June 12, 2004

“To Escort or to Be Escorted”

I think fate is setting me up to revolt against the rest of the “civilized,” Asian world.

As for the subtle recognition of this problem, I kind of see it as more of a form of taunting more than anything else. While my house is being gassed, err…fumigated, I have to claim temporary residence over at the Days Inn not too far from South High. Everyone else and their mothers jetted off to Las Vegas for the weekend, and all I get out of it is half an hour of soft porn (which was very enjoyable, but not very impressive) and a small third of a king size bed. (There were actually two beds, and my brother got his own, a consequence of my extended time at work.) The dogs took up more of the third by cutting the circulation off to my ankles. Unfortunately, my time at work warrants me as vulnerable to only receiving “whatever is left.” I have no right to first choice. That only belongs to the Asian male.

Ahh…the Asian male. Or rather, males in general. These are the ones that have the full privilege of not taking responsibility for anything. These are the ones that have no reason to come home at decent times of the night. These are the ones who can get away with smart remarks and only have it deems as a factor in “boyhood.” I am the precious Asian flower that must be protected at all costs, including that of my own dignity and obvious level of responsibility.

It’s one of those things that make every assertive and self-made Asian woman scream, “That penis looks useful…perhaps I’ll go get one of those.”

Let’s get this straight. If I act like my brother does I immediately get yelled at and projected as a “manipulative and ungrateful liar.” I’d much rather take “male without a penis” as a compliment. It makes me hate being Asian at times. I am aware that the rice fumes have gotten to their heads, but boy (no pun intended), do I dream of filming exactly the way they treat me and then shoving it in their faces. Isn’t it obvious that they are a billion times more liberal to him than they are to me? To this day I cannot sleep over at a person’s house, even if it is a girl, unless it has to do with academics. My brother can pretty much sleep anywhere (might as well add “sleep with” but he’s not like that…at least the version of my brother that I know). I get called at 9PM about my whereabouts when my brother can be gone for a whole damn night before they get worried.

I prefer to call myself the precious Asian cactus (they’re flowers too!). I am much tougher than I’m supposed to be, if that word can be used properly in this context. I really don’t like calling myself an Asian female much…it carries with itself centuries and eons of female submission and absurd forms of etiquette that have more or less condemned future generations to toiling and grinding to their ultimate achievements, only to be stymied by an invisible glass ceiling set forth by the people who are supposed to be the authority to all things earthly.

Being here at Starbucks (in the middle of Torrance might I add) at 1AM gives me a great opportunity to observe Asian gender roles in action. I see the females either quiet, submissive, or bluntly, being grabbed by their Asian counterparts. I see too much hugging and kissing. I see kids staying out “just to be cool.” Most of them are Asian males. To my surprise, no? And such nice converted Toyotas and Integras too! If that guy to my left kisses her again, I’ll throw my drink at both of them. The smooching makes me sick…and they’re still going at it. I’ll probably make a career out of broadcasting with this ability to express the visual. And dammit, stop pretending to be Black! (At this point, I’m not a fan of either Asian or Black mannerisms…especially the ones that have to do with aggressively taking parking spaces that they had obviously overshot. Goodness…there are other spaces out there.)

Of course, I forgot to mention how I got to Starbucks in the first place, which also in turn provides the source for my apparent aggravation.

I had left Days Inn a little after 11AM with a mission to go south and visit the big Ikea in Costa Mesa and to also get myself a bread bowl of clam chowder at the only place that I can consider (as of this time) the only legit source for sourdough bread and soup. After a quick swing at McDonalds, I travel down the 405 to Fountain Valley to see the Fry’s Electronics and its medieval themes, making a list of possible DVDs to bootleg once I got a DVD burner. After that, I travel to Costa Mesa, visit Ikea and finalize my choices for furniture for the ongoing room renovation project, The Container Store and have a bowl of specialty French onion soup and half a chicken pizza at the Boudin Bakery (which was very tasty might I add). Then, I go to UCI and visit both Jimmy and Kim, hanging out with boba, CAMS memories, and a random plate of chicken teriyaki. And…on my way home, the fun begins.

“Hello?”

“Yes…do you have a game tonight?” my dad asks.

“Yeah, I do.”

“What time?”

“10:30.”

“And where are you?”

“Driving back to Long Beach.”

“From where?”

“A little past Westminster.” (I was actually still passing through Costa Mesa.)

“Ok. Your mom and I will meet you at the rink when the game is done to escort you back home because you will be tired.

And I’m extremely confused, more of angered, by their ability to recognize the decision that I had made. So, in their further attempts to hang on to me, they decide to go out of their way (which later became extremely unnecessary) to make sure that I got home safely. So, I play my game, which turned into an 8-1 blowout that ended my shutout streak with the Timberwolves at 216:24 and left me extremely bored for 60 minutes with two legitimate shots on goal and very energetic to write such a long tirade.

[On a side note, my “mother!” has left very annoying messages 01:20:36AM telling me to return home because it’s late. I could use that penis right about now…]

So, after having to waste minutes on deleting unnecessary voicemails, my dad comes with mom and brother in tow. My dad tells me to hand the keys over to my brother and I have to basically tell him that I really just didn’t play. He even gets angry at me when I said that “I’m going to Starbucks because I want to write something” because he thought that I said “I’m tired of waiting here.” I might as well have said that. I get on the freeway and exit at Avalon instead of Carson (I know better that the Avalon/Del Amo McDonalds is open 24 hrs.). I order my food and park to eat it because they say that they didn’t want me to eat and drive at the same time. I really wish I was dilatory about that action. Unfortunately, I’m not one for eating slowly unless I really wanted to savor the moment.

This instance of parental supervision has been incredibly absurd, taking into account my current age and the fact that my parents still have to drive me to hockey. I have missed so many opportunities to enjoy pizza and root beer with fellow teammates because my dad did not want to wait outside for me. In the first place, he does not have to do that. If I had driven myself, I could do what I want when I want. I cannot come up with any equivalents for my brother because he does not partake in physical activity that uses more than his fingers on a keypad.

[Ironically, he was nominated for “Who’s Who in American High Schools: Sports Edition. I had been nominated 4 times for the normal academic one, but never recognized for my extensive work in ice and roller hockey. Which brings me to another thought…why have his grades been allowed to slip ridiculously low to the point that he has bought himself disqualification from a regular Cal State? I mean, you’re heard my stories of possible school transfers and subliminal tapes. According to my parents, since he’s “not me,” they have to be easier on him. Obviously, this makes absolutely no sense, especially when they attribute my success to the fact that they kept pushing me to work to the best of my abilities. I sense only a slight disparity, only a slight one. I think my Asian-creased eyes are also visually impaired.]

The final verdict? I am guilty of operating beyond the parameters set forth by both the female gender and the Asian culture. There is no point in me arguing this to my parents because they are set in their ways. I must carry the responsibility of being dynamic on my shoulders because it is the only way that I can live…as an American.