Your fake “Asian accents” are not harmless and silly, because at the root of the joke, it says - you, you are stupid. You cannot speak English. You are Other. You do not belong.
my parents have been in this country for 30 years. They have been American citizens for 30 years.
And they are very self-conscious of their imperfect English, afraid that it makes them look ignorant, knowing that it marks them as immigrants. That, after 30 years, you can still be told (in not so many words) that you do not belong.
The Cultural Revolution started in China when my father was 13. He was pulled out of school and, later, sent to work in the fields. (He escaped to Hong Kong when he was 18, but that is another story for another time.)
When my father came to this country, he had a middle school education and did not speak a lick of English. He worked as a busboy at a Chinese restaurant, the evening shift that ran until 3 or 4 in the morning, and went to school during the day.
It took my father ten years to earn his bachelor’s degree. He is now an engineer.
Is this not your “American Dream?”
When my mother came to this country, she spoke very little English. She got a job as an entry level clerk. Over the years she earned one promotion after another. She is now management at a large federal agency, and manages funds for the whole state.
Is this not your “American Dream?”
And my father didn’t understand why his coworkers said, “flied lice, flied lice!” to him over and over and laughed.
And my father is still afraid to speak in a professional setting, even when he has ideas.
And my mother still checks and double checks her professional e-mails with me, for fear of mockery from the same people she manages.
And people don’t understand why I can’t take a harmless joke. Why I don’t think that shit is funny.
Spending time with my seven-year-old friendâletâs call her Angieâalways brings up a number of unanswerable questions.
When I asked myself how I was doing at Duke, I could calculate my GPA and pull up my resume. Midterms and finals might be one-dimensional metrics, but at least they spit out an answer. Here’s a revelation: After you graduate, you don’t get grades. And only in their absence have I recognized my addiction.
Grades are a terror and an inconvenience and a burden, but most of all, they’re a comfort. They tell you how you’re doing. In theory, bad grades mean you work harder; good grades mean you’re home-free. An admirable student doesn’t master the material for the grade, but the grade tells her she’s mastered the material. Yet my post-grad world won’t give me a report card, and I’ve made the uncomfortable realization that the roles I want to play as an adult don’t come with performance metrics. There will never be an objective, uncontestable answer to the question of whether or not I’m a good friend, sister, mother or physician. There will never be a point at which I’m home-free.
Something I was thinking about the other day while complaining that I didn’t have answers to a problem set I was doing and found myself constantly questioning myself. There are no solutions you can Google in real life.
I think that if voldemort really wanted to kill harry potter the night the spell didn’t work on him he could’ve just picked him up and thrown him out a window given the fact that he was a one year old infant
Being an asian fetishizer does not make you a nerd, it makes you racist.
How about instead of finals we just skip straight to the part where you cry in your room alone