“Mr. Barrett,” Dan – one of my summer school students – innocently began, “what’s your first name?” After I said, “Tom,” he looked contemplative as he replied, “Tom. That’s a cool name. I wish I had a cool name. Like a traditional Asian name.” Laughing to myself about the idea of a traditional “Asian” name, I wanted to know more. “Ok. So what name would you rather have?” “Hmm…” he paused for a moment. “Something like Ping Pong Table! Or just Ping Pong. Or just Ping… and then Chris can be Pong!” The rest of the class that stuck around during the break burst into laughter and Dan’s face lit up.
Earlier that morning before class started, a student not in my class came in to chat with me. I told him that he looked familiar and he responded, “Well, we all look the same.” Hoping that he meant students, I unassumingly asked, “Who does?” He answered with a wide grin, “Black people!” Having absolutely no idea what the appropriate professional response should be to such a situation, I chose instead to laugh at his comment and to dismiss it with a playful “Shut up.” He laughed too and then headed to his classroom.
Growing up white and without a distinct cultural background – I’m a veritable mutt of a man with Russian, Irish, Italian, and Mexican grandparents – I never felt a particular attachment to one nationality, nor did I ever feel ostracized by my cultural upbringing (I don’t count the “Mexi-Jew” comments). In fact, I’ve always been jealous of my purebred friends. Having relatives to visit around the world, knowing a second language from childhood, or even having a parade to go to: I always thought it would be cooler to be an ingredient in the big melting pot of America instead of a dish ready to be served. Call me ignorant, but I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard these two teenage boys belittling their ethnicities and stereotyping themselves so blatantly.
Curious about his background, I waited for the giggling to calm down before asking, “Dan, where is your family from?” “America,” he responded flatly. “Right. I know that, but I mean where did your grandparents or great grandparents come from?” “Oh,” he seemed a bit more puzzled this time. “I think China. But I don’t know. My parents don’t really talk about it.” And with that comment the topic dropped for the day, but Dan’s self-deprecating remarks were only just beginning.
The next morning, I heard my students parading down the hallway as they did the morning before. When they entered, I saw Dan conducting an orchestra of teens mimicking, “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice. You want poke fry rice? It cost fo fohty-nine niney nine.” Their movements were like a malfunctioning animatronic hibachi chef, repeatedly offering the same platter. Having absolutely no idea how to quell such racial mockery and having even less of an idea if it was in my place to do so, I feigned fumbling through my textbook as if I was just preparing for class. Realizing the jokes were not going to stop, I started class several minutes early. Thankfully, the clock was fast in my room.
The 9:30 break hit, and after turning my back for one minute to help a student with a problem, I turned back around to find my blackboard covered in Dan’s new song lyrics. The song went something like this:
(Verse 1)
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice.
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice.
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice.
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice. (Repeat 42x)
(Pre-Chorus)
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice.
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice. (Repeat 12x)
(Chorus)
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice.
Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice. (Repeat 200x)
And there were at least four more verses, a few more choruses, and even a bridge. You can guess the remaining lyrics.
And then, a light bulb moment. “Ok, Dan. How about for every time you say the word ‘sushi’ I take off two points on your test? And one point for every time I hear the word ‘rice.’” The guys knew I was kidding but they played along. Dan feigned panic and shouted, “No!” before running back to his seat. When another student mimicked, “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice,” I continued my playful reprimand. “And if anyone else says ‘sushi’ or ‘rice,’ Dan loses points.” “What!” Dan exclaimed, popping out of his seat and then just as quickly slid back down into it. The class chuckled and I returned to the lesson, surprisingly undisturbed.
For the next week and a half, my fake test-point-threat kept the “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice” outbreak miraculously low, but the racial jokes were far from finished and were simply festering under the scope of my radar. Then one day, while the students were doing problems in, I became disillusioned of my apparent success.
“Mr. Barrett,” one of my students called out to me, “come check out Dan’s new song lyrics.” Oh no, I thought to myself. Dan screamed, “What!” and hid his notebook and his typical jittery fashion. Do I really want to see these? I decided that I did and made Dan hand them over. If I were still a fourteen year old, I would have pissed myself laughing at these lyrics, but as someone who was now called ‘mister’ they seemed more scary than funny. Here’s how Dan’s second single went:
My lips taste like China
I have chinky eyes
For 4.49.99
I’ll give you great pork fried rice
The song kept on going for another twelve lines or so, but I couldn’t bring myself to read any more. I had to say something this time, but what?
“Dan,” I started, hoping the right words to enlighten this young man would somehow follow, “you shouldn’t belittle yourself like this.” He looked back at me with a nervous, but mostly confused glance. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” I paused, waiting for the words, but the right ones didn’t seem to be coming. “I mean this is your culture. That’s your family…” still waiting. “But my family doesn’t really talk about it. They say we’re American. I feel more white than Asian.” I looked away for a second and when I looked back Dan stared at me with his hands smushing his eyes together, making them wider. “Dan!” His hands shot away from his face. “Being American doesn’t mean being white.” The words were starting to flow a bit more now. “Don’t make fun of yourself by using stereotypes that some dumb white people made up about Asians.” And then I was out of ammo. Dan looked away with a possible pensive but more probably confused glance and simply said, “Ok, Mr. Barrett.”
The confrontation had finally happened, but nothing felt resolved like I had hoped it would. There was no cheesy music playing in the background signaling that some profound realization had occurred in Dan’s mind. There was no High School Musical dance scene with a song about embracing diversity. Instead, there was just another student raising his hand across the room asking how to do number 22.
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