The plane lands as I start to wake up, the sun shining intensely into my eyes, with a fury like wild fire. Jordan's next to me, reading the same differential calculus textbook that she was reading before we boarded the plane. She's a machine, my little sister. My parents are still reading the same paper as they were at the terminal gate, so everyone's a machine except good old Johnson. Now I'm hungry, and I regret not eating some of that deliciously scrumptious airplane food.
After picking up our luggage from baggage claim, we walk outside the terminal to greet our relatives, just two of them since they came in a small sedan: my oldest uncle, whom I just call Uncle, and my youngest cousin, Bo. We'll be staying with them for the duration of our trip.
Bo walks up to me, presenting a big smile. How r you? “ ”
“ ”I'm doing good, I politely reply. He nods and picks up our bags one by one and— — puts them in the trunk of the car. That will probably be the most that we say to each other during this trip, since that's the only English he knows, and I only speak English.
Uncle makes small talk with my parents, leaving Jordan and me to discuss how all six of us are going to fit into a compact car. After all is said and done, we pile in, stretching our arms and legs for every little bit of room, grasping for the luxury of comfort. I then realize that not one hug or kiss has been exchanged this entire time.
Driving through the city is a fantastic visual journey in itself: my eyes unmoving and unwavering, like a lion's first glance at its prey, locking onto the vast display of neon lights smothering the cloudscape. Every street looks indubitably the same, narrow and compressed, with food stands overflowing the sidewalks. I see my life flash before me a dozen of times, cars running through stop lights as if red's the new green. No wonder so many Asians drink and smoke; they just live it up now since they'll most likely die driving first. On the bright side, I won't have to worry about getting into medical school if we do indeed crash and die. Uncle rolls up the windows as we apparently pass by a slaughterhouse, our nostrils overwhelmed by the stench of manure and rotting meat. Welcome to Asia!
We arrive at Uncle's house with all our body parts intact; actually, it's an apartment since everything is compressed in the city. Walking up six flights of stairs is no laughing
matter; try doing it with jet lag and hunger and two big suitcases plus an over-stuffed backpack. Alright, I'll stop whining.
Four locks click in sequence, like timed demolition, the large door opening fast and wide, such that we rush in as if it's Black Friday at a shopping mall. Oldest Auntie, sitting in an old rustic brown chair, waves us over with both hands. I notice what's on TV: the news big— surprise. Asians love watching the news all day. The apartment is just like Auntie's house in Palo Alto, traditional and passé with antiquated Oriental furniture. I see lanterns, same as the ones from Auntie's Palo Alto house, hanging from the ceiling, with red New Year couplets covering the walls below, even the wall scrolls appear to be exact duplicates. I guess both Aunties have the same interior decorator.
My parents hand Oldest Auntie and Uncle wrapped gifts and red envelopes while simultaneously bowing, a customary gesture in accordance to Asian culture, for due honor and respect. Oldest Auntie and Uncle bow back, my parents bow again, Oldest Auntie and Uncle bow back once more, all four of them continuing with bows, lower and lower each time, trying to outdo each other. Many people think that bowing is a form of honor and respect, but it's actually nothing more than a form of subservience. Shaking hands, for instance, is a true form of respect because both people are doing it while standing at an equal level, at the same time, staring eye to eye, completely equitable in the exchange. However, bowing entails that one person be lower while the other person is higher, at unequal levels, not at the same time, not staring eye to eye, inequitable in the exchange. Centuries ago, peasants would bow to kings, no vice versa. That's why bowing has become obsolete, because it's a form of subservience. It's only done in Asia because everyone's brainwashed by custom and culture, which brings me to the gift-giving part, a compulsory gesture if you're Asian. Anytime and every time you visit an Asian relative, you must bring a gift or money, hence the red envelopes, which might as well be transparent so that people can show off how much is really being given. I didn't bring a gift when I visited Auntie in Palo Alto, because she knows I'm an
— asshole and because I'm American. But Asian people don't generally like being assholes so they'll acquiesce to custom and culture, even if they don't want to. When I visit friends of mine, I don't give them gifts; I'm sure you don't. Hell, when I visit my local pub, I don't give my usual
— bartender a gift which I'm sure he'd enthusiastically take, while praising Asian culture just for the sake of getting a gift. What I give instead is a handshake, a hug, a pat on the back real— genuine gifts of endearment, not like cold, heartless cash. Besides, I don't enjoy buying people's opinions of me, with gifts and cash like typical Asian people, so instead I offer my honest and genuine self, like it or not. If I'm required to give someone a gift for meeting them and for them to like me, then I'd rather stay home. For Asians, it's always about the money.
Mommy, Daddy, Oldest Auntie, and Uncle are sitting on the living room sofa while Jordan and I are sitting in imperial hardwood chairs across from them. Uncle pours tea from a black, cast-iron teapot into little porcelain teacups, in celebration of new visitors, as you now know is customary in Asian culture. While he pours tea for us, I can't help but to notice the towering stack of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table, a miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa, ready for a big fall. I glance over to see more stacks of newspapers and magazines, as well as a multitude of opened water bottles on top of the end table, right next to my parents. It's unbelievable how Asians love to collect everything. I've been to many Asian homes, and virtually all of them share the same pattern of mass garbage collection. Mommy's explanation is that Asian people need to protect and acquire possessions that they themselves once lost during times of war and economic depression, so therefore, they store things in order to prepare for the future, an emergency disaster plan of sorts. Her logic appears to make sense, but how the hell is a crapload of old newspapers going to help in an emergency? Better yet, how the hell is a crapload of old magazines going to help save a life in the event of an emergency? The truth is that Asian people collect things because they're too lazy to recycle and too selfish to donate, or in other words, too selfish to give anything up, in order to amass all the wealth that they can. Whether they are cognizant or not, collecting material possessions is a form of wealth, which deleteriously is a product of greed. Don't get me wrong: collecting things itself is not evil. Rather, it's the obsession of mass collecting, which displays greed and covetousness, like with Asians.
Oldest Auntie gets up and clears away the tea set, now full with used teacups and an empty teapot, while Uncle turns towards Jordan and me with fixating eyes that hooks us like we're two fishes caught in his net.
“ ”Both you, Uncle says, as he rolls up each sleeve of his green, wool sweater, need“ ”study hard. As if I don't already get enough lectures from my parents about this. Study hard“ ”to be rich. At least he doesn't sugarcoat the real reason to study hard.“ ”“ ”Yes, Uncle, Jordan and I simultaneously reply, with a perfunctory tone that would be clearly obvious to any person, regardless of cultural distinction.
Uncle knows that we're blowing him off so he quickly announces, You study hard or I“
”spank both you. Is he being serious? I look towards Jordan, seeing her jaw drop deeply; I guess that answers my question. No more talk, Uncle instructs, now dinner.“ ” “ ”
It's customary in Asian culture for the men to sit around and not do shit, while the women cook the meal, set the table, serve the food, clean up the table, and last but not least, wash the dishes. In fact, it's considered disrespectful and ill-mannered for men to assist in the process. As you already know, misogyny is pervasive in Asia, where men are seemingly allowed to step over women like they're dirt. Even Confucius said that only ignorant women“
” are virtuous. Now I'm all for somebody else doing my chores, writing my research papers and taking out the trash on Wednesdays but not at the expenseof someone else, especially not for the egregious purpose of sexism. Instead of sticking around and not do shit, I decide to take a walk outside, since I don't want to be ostracized for helping with dinner, plus, I don't feel like getting another lecture again about having to study hard.“ ”
Upon opening the main door of the apartment lobby, I can see the sun with reddishgold highlights surrounding its majestic luster, starting to set below the white cumulus clouds lazing above. It's surprising that I can actually see the sun, with the air so heavily polluted with industrial soot and smog from the deluge of cars; that's Asia for you! Who cares about air quality when there are more important things like money, status, and power. If you know me by now, you know that I'm just kidding.
Walking on the sidewalk is quite a difficult task in itself, particularly here in Asia. The pavement seems to merge with the street, more often than not, without warning or indication. What's worse is that my situation is exacerbated by close-range maniacal drivers, seemingly
— —trying to hit human targets like me for points. No wonder so many Asians are moving to —America I, too, wouldn't be able to cope with this kind of lifestyle. It's a good thing that I have to head back for dinner, thus, thankfully and graciously ending my short and very dangerous walk.
I enter the apartment just in time for dinner. No one is seated yet because assigned seating is customary in Asian culture, with the head of the table generally reserved for the— head of the household that would be Uncle. In Asia, the men usually wear the pants in the family, however, some women like my grandmother, Mean Ma, have the balls to wear the“ ” pants. Go get 'em, grandma!
With all of us at the kitchen table, Oldest Auntie starts serving chicken feet soup, handing me bowl after bowl to pass down the family assembly line. Bo, who's been rather quiet, smiles as I give him the bowl with the biggest chicken feet. Most Americans would probably feel squeamish at the thought of chicken feet in their soup, but it's actually quite delectable. Next on the menu is sautéed beef with broccoli and bean sprouts in lemongrass sauce. Everyone digs in with their chopsticks, like sharks in a feeding frenzy. AllAmericans would feel squeamish at the incessant double-dipping of chopsticks in the main entrée. All the saliva, spit, and germs becoming community property for everyone to share. Many people would consider this unsanitary, and I'd say that they're right. No wonder avian flu spreads like
—wildfire in Asia they might as well eat food from each others' mouths. But you only live once so out of sight, out of mind, as I continue to dig in.Both Mommy and Daddy start talking to Uncle and Oldest Auntie about my future I — —mean, their future plan for medical school. My parents express grave concern about the tuition costs, while Uncle explains that I'll make more than enough money to pay for everything. Oldest Auntie declares that we must sell stocks in order to supplement the medical school fund. Uncle interjects with his idea of selling land, land in the family for nearly five generations. During the entire exchange, I remain reticent for I know that I have no say in this, even though it's my own damn life. Plus, I don't want more spanking threats from Uncle, so I sit quietly, smiling without discernment.
After they're through with me, they move on to Jordan but without worries or concerns this time. They discuss how glad and proud they are of Jordan, unlike me the black sheep of the family. All of them, including Jordan, continue to denigrate me with insults of indolence and ignorance. I guess the fact that I'm sitting right in front of them is of little actually no— — consequence. Remember the old man with the CIA shirt and his constant, unwavering stare? I guess it's an Asian thing: no shame and no humility. Why talk behind someone's back when you can talk in front of them? Why talk behind someone's back when you can just stare at them? I wish I had the bravado to stand up for myself, to tell them that I'm sick of this Asian culture nuthugging. But like the vast majority of Asians, I have to keep quiet and remain silent about the truth. I just wish that there was a way for me to reveal the truth or rather truths— — about Asian culture to the rest of the world.
“ ”Do you..., Bo asks Jordan, thinking hard of the right English words to say, like the“ dinner?”
“ ”Yes, Jordan replies with reproach, not even looking at Bo.
“ ”The food's delicious, Bo, I quickly add, intervening. I know why Jordan's acting this
“ ”people have to judge a book by its cover. Bo works in Uncle's restaurant, so apparently, he's a loser. But it's not his fault. Asians are notorious for forcing their children to work in the
—family business typically a restaurant. This is one reason why Asians have such big families, in order to get free slave labor from their children. Going back to Princess Jordan, the whole “ ”What do you do? mentality is pervasive among Asians, sizing you up to see if you're worth talking to. Asian girls are especially guilty of this. I know so many Asian girls that will not date a guy unless he has a college degree. Pray tell, does college teach you how to find the right —guy? No. Does college teach you how to find a good boyfriend? No. So what the hell does—
being a college graduate have anything to do with relationships? one word: status. It's all—
about status, aka image. Most Asian girls will only date guys that look good on paper. Who“ ” wants to date a nice guy, with a strong moral character and a benevolent disposition? Screw that! They want a guy that's rich, that buys them all the stupid crap that they'll ever want, a guy willing to be the ball to their chain. That's why I'm surprised that Emilie's giving me the time of day. Maybe it's a good idea that I don't tell her any of this.
“Bo, on behalf of the family, thank you for picking us up from the airport, I announce,” to show him my gratitude. I can tell that Bo doesn't understand what the hell I just said, since he's giving me a blank stare, but he smiles anyway, a smile that reveals genuine respect and regard. This is probably the first time in a long time that anyone's shown any appreciation towards him.
Dinner is almost over, with most of the meal in our bellies. I have a couple of bites left on my plate, but I can't leave the table until I'm done eating everything, every last grain of rice. I've been forced to do so since I was a kid, because I was told that wasting food is bad luck, creating an ominous future full of failure and misfortune. But the truth the truth that Asian—
—people won't dare tell you is that it's all about control. If you're able to force your kids to eat everything, even the very last tiny grain of rice in the bowl, then you'll be able to control them — —control everything about them at a very young age. After all, children are highly impressionable. If you can make them eat something as insignificant as a microscopic tiny grain of rice, then you can eventually control what they do, how they think, what kind of grades they get and most importantly, what they become, particularly their future profession, if you care to guess the only two. Control them as kids so that you can control them as adults. Make them subservient as kids so that you can make them subservient as adults. That's the reason why so many Asian kids become doctors and lawyers, not because they truly want to, but because they've been conditioned by their parents with this method of control, this power of control. And as I've revealed to you before, Asian children are raised as prize-winning sheep in order to become future doctors and lawyers, ultimately functioning as a retirement fund in order to pay for their parents' retirement, so that their parents can live in a big house and drive a nice luxury car, when it's all said and done. So there you have it: all this control, manipulation, and power starts at a very young age, from the very bottom, with just a little grain of rice. Now you know why the staple food of Asian culture is rice.