ILLUSTRATION COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

When you miss the dining hall 
hours, delivery apps are there for 
you. Scrolling through sandwiches, 
burritos and pizzas, I decided to go 
for dumplings today. Everything 
was fine until I received the plastic 
bag from the delivery man, who 
then put his hands together and 
said “xiexie.”
First, I’m Korean, not Chinese. 
Just because I’m Asian and I 
ordered dumplings doesn’t make 
me Chinese. And second, putting 
hands together while bowing is an 
outdated Asian stereotype that not 
all of us do. Such experiences are 
actually not quite new to us. When 
an Italian vendor did the exact 
same thing to me last summer, I 
corrected him: “Thank you, but 
I’m not Chinese. I’m Korean.” 
When a French guest at a museum 
passed me a Chinese floor guide, 

I thought it wasn’t even worth 
reacting. These instances can be 
considered as microaggressions, 
and here’s why.
Misidentifying 
non-Chinese 
Asians as Chinese is more than 
just an insensitivity. It contains a 
context of reducing each diverse 
and distinctive Asian culture into 
one, which in this case is China. It 
is the selective indifference toward 
non-Western cultures displayed 
without any consciousness. Most 
white Americans – and even people 
like me – are able to distinguish 
and specify Western cultures, 
but they tend to lump all Asian 
cultures into one category. In their 
perception, Western cultures are 
recognized on the national level, 
such as French or Italian, while the 
rest at the continental level, Asian.
Such 
tendencies 
are 
well 
reflected in my experiences in the 
Western world. In the media, it is 
not hard to find Asian characters 
with 
random 
stereotypes 

adopted 
from 
everywhere 
in 
Asian countries. An Australian 
comedian dressed in Kimono 
to parody the trademark North 
Korean news anchor is the epitome 
of this. At a design critique, no one 
pointed out what was wrong about 
the cover of a Japanese folk tale 
with Chinese porcelain patterns. 
Such examples of false mix-ups 
reflect their selective indifference 
to distinct Asian cultures. This 
is not a matter of knowledge or 
intelligence, but a matter of lacking 
the willingness to show respect 
and 
acknowledge 
differences 
among Asian cultures. I do not 
intend to disdain those who fail 
to distinguish between different 
cultures. 
However, 
displaying 
selective ignorance toward certain 
cultures does reflect how they 
regard Asians in Western society.
The 
diversity 
within 
us 
deserves recognition. Our cultures 
deserve as distinctive attention as 
the Western ones. Just because 

someone orders pizza, doesn’t 
mean that person is Italian or 
speaks Italian. If that sounds like a 
nonsense, so is saying “xiexie” to a 
Korean.

Though I don’t believe that 
being a doctor is for me, I do hold 
the belief that more Black doctors 
are needed. The question is, how 
do we motivate young Black 
people interested in medicine to 
actually pursue it? Growing up, I 
was completely set on becoming a 
doctor. I thought that I was going to 
become the next best pediatrician. 
However, as I grew up and began to 
explore my passions and interests, I 
realized that medicine may not be 
for me. I know that many people 
feel the pressure to become a doctor 
throughout their childhood, and 
once they actually try it, are unable 
to carry on due to lack of motivation. 
However, I do believe that there 
are many young Black people who 
genuinely hold an interest of being a 
doctor but unfortunately something 
happens to push them out of it and 
they eventually stop their journey. 
I often feel guilty about holding 
such a strong belief that we need 
more Black people in the medical 
field, but choosing not to pursue 
it myself. Recently however, I had 
an experience that made me feel 
validated in my beliefs.
About three weeks ago I was 
rushed to the hospital due to some 
physical issues that I have been 
dealing with for a while now. I 
ended up having to be admitted to 
the hospital and was there for three 
days. During those three days I 
counted three other Black people 
who weren’t my parents or other 
patients: a maintenance woman, a 
police officer, and a resident medical 

student. While all of these roles are 
helpful to the general public, I felt 
joy when I saw the resident student. 
It was interesting because I feel like 
I have never wished more success on 
someone I’ve literally never talked 
to before. I hoped so badly that the 
student would successfully finish up 
her studies and become a doctor. 
I had that feeling of hope when 
I saw the Black medical student 
because during my three days in 
the hospital I had to talk to many 
doctors which was very stressful 
and honestly fueled my anxiety. 
But when I was around the Black 
student doctor, something changed. 
I began to feel much more calm and 
comfortable when telling my story. 
I learned during my three days 
in the hospital that having Black 
doctors take care of Black patients 
is so essential because it just makes 
us feel more at home. Even though 
I didn’t know the student at all and 
never even exchanged words with 
them, just having them there made 
me feel reassured that someone 
was actually there to take care of 
me. It is difficult to describe but 
when someone who shares an 
aspect of your life as close to you 
or important to you tries to explain 
something that is happening, you 
truly understand the impact and 
the passion that they share with 
you. I did end up having a doctor 
of color while I was in the hospital 
and though she was extremely 
straightforward 
with 
me 
and 
honestly did not try to beat around 
the bush at all, I felt so comforted 
after she left. I knew for sure that 
she was on top of the issue and was 
going to do everything she could to 
help me get better.

My tequila on the rocks
Because rough edges make a 
real man.
 
Sin trabajo no se ase.
 
So… even my drunk I work
For. Sober I’m stuck, so I want 
more.
Lately, my garden’s fought 
droughts and weeds,
And we must thrust ourselves 
forward
If we want to succeed.
 
Planta la semilla y la flor no 
tarda en venir...
 
Those damn lilac soft lips,
Wide promiscuous hips,
And eyes that scorch me crisp
A description of an angel that 
feels so devilish,
it’s an eclipse.
 
Una vibra no cambia aunque la 
pintes.

 The bar’s reeking of a wretched 
liquor settles,
Instead,
A fragrance of a magnificent 
meadow.
Promising so much,
I can almost feel her petals.
 
Pero en la fortuna, existe la 
inconsecuencia, no como la luna

 
Brown eyes are simple,
But yours are comforting
Honey chocolate melting pots.
When we saw each other, I was 
shot…
With shocks and lots of knots.
 
You’re right I need to shut up, I 
talk a lot.
Talking to kissing, if this isn’t 
love
Then what is missing?
With an invitation to my dorm, 
a thought was sinking.
Seductive thoughts, they must 
drown to avoid imagining the not-
yet-existing.
 
Ahora no más es darle sol y 
pasión.
Así es como el romance de la rosa 
canta su canción.
 We’ve finally made it into my 
environment,
but I’m losing my flow.
I’ll pour one in that streams
like a fiery rain.
 
“You’ve had me waiting, are you 
just gonna stand there?”
 
A stare so rare that I must 
beware,
but if I’m being honest, I really 
don’t care.
Asking you if you were ready… 
my lasered sight was steady.

You had me breathing heavy, 
who knew oxygen was so scarce 
in heaven.
And I have a confession, the 
seven butterflies in my stomach 
became eleven.
If you were a poison, I’d want 
it prolonged like a slow killing 
venom.
 
Ahora hasta las flores brillan 
con tu amor. Cuando estoy a tu lado 
hasta siento el color.
Nada tan encantador como ese 
olor… Y entiendo que tus espinas te 
protegen,
te acaricio sin sentir el dolor. 
 
I woke up and you were up 
changing, well here’s my number, 
I’ll see you soon,
same arrangements?
“You are the cutest. Everything 
good doesn’t need to last forever, 
ya know?”
 Wait — What? I mean, I guess 
so.
But you know, I meant what I 
said, and more so
I would’ve done it all over again, 
if I knew there’d never be another 
hello.
Man wait, hell no, you know 
what? Thank you.
Even the rose that withers 
too soon, still gave a beautiful 
experience when it bloomed.

Wanted: More 
Black Doctors

ARIELLE MCENTYRE
MiC Columnist

ROBERTO SANCHEZ
MiC Blogger

AYOMIDE OKUNADE
MiC Columnist

I’ve been staring at the 
checkbox labeled “African-
American” for 20 minutes 
now. I can’t seem to look past 
the dash which separates 
these two worlds. To be 
Nigerian-American is to be 
the Atlantic Ocean, to be 
divide, to have two houses 
but no home. I am constantly 
crossing the Atlantic. Some 
days, I slave trade my accent 
for whitewashed inflections 
still stained enough to prove 
I don’t belong. Some days, 
I whitewash reflections of 
the slave trade, say them, 
not us, just to prove I don’t 
belong. Other days, I pick 

a side, bring the trade to 
an end. Tired of seeing my 
people pretend and stuff our 
meaning 
behind 
western 
culture and call it posh, call 
it bougie, call it right. It’s not 
white- I mean, it’s not right if 
the cream leaves you cream if 
your knuckles are still Black. 
But is this my fight?
Melanin needs to come 
back. I’m tired of seeing 
skinny 
white 
women 
on 
TV. I don’t know why but 
something about it irks me, 
something about it hurts me 
to see how media doesn’t 
believe my Black body is 
enough. My Black body is 
enough. I’m tired of having 
to yell that while watching 
House of Cards. Tired of 
Black bodies playing second-

fiddle to the stars, we deserve 
the applause and the main 
role too. We can be president, 
front stage, with natural hair 
too. But is this my right? 
Other days, I can’t fight. No 
common ground in sight I 
resolve to be white. To be a 
blank canvas, not colored by 
either side, hoping to find a 
balance, I silence the parts of 
me which carry rage. I silence 
the parts of me which hope to 
engage in the war that is my 
skin, in the battle that is my 
tongue, in the struggle that 
is my hair. I resolve to not 
care, pretend to be fair, but 
this only lasts for a while... 
20 minutes to be exact, the 
question brings me back, are 
you African or are you Black?

African-American

SUNGMIN CHO
MiC Columnist

ILLUSTRATION COURTESY OF GRACE CHO

que Lindas son 
las Flores

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Monday, October 7, 2019 — 3A

