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outdated Asian stereotype that not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