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I watch as the girls flip their perfectly styled blond hair behind their shoulder, and lay their manicured hands on their laps, their long legs dangling. I stare at their glossed nails, and notice the brush strokes move in a backward motion. My mom must have painted their nails.

Kathy swaggers to the table, a serving of fries and a pizza on her lunch tray. Her boyfriend, Johnny goes back in the line to grab her some napkins. She always forgets napkins or a fork.

“Hey,” she says wistfully as she sits down. “What’s up?”

Johnny sets a tower of napkins on the table and sits next to her.

I shrug and take off my navy blue hoodie. “I don’t know, not much. You?”

“Nothing. Where’s your lunch?” She looks at the empty space on the lunch table in front of me.

“Oh yeah, I didn’t have enough money to buy lunch. My parents didn’t have enough cash to give me.”

“Awe, I’m sorry. Here, you can have some of my lunch.”

“Thanks haha. You know I love you?”

“Yeah I know… Hey who’s that?”

She points to a girl with a huge purse and freshly manicured nails. Her hair is in a bun, and she walks with a purpose. I’ve never seen her before, but she looks familiar. She wears bright purple glasses. She’s one of us.

An meets the girl midway to our table, and hands her something. The girl slides it into her huge purse. They walk over here, Anne sitting to my right and the girl sitting besides her.

“An,” I say blankly.

“Dalina,” she snickers. “This is my friend Breanna, she’s new here.”

“Hey,” I say to her.

“Hi,” she smiles shyly.

“Yo Dalina?” someone calls from across the room. It’s Brandi, one of my White friends.

“Say something Asian for my friend here!”
“I don’t know Asian, sorry.” I take a fry from Kathy, irritated.

“What does ching chang chong mean?”


I roll my eyes. I hate it when people fool around with stupid stereotypes like that. “I don’t know!”

“I don’t care, just say something Asian!”

I snicker. “DU MA!” I yell at him, playfully, laughing because nobody outside my group knows what du ma means.

He laughs anyway, pleased. “Promise you won’t eat my dogs and cats!”

Why do people say things like that, even though they’re joking? It’s racial; I certainly do not eat cats and dogs— none of my friends do. It’s stupid to even think that. Some day, my people will rule the world, and then jokes about dogs and cats won’t be tolerated.

“I don’t eat cats! I don’t eat dogs!” I verify.

“Okay, calm down, I was only joking. Jeez.”

It doesn’t matter if he was joking. I really hate it when people don’t understand how hard it is being Asian. Asians have it hard in America. The Chinese have dominated the cloths cleaners, and the Vietnamese with the nail salons. That’s what they’re known for. And all the other Asians trickle in Asian food restaurants. Everyday I have a White Person asking me, ‘Do you know a girl? She’s Asian, brown hair, brown eyes, glasses”. Honestly, I just want to reach to their eye level and say, ‘Do you know a white person? She has a face”. It’s the same idea, means the same thing.

There are different types of Asians, that’s the first thing White People have to understand. To be a Twinkie means you’re yellow on the outside, white on the inside (Asian version of an Oreo), you’ve never heard of Asian trends, and that you don’t care. An Asian American is stuck in between being Asian and White; they’ve heard of Asian trends, and have a litter interests in the Asian inside them. A FOB (Fresh Off the Boat) means that you were not born in America, you have an Asian accent, and you’re parents do not speak English and that you don’t have any non-Asian friends. A Super FOB basically means you just recently moved to America, and that you barely speak English. A Gangsta FOB identifies with gangster Asians; you’ve shot another Asian… you’re basically just like another gangster but Asian. Those are the main categories of the different Asians. There’s also TAB (Trendy Asian Bitch), Hoobie TAB, and Rice-Boy, but those aren’t very important.

I’m a cross between an Asian American and a FOB. My parents are Viet (Vietnamese, speak English well as their native language, and own a nail salon), I was raised with both the English and Viet languages, and all my friends are Asians with just a couple White People. I keep myself educated of Asian trends.

“So what do you think of Breanna?” An asks me as we walk to class.

“She’s cool I guess. I don’t really know her.”

“She’s one of us,” An states with a wink.

“Yeah I know that. She’s a Twinkie.”

“How can you tell?”

“She just is. Remember she said she’s adopted? She’s raised by White People. I bet she doesn’t even know what Boba is.”

“Oh, true that. Speaking of Boba, you want to get some after school?”

“Sure, but the others will have to come with us, if that’s cool.” I way to one of my White friends as we weave through the high school traffic jam of fourth period.

“Which ones?”

“Um, Tuan’s driving me home, Hien is ridding with us, and Sang, and Jessica are going to have to come too.”

An raises her eyebrow. “I can drive, you know.”

“Du ma I forgot! I will love you forever if you drive me. I need Boba so bad right now!”

“Haha, ok, I’ll meet you after school at the library.”

“Okay. I love you! You’re my home-girl.”

*

Mr. Smith strolls around the white cubical with his hands tied behind his back, a ruler dangling from the opening of his fingers. The uncomfortable, metal chairs with build-in desks are filled with lousy student who would rather be at a concert or with their friends at the mall.

“Your speech was supposed to represent your role in high school; how you view your effect on our community, and how others view you. Unfortunately, I only received ten speeches instead of twenty-four. Those of you who actually did what you were supposed to do will be receiving extra-credit. For everyday that you do not hand in your speech, ten points will be deducted.”
The air in the classroom yawns. I pull out some saltine crackers that I take from the lunchroom and under-the-desk-pass them around to my friends in the class. Within seconds, I can hear the sounds of slow chewing crackers fill my ears.

“Who is brave enough to read their speech first?” Mr. Smith claps his hands once, and pulls a thin layer of papers from his desk. “How about, Dalina?”

I frown. “No thank you.”

“If you don’t read your speech, you won’t get credit”.

“Ugh,” I moan. I hate the attention of standing in front of the class. I place my paper on the podium, and realize that I’m too short to see over the top. The class smirks. Mr. Smith chuckles a little, and then grabs a stool from the corner and places it by my feet. I hop on, and clear my throat. “Math isn’t my best subject,” I say bluntly. “I don’t get all A’s, I’m not an overachiever, and I won’t do your homework. I don’t know what ching chang chong means. I’m not Chinese or Japanese or anything related to that; I don’t eat dogs, cats, or any other farm animals. I don’t know karate or any type of martial arts. I’m not related to that girl who knows that girl, or that guy. I don’t like rice— in fact I hate it. But I do work at the nail salon that my parents own, I do know some Viet, and I love Boba and Asian food. I can’t sing very well, and I love kiwi (it’s an Asian thing). I eat chicken everyday. Most of my friends are Asian; a lot of them are FOB. I listen to Alex Thao, and I love him. And every day, I have to ask myself why so many White People have Tumblr. The End.”

The room gives a weak applaud. I don’t care. I finally admitted that I’m an Asian disappointment to the White People who would kill to know what ching chang chong really means.

Andrew Kelson raises his hand. “So, does that mean you’re one of the Failing Asians? You a Chink? You walk funny?”

“I just said I’m not Chinese! And it's called swag! Somthing We Asians Got!"

"So you're a stupid Asian?"

"In my heart, only a few can understand where I’m coming from. I’m struggling everyday, but I still strive to be number one.”




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destroyer said...
Nov. 24, 2010 at 9:50 pm:
wow, i never realized that those catigories of asians exist. 
 
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