When the University student survey asked me about my ethnicity last year, I didn’t identify myself as “Asian-American.” Instead I checked the “Other” option and typed in “Japanese-Canadian.” Then I wrote an angry letter back to the surveyors about how it was inappropriate for them to exploit my ethnic background in order to say that Georgetown was “diverse.” But, although “Japanese Canadian” is technically correct, deep down I was tempted to identify myself as “white,” for reasons of accuracy.
Some people, including my “Asian/Pacific Islander” girlfriend, describe such behavior as that of a “hater.” I put the word in quotations just in case it’s some sort of racial slur. As far as I can tell, a “hater” is somebody who scorns his minority identity and emulates a “white” identity. In any case, the connotation is negative. Am I a “hater?” Maybe, but I’m recovering.
In high school, I was definitely a “hater.” My one Asian friend spoke Chinese, French and English, with no discernable accent in the latter. For a “hater,” that was important. We met junior year, but before her I had few other Asian friends. As a “hater” I found Asians uncool because of their “Asian pride” mantra or else their obnoxiously “Fobby” characteristics. (“Fobby,” as opposed to “hater,” is definitely a racial slur as it derives from “FOB” which stands for “Fresh off the boat”). Although, I hung out with my one Asian friend, I still kept my distance from “Asian” activities like going for bubble tea or singing karaoke. Tellingly, I would do both with my non-Asian friends. My Asian friend often teased me for being “white-washed,” as she always knew me in the context of a preppy, future good-old-boy who attended backyard barbeques and drank pints at Irish taverns.
My condition in high school is best illustrated by an incident on “prospective student night.” Part of being head prefect at a all-boys private school involved marketing the school at info sessions with parents who were deciding where to send their kids. During the question period, one observant parent noticed a discrepancy between the school pamphlet, which touted a diverse student body, and the line up of students at the meeting, who were mostly white. The equally sly recruitment director forwarded his query about the matter to me, thinking that, “our Head Prefect would be the best person to answer this question.” In an instant, the heat began to burn under my tightly buttoned collar, sweat began to form on my head, and my propensity to smile when offended/embarrassed came into full bloom.
Why the mixture of offense and embarrassment? After all, I was an “ethnic” student who held a major leadership position at the school. It was the feeling that the cube-shaped recruitment officer was using me for something I honestly felt I didn’t have. Did I add “diversity” to the student body? Not really. But with all eyes expecting a public relations extravaganza I mentioned that I was “Japanese-Canadian,” last year’s head prefect was “Greek” and I had a ton of Jewish friends. I was specifically careful to avoid the use of the word “Asian” to describe my ethnicity, not only because I didn’t associate with a stereotypical “Asian” mold, but because I was embarrassed of that association.
Fortunately, my beliefs have taken a new route. Two things have spurred this. I recognized, in the first place, that the stereotype of the “Asian American” is not only offensive, but also distinct from another very positive image-that of the North American who is proud of their ethnic heritage, whether it be Asian, South Asian, Middle Eastern, European, African, Latin American etc. I know this sounds trite but phrased differently I’m feeling the “cool to be ethnic” tune.
The second factor has been my immersion into the nebulous of Asian activities on campus: Club Flip and South Asian Society parties, Chinese Student Alliance events and dinners. Hanging out in rooms full of students with Asian backgrounds has an odd effect of counteracting the feeling of being a “minority,” a term I always found to be negative. Another thing that helped reinforce this particular point was a trip to Orange County, CA, where being Asian is the norm.
The transformation was especially evident over Christmas holiday, when I went home to my high school. It wasn’t the same. Luckily, my one Asian friend was home from NYU instead of traveling off to Hong Kong, for the first time since we both graduated. Having not seen each other for over two years, we decided to meet up to catch up on life. The location? A bubble tea caf in Toronto’s Chinatown, called Chez Maxime that is completely staffed by Chinese Canadians. As I entered the establishment few eyes gazed in my direction and for once I didn’t feel the heated embarrassment of doing something typically “Asian-American.”
Kazuo Oishi is a junior in the school of Nursing and Health Studies and the Editorial Board Chair of The Georgetown Voice. There’s nothing more delicious than a Japanese Canadian.
