Not that the day did much to address racism. It started with a clip from The Breakfast Club, followed by a conversation about stereotypes. A fine movie and activity having nothing to do with race. There was a doughnut-eating contest to the song “Roxanne,” where students attempted to eat a small Entenmann’s powdered doughnut each time the Police sang the name. Perhaps the most “compelling” activity was when the group responded to yes/no questions, and those who answered yes had to cross the room to the other side, then make eye contact with somebody on the opposing side. Questions like, Are you an only child? Do you have a 3.5 GPA or higher? Do you sometimes feel lonely? Again, I don’t remember any questions related to race. (J says the only ones he remembers were asked by a creepy man on the school board: Do you have a secret tattoo? Do you have a secret piercing? Perturbed, none of the teens crossed the room.) Now, looking back, I don’t recall any discussion of race at any Friendship Day I attended, except for a brief mention, at the beginning, that the event was founded in response to the “racially motivated” murder of Thong Hy Huynh on our very own campus. Perhaps it has changed in the years since. I would hope so.
Rob texts me. He invites “you and your boyfriend” to come over for a “small party/show” at his place. J lies on the couch watching YouTube videos of animal chiropractors cracking cat backs and readjusting dog hips. His new hobby that I do not allow him to practice on our animals. When I double- and triple-check on his attendance, he shakes his head. He’s worked another long day. And in the hour since he’s come home, he’s not moved from the couch, not taken his eyes off the videos, not spoken more than a few sentences to me.
“But it would be good for you to do something fun,” I say.
He finally looks up from his phone. “Going to a drug dealer’s party doesn’t sound fun.”
“I told you he’s not a drug dealer. That was just once.”
“Sure, that’s what he said to you.” He looks back to the phone. “Sorry, I’m tired, I still don’t want to go.”
His lack of attendance never bothered me before, but now, our differences feel starker, like whatever is between us is stretching cavernously wide, a gorge cut away deeper and deeper, too dangerous to cross. And yet, it is also a relief to go without him.
Rob is offering me a beer. In preparation for this occasion, I took one pill of Pepcid AC on the walk. I pull another out of my pocket to take with the first drink.
“Does it actually help?” he asks.
“It does.” I tell him about one of my Korean friends in college who carried an entire bottle in his pocket at all times. Pop ’em like candy, he’d say, and dole them out to the rest of us.
Rob laughs. The sound is full and genuine and a little bit frightening, like waves crashing to shore.
“I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about that,” he says. “Never had any issues. Must be an advantage of the white genes.”
“Yes, one of many.” Now I am laughing. It feels good.
He asks where my boyfriend’s at. I say, Home. He’s tired; he works a lot.
“Oh,” says Rob. “Well, I’m glad you made it out.”
Is it wrong in this moment to want to touch his face, to have that sudden urge to press yourself against another person?
This is the type of party where half the people have known each other since they were in diapers (they hug, they wrestle, they grope, they kiss one another) and the other half don’t know anybody. (“How do you know Tom/Rob/Daniel/Yan?” “Oh, I don’t, really.” “I’m here because a friend of a friend knows a guy in the band.” “I’m here because I work with somebody who knows one of them.”) It’s a healthy party mix—there is a sense of camaraderie that the strangers can lean into, melded with a sense of the unknown for the old friends to feed off of. Everybody is comfortable or drunk. People exchange numbers. They make exclamations to hang out at a later date. But it is temporary. My voice sounds like another person’s voice. I talk to hundreds of strangers with it. Then there is live music played by an energetic group of men in their midtwenties to late thirties, including Rob on bass. But it turns out I hate the music, which is mostly screaming and loud drums. It reminds me of high school. For a moment, I feel sad for them, these grown men holding on to their teenage years, but then I feel sad for myself, because I don’t have anything that I am as excited about as they are about their band and its ear-piercing music. Carrying this sadness, which feels both delicate and heavy, like a big glass mirror, I decide it’s time for me to go.
At the door, there appear to be nine hundred pairs of shoes. Mine are somewhere in the mass. It is astonishing that this many people would take their shoes off to enter a party. I remember a white friend who, when asked to please take off her shoes upon entering a no-shoes house, responded, No, I don’t feel like it, and stomped in, boots on. I think of J, whom I often need to remind. What a mature party with mature people wanting to keep a place clean of immature dirt. Then there’s that scream-singing from the living room. No, it doesn’t make sense. People should keep their shoes on at parties to make for easier exits. I scan the pile, then sift, then dig. Finally, I find my black ankle boots beneath a pair of worn sneakers. I start to walk out. Except, no. My feet don’t feel right. Something to do with the toes or the arch. I look closer. The shoes aren’t mine. I take them off, disgusted. Then I reconsider. They do fit. I could put them back on. They look almost the same as my shoes, maybe even a little newer, slightly less scratched up. I could leave, as I had been intending to do, so, so long ago, it feels like. A sea of shoes. An eternity. The screaming continues. The vibrations of the drum pulse up through the floor.
The other woman’s boots are nicer. That’s why I can’t take them. If they were worse off than my boots, I could. I would. In which case, whomever these shoes belong to could take my shoes as an upgrade. It’s only okay to take someone’s shoes without permission if you’re leaving behind an upgrade. That’s the rule. That’s my rule. You must leave something better behind for those from whom you steal. I try on the worn sneakers. They’re too big. Clearly belonging to a man. They smell sweaty. I shake them off. I try on a few pairs of flats. None have the right feel, the right vibe, the right aura. Then, just because I see them glimmering, I put on a pair of block-heeled midcalf boots made of pebbled gold leather. They’re beautiful and strange, like a rare species of fish. I’d never wear them out. I’d never be able to pull them off. I can’t pull them off. I truly can’t pull them off. I’ve shoved my too-large feet into somebody else’s too-small shoes. The music has stopped. Standard party sounds resume. My feet are suffocating. I sweat, worrying that the owner of the shoes will find me like this and press charges. What charges? Theft? Assault? Of shoes? She’ll tell everyone of my disturbing, untrustworthy behavior—a fetish, they’ll call it—and I’ll be ostracized in this tiny town, even though, I’ll swear again and again, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die, I’ve never done anything like this before, I’d give them back if I weren’t trapped in them.
Somebody walks by but doesn’t notice me in my plight. I pull and tug and pull and tug. And finally, the golden shoes come off. Never have I felt so relieved, so freed, so lucky! Then I remember I still haven’t found my own pair. Everything is terrible again. The pile has doubled in size. It is an ever-growing hoard of shoes. This is purgatory. I am being punished for something I’ve done in a previous life. I jilted somebody, I stabbed somebody, I was a colonizer, I ruined lives. Another somebody asks me if I’m okay, and I tell them, in a voice so calm it surprises me, Yes, just looking for my shoes. Good luck, they say. I’m being punished for something I’ve done in this life, in this recent life. This is karma working against me. For all my secrets and my bad thoughts and bad behavior, for my not being good enough.
Rob and his bandmates walk toward the door. I look up at them and realize I’ve long grown out of my musician phase.
“We’re going out for a smoke. A cigarette, specifically,” Rob says. He waves the thing and smiles, like the first night. “
Wanna join?”
“No, I’m okay. Just getting my shoes so I can go.”
“Already?”
“This is what happens when you come into an Asian household,” says the drummer, before walking out the door in a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. Thank you. Revelatory. Like I didn’t already know.
“Do you want help? What do they look like?”
Rob crouches beside me and his leg touches my leg.
I look down at our touching legs. I move away. The bad karma is spreading.
“No, it’s okay. I see them, I see them.”
I snatch the boots, check them closely to make sure they’re mine (they are), and put them on. I thank him for inviting me, say I had fun, and exit as quickly as possible.
Outside, it is freezing and the landscape is gray and lifeless. Children of the East Coast must understand mortality better than those on the West.
Since she is three hours behind, I call my mom on the walk home. We used to text each other every night before sleep: Good night, love you, then wait for the other’s response. If she didn’t reply within a certain time frame, I’d call until she picked up. She’d say, You’re that worried about me? I was just in the bathroom. Or, I didn’t hear my phone. I told her I needed to hear from her to feel comfortable going to sleep. But we’ve stopped doing that because of the time difference; the synced routine is broken. I’m sad we aren’t doing it anymore. I needed it. Here is my philosophy: a natural response to chaos is the desire for control.
“What are you saying?” says my mom. “Are you drunk?”
“A little.”
“Geez. I hope you’re not drinking so much there.”
“No.” But I tell her both Daddy and J have a similar view on substances: in life, every person needs to be dependent on something, they’ve said on separate occasions.
She asks why I’m alone. She sounds worried. Where is J?
“At home,” I say. I hiccup into the phone.
“What is it?” she says. “Are you fighting?” The sound of her voice makes me want to cry.
“I’m . . . I think . . . The problem is . . . I think I might love the cat and dog more than I love him!”
“What!” She laughs and laughs. I laugh, too. The hiccups grow wilder. “My crazy daughter. I miss you.”
“Me too,” I say. And then I do start crying.
At my door my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Rob: Did you make it home safe? I should’ve offered to walk you so you wouldn’t have to go alone. Hope it wasn’t too far . . .
I text back, Not murdered, and a thumbs-up emoji.
Inside, the dog and cat run down the stairs to greet me. I can hear the white noise machine running in the bedroom. “Hi, my babies, my sweet little babies,” I say to the animals.
The phone buzzes with another text. He’s replied, What a relief with a smiling-face emoji, the one with the sweat mark on its forehead.
My stomach ripples. What am I doing?
I run to the bathroom and crouch on the floor in front of the toilet.
J has not heard me over the white noise. I don’t bother waking him. I am just a little sick.
To soothe my stomach, the ginger tea bag advises: You don’t need love, you are love.
My brother on the phone. He’s ordered a genetic test and analysis report to better understand his health and ancestry.
“I tested in the top percentile for Neanderthal! Who knew, I’m a fucking caveman!”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me at all.”
“You know it probably means you’re caveman, too.”
I order the same genetic test with the hope of getting answers. Instead, the company sends another kit with a note that I have not provided enough sample in the spit tube.
“Are these tests ever even accurate?” I ask J, the scientist.
He says, “Yes, I think so.”
Still, I leave the tube on my desk.
It snows for the first time and J calls to ask if it’s snowing at home. It is! A little! We are both excited, staring out of different windows, watching the same flakes birth from the sky. We make plans to take the dog to the park, to see if he’ll like it. By then there is a thin layer on the grass, like sugar dusted on desserts, and the dog bounds in it, leaving his prints.
“It’s like we’re in a snow globe,” he says.
“I was just thinking that,” I say.
In that moment, I think, All we need is this. The happy dog, the snow. I wrap my arms around him.
In front of me, a man who says he’s looking to do some genealogy research on a Tompkins County family by the name of Greene Young. I point him to the research room at the museum, which houses thousands of genealogy files—obituaries, marriage records, bound family trees, and cemetery listings.
“Wonderful.” He turns to leave, but then decides against it, and turns back to me. “You’re Chinese, aren’t you? No? Japanese? Korean? Vietnamese? Oh, yes, Chinese? Ah, yes, I could tell right away. My wife is Chinese, you see. What region are you from? Where? Ah, Shanghai! I’ve been to Shanghai many times! What a wonderful place. My wife is from the Henan province. She’s from a fairly large city called Zhengzhou. Are you familiar? No? Oh, well it’s wonderful, too. Just a fraction of the size of Shanghai, but also incredibly metropolitan. We own some property over there, so we like to go back at least twice a year to stay for a few weeks and visit her family. I just love being there, the people, the food—you can’t find anything like it over here, I’m sure you know. All of China is wonderful, if you ask me. I can tell you’re a Shanghai girl though, just from the way you dress and your hair. A beautiful city girl. Are your parents still over there? Do you visit them often? Ah, that’s too bad. You must miss him a lot. My wife misses her sisters. Her parents are long dead, of course. Hell, I’m getting there!”
He makes a disgusting warbling sound that is some diseased form of laughter.
“My wife sometimes gets very lonely here. Her English is subpar. Maybe you could teach her? I try, but she gets pretty angry when I correct her. You know how it is. But how can you be in this country and not speak English? It’s a real embarrassment. She has to improve. I’m sure you can relate. I know she would be much more receptive to somebody like yourself, so young and vibrant.” The man tells me in Mandarin that I have a beautiful smile, but I pretend not to understand. “Oh, you don’t speak? I said, ‘You have a beautiful smile!’ It’s too bad you don’t speak. Either way, your English is excellent, I’m sure it would be a great help to her. Here, take my card. Email me your information. We’ll set up a time.”
He patted my hand with both of his hands. After he walked away, I went to wash the contaminated limb. Repeat. I look in the mirror. Repeat.
I don’t recall once smiling in front of him.
* * *
The roomful of guests looked up with some interest, for the little, dainty Chinese woman who glided up to the platform, clad in a native silken gown of gray, was at least picturesque. She looked as if she might have come out to sing an air from a comic opera or to do a geisha dance. As for a speech, the New Yorkers expected at best a graceful bow, a bland smile, a few gestures with the ever-active fan, and some perfunctory sentences in “pidgin” English.
—New York Times, 1904
The Chinese display wonderful aptitude in acquiring correct pronunciation; and it is generally understood that an educated Chinaman, owing to certain similarities of English and Chinese sounds, will pronounce English, after an equal amount of instruction, more perfectly than any other foreigner.
—L. T. Townsend, The Chinese Problem, 1876
AFONG MOY is at present under the care of the Lady of the conductor of the exhibition and is making rapid progress in acquiring the English language.
—Afong Moy Playbill, 1836
Why can’t Asians speak English?
—Yahoo! Answers, 2013
Learning English proved to be much harder than I imagined. I still remember the first day of school when I
wanted to know where the bathroom was. I shyly walked up to a teacher and whispered, “Do you know the toilet?” The teacher didn’t even try to cover up her laughter as she pointed to the other direction. “The bathroom,” she emphasized, “is right down the hallway.” I was so embarrassed that I refused to try to speak English again.
—Jubilee Lau, 1996
Wellington Koo, the son of a Chinese mandarin, was Columbia’s second speaker. He surprised the audience by his mastery of English.
—New York Times, 1908
Wallace shared her version of the Asian language (including several ching chongs and ling longs), urged Asians who come to UCLA to first adopt “American manners,” and for good measure even managed to work in a reference to the tsunami in Japan.
—NPR, 2011
“They always are so surprised to see me reading American books and magazines and exclaim, ‘Oh! Do you read English too?’ They also are amazed at my fluent English. As if we could not speak, read or write. It gets my goat!”
—Pardee Lowe, “Pullman Stewardess,” 1936
Days of Distraction Page 21