one hundred percent convinced or sold that being an activist at all times is the route I want to travel. I am not fuelled on a daily basis. I am not inspired. Does this mean that solidarity and community can only arise when a tragic incident occurs? At the moment, I can only hope the answer is No. But my gut feeling is that every day of my life, I put myself first and other people second. If an event is not worth fighting for, I will choose my battles (wisely or ignorantly) and continue to let other fellow Asians deal with the situation. I am one person. I cannot possibly make a difference. When a team is assembled, it is most likely going to use the tactic of strategic essentialism: use the Asian race as a trump card to usher in rights and respect because we are looked down upon/“oppressed.”

Taking that class was a great idea because I got the three credits. I met some cute girls. I learned who Omi and Winant is, and who Vincent Chin is. I look in the mirror and I cannot empathize all the time. I can only sympathize when I want to. I can only form a community when I want to. Otherwise I will go on with my business and ignore the fact that an Asian person has been victimized. Assuming that “it won’t happen to [me]” is far from being sensible. But I think that. We think that. Do we not think that? Or should we live in fear that something can happen to us? Something can happen to you. More the reason to “have each other’s backs” right? Am I right?