6A — Saturday, May 2, 2020
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

The Neutral White Population

CYDNEY GARDNER-BROWN
2017 MiC Contributor

‘The white rice was excellent. Followed the
directions on the bag perfectly. Way to go.’

Courtesy of Hunter Zhao

ARTS

over the

YEARS

Bis etum il ius eliquam usaerum eium velicti
comnit dunt, tota que consequo is essunture
dolor molesti beriore, il ea ne plab ipsae
excero te volorep tation re videndunt
omnihil ipienda veliqui nobites et laboriame
lantiossunt hil ius arumqui dentibus, qui
aliat pa qui simolessit, nes escilit harum
que volorit eicia con plis everum fugitatur
si quiae esto blaturem labo. Itatas mos venis
arumnihilla ntentotatem aut etum hil il mod
quam es est as endaesc ipiendis escium
lation cupta doluptam ab ipsapicit aut optiis

2013
2014

AUGUST 12: Violent rally in Charlottesville leads
to civil unrest

SEPTEMBER 17: Two student name tags are
defiled on the doors of their dorm rooms with
racial slurs.

SEPTEMBER 25: Dana Greene Jr. kneels on
Diag’s “M” to protest.

NOVEMBER 28: #StopSpencer and the
U’s response jeopardizing marginalized
communities on campus

FEBRUARY 3: Dr. Yusef Salaam of the
Exonerated Five kickstarts Black History
Month with a keynote adress.

MARCH 11: Department of Homeland
Security allows international students
to continue online classes without
jeapardizing their immigration status.

APRIL 23: The community gathering at
Ramadan Suhoor Festival is canceled due to
COVID-19.

2018

FEBRUARY: La Casa makes headway
on demands, calls for further faculty
representation, and Demands of Me/Na
boxes was added

MARCH: Emily Lawson Protests for renewal
of teaching contract

APRIL 29: First A/PI graduation held on
campus

OCTOBER 2: Jamal Khashoggi, well-known
American journalist and activist, murdered at
Saudi Arabia consulate.

MARCH 15: New Zealand Christchurch
mosque shooting and false alarm at vigil on
campus

APRIL: Sudan Revolution overthrows the
Al-Bashir regime

APRIL 7: Trotter Multicultural Center
opening on State Street

MiC
over the
YEARS

2019
2020
2017

Four years ago, I had assumed

that my parents were complete

animal enthusiasts. They came

home every night after long

shifts at our restaurant seemingly

eager to turn on Animal Planet.

My mom would call me over to

watch, giggling at the frenzied

yet astute organization of meerkat

manors. My dad would gawk at the

ferocious pace of lionesses chasing

zebras across the Serengeti. At

garage sales, he could never

resist bringing home a stack of

National Geographic magazines.

We’ve housed nearly every animal

allowed as a pet by the state of

Michigan.

I was obviously wrong.

It’s
clear
today
that
they

could not care less. My parents

cheer enthusiastically at “Sing!

China” and other knock-off music

competitions.
The
browsing

history of our home computer is

filled with 2000s-esque online

tabloids
divulging
the
latest

Asian celebrity scandal. Their

smartphones
constantly
blow

up with WeChat pings from

their friends across the world.

There are no more Discovery

Channel
specials
documenting

the inscrutable beauty of wild

dolphins; instead, now my parents

only discover the “unbelievable”

talent of the Dolphin Princess.

They spend hours glued to a

screen, eyes welling up when

prompted and laughing exactly

as scripted. It’s the mindless

media every baby boomer life

coach warns against. But this was

exactly what I wanted.

There’s a charming simplicity

and boredom to life in the

American
Midwest.
It’s
the

birthplace of the five-day work

week, the 9 to 5 shift and church

on Sunday. My parents, however,

were never part of this simple life.

They arrived by boat, uneducated,

unskilled and unable to speak

a lick of English. They opened

a small takeout restaurant in

western Michigan, where they

worked endless hours to support

our family in the New World. Our

restaurant is among the oldest in

the city; my grandma’s garden

in the front earned it a mention

in the Muskegon Chronicle. My

parents’
unmistakable
effort

and spirit of entrepreneurship

fits neatly into the myth of the

American Dream. It’s exactly the

false consciousness surrounding

upward mobility — their success

obscures how so many others are

failed by the invisible hand, how

we lived anxiously without health

insurance, how we became too

accustomed to armed robberies.

I could count the number of

Chinese families I know living

back home with one hand. Though

it’s a cliché in the coming-of-age

stories of other Asian/Pacific

Islander
American
kids
from

small-town America, I wrestled

with the sense of “otherness”

and assimilation. But it was

during my senior year of high

school when I began to think,

what about my parents? While I

could easily Facetime people on

the other side of the planet, they

were still buying international

calling cards to reconnect for

mere minutes with their friends

back home. In 2013, my parents

had never logged onto a computer;

they had never sent a text message

over the phone. To be frank, they

were ignorant, but perhaps not in

bliss. Were they bored? Were they

lonely these last 20-or-so years?

Maybe my dad kept replaying the

same CDs because he had no idea

where to find new Chinese music.

Maybe they spent so much time

watching wildlife because those

programs didn’t require English

comprehension.

After lobbying my parents for

months, they finally bought a

computer. I sought their digital

enlightenment. They could chat

instantly
with
their
friends

across the world. With Google

Maps, they could retrace their

old neighborhoods back in China.

Though they were comfortable

with the fact that my brother and

I had been surfing the internet

for years, they were ferociously

resistant to idea that they do the

same. “We’re too old for this!”

they’d complain — an excuse

too
common
in
immigrant

households.

From
the
mundane
like

translating during grocery trips

to the complex like explaining

tax forms, there are numerous

moments
where
immigrant

children become the parents. It

was humiliating for my parents

to have established a thriving

business, only to struggle to use

a keyboard. I’d sit with them

for hours at a time, guiding

their mouse across the browser.

Sometimes when they got it (the

red “x” means exit), I’d see a

childlike sense of accomplishment

spread across their faces. But,

inevitably, we’d get frustrated.

We’d argue. They’d call me a si zai

(Guangdong Province insult of a

person who should’ve died when

they were born). I’d tell them

“I can’t do this anymore!” We’d

storm off, only later to return — no

apologies — and simply try again.

Soon,
they
became
semi-

proficient. They could turn the

computer on and off and learned

to open Google Chrome. It was

good enough. Understanding how

to browse the internet was their

watershed moment. And before I

left for Ann Arbor, they wanted

smartphones with WeChat and

Weibo, a way to stream Chinese

cable, and instructions on how to

download music. I have a disdain

for mass media, but when my

mother received her first WeChat

voicemails from childhood friends

who asked, “Yan Li! What took

you so long???” and I saw the

excitement and joy that raced

through her existence, I decided

I’ll always put aside my thoughts

for them.

One day, my mom caught me

off guard while I was home for

Fall Break. She had prepared a

simple, nostalgic lunch for my

return: steamed rice with la chang

(Chinese sausage). As she watched

me eat, she remarked, “They gave

our restaurant four out of five

stars.” The reviews. Who told

her? For every one bad review,

there are 20 other to drown them

out, but everyone, my parents

included, wants to hear criticism.

I was annoyed and surprised that

she had discovered the online

reviews of our restaurant on her

own. Perhaps her friend Rose

from Milwaukee told her about

it. We chatted about how our

competitors were only three stars

and how some restaurants didn’t

even show up. She was surprised

that people even liked the food

in the first place and then joked

about how funny life was where

two Chinese “peasants” could

become successful in America.

Playing into her humble boast,

I pretended to be delightfully

shocked.

“Hunter, can you translate the

reviews for me?”
Thank God I never taught her
how to use Google Translate.
If you’ve interpreted languages
before, you know the three most
important things are syntax,
meaning and context. But it only
matters if you’re trying to be
truthful.
I,
like
other
children
of
immigrants, chose to lie to my
parents.
The language barrier that
had been the root of so much
childhood
self-hatred
and
embarrassment
became
my
saving grace. I never thought
that teaching my parents to use
a computer could ever backfire.
Right now, my mom doesn’t know
how to translate and read the
reviews, but eventually she will.
She’ll get better on the computer.
She’ll discover that she doesn’t
need me. And she’ll read them.
My
parents
didn’t
come
here to run a Michelin-starred
restaurant; they came here to give
their children a better chance at
life. Leaving their dreams behind,
they provided me the ultimate
opportunity to pursue mine: a life
free from poverty and oppression.
I can never fully describe the
sacrifices they made, the barriers

they overcame. Even if hot
vegetable oil burns and blisters
my arms — just like my father’s —
from stir-frying “cheap” takeout
food for self-proclaimed Chinese
culinary experts, my life is still
better than it would have been.
Instead of a conspiracy of
ripping
off
customers
with
“garbage food,” maybe we don’t
accept credit cards because my
parents don’t know how to use
them. Maybe the girl who “is a
complete moron” struggles on
the phone because we didn’t have
money for English lessons. Maybe
it “is not Chinese at all” because
actual Chinese people don’t eat
General Tso’s Chicken as their
plat principal with a fortune
cookie as dessert.
Maybe
the
reason
why
our white rice is “excellent”
isn’t because we followed the
directions on some bag. It’s
because my parents learned to
cook it perfectly when it was the
only thing their families could
afford. That every last morsel
mattered back then. That even
when you burned it, you scraped
the charred bottom crust and ate
it to ease the pain of hunger. That
before my dad was even a teenager
— his house stripped bare by the
government, his parents sent
to labor camps, his older sisters
deported
for
“reeducation,”
his family blacklisted by the

community and the survival of
two siblings left in his hands alone
— he would wait outside homes in
the middle of the night to wait his
turn to dig through their trash
and find smashed remnants of
soured, rotten white rice, bring
it home to soak it in water so
that the ants would float up top
to be poured away, and fed to his
younger brother and sister so they
wouldn’t starve. He’d eagerly eat
what was left of the rancid slurry.
How can a single comment so
effectively, so easily erase the
histories of my family? In this
digital age, anonymity begets
such cold cruelty. And in truth, I
can’t bring myself to blame them.
It’d be unrealistic to demand that
customers censor their thoughts
— they have the right to express
a
bad
experience.
Honestly,
the comments people leave for
our restaurant are hilariously
creative.
Nevertheless,
as
the restaurant owners’ son, I
can’t help but overreact at the
ignorance and insensitivity of
these comments. I can’t help but
be defensive.
They probably wrote those
reviews in less than two minutes,
mindlessly thumbing characters,
uncaring about who the audience
was and what the impact would
be. Four out of five stars doesn’t
just represent the success of our
restaurant; it’s validation of my

parents’ lives — their journey,
their challenge, their success.
I know I shouldn’t be worked
up. I know these comments mean
nothing. I know my mom is a
lion, strongest among beasts and
turns away from no one. Even if
I translated them faithfully, she’d
probably be fine; but I have a
brutal sense of protection towards
my family. I would never let
anything, not even the minutiae of
online restaurant reviews, come
close or even attempt to chip away
at their accomplishments.
I will never.
“Mom, they love the food. They
said everything was affordable
and delicious.”
Her ears perk up. She sets her
eyes on me, her subtle smile clear.
She’s proud — a pride distinct
from reading any kind of review.
She’s proud to have kept her end
of the immigrant bargain and
prouder that I’m about to keep
mine. Come April, I will no longer
be
a
first-generation
college
student; I’ll be an alum.
After
my
graduation,
our
restaurant
will
finally
close
its doors having achieved its
purpose.
I wish I didn’t have to lie, but
then again, I am her stubborn and
selfish American son. No more
translations of reviews. “There’s
no need,” I constantly assure her.
“Nothing has changed.” Because

Following
the
Black

Lives
Matter
protests
and

demonstrations of the past few

weeks, my African American

studies professor gave students

the platform to have a discussion

in class about how the racial

tension on campus has been

affecting our lives. After many of

the Black students bravely shared

their stories aloud, shed tears and

expressed how dehumanizing and

degrading being called a racial

slur can make a person, better

yet, a community feel, a white

female student decided to speak

up. She said (roughly quoting):

“It breaks my heart to hear that

when stuff like this happens it

can remain on the backs of the

Black students for the remainder

of their day or week or even for

years. It breaks my heart because

I know that even though I am sad

about it, I can leave today and

remain totally unaffected and

continue with my day. That is due

in part to the privilege that I have

as a white person. It allows me to

remain unaffected and ignorant

to what is going on with other

people in my own community.”

Her statement shook me to

the core. For the first time since

I have been on campus, I heard

a white person admit to the

privilege of indifference. The

privilege of neutrality in times of

racial crisis.

This mindset of neutrality is

one that privileged whites tend

to have in the United States (and

on this campus) regarding race.

White people who choose not

to be a part of the conversation

of
racial
tension
and
who

would rather “not take a side”

perpetuate an endless cycle of

aggression and attack.

From a distance, it may seem

as if most of the white students

do not see what is happening on

campus. It seems that they are

totally oblivious to our struggle.

However, I have found that the

issues we as people of color

face are in fact being seen by

white students on campus but it

seems that they are only seeing

us through a TV screen — as if

these racial attacks are a natural

disaster
occurring
in
some

foreign land leaving them totally

unaffected.

Black
students
feel
as
if

they are isolated on an island

experiencing a calamity and all

the complacent white students

act as if all they can do is watch.

They are not seeing our anguish

through their own eyes, in their

own halls, buildings and front

lawns. They are not feeling our

pain in their own bodies because

even hundreds of years after

being brought to this land, Black

people still are only seen as

visitors. As the girl in my class

said, many white people don’t feel

personally affected or attacked

when a Black man is called

“n*****” because they do not

view said Black man as a member

of their community but another

community completely separate.

We as Black people are only

tolerated as guests on a campus

we have worked equally as hard

to reside upon. Therefore, when

something happens to us, the

urgency of the matter is only our

issue and no one else’s. It is not

that these white people are evil

or would ever themselves attempt

to dehumanize a person of color,

it is that they choose to remain

ignorant to the issues affecting

people of color and therefore

choose to remain neutral to any

remedies.

The only way we can fix what

is going on here is if we somehow

make
the
complacent
white

students, who have no inclination

toward either side, feel obligated

to
defend
the
identities
of

students of color. They have to

know that what is happening is

not fiction. It’s not alien. It’s not

happening on a TV screen! It’s

occurring right here and right

now. The neutral white students

have to feel personally affected

when their Black neighbors are

being attacked and they have

to view an attack on a person of

color in this community as an

attack on everyone.

We can only move forward if

they know their participation

is integral to our movement for

positive social change on campus.

HUNTER ZHAO
2017 MiC Contributor