Wednesday, November 30, 2005


I'm really dreading the release of "Memoirs of a Geisha" this December. Everytime anything remotely "Oriental" rears its head in a mainstream blockbuster, I get hit with the disorienting aftershocks.

I was called Mulan for three years until it was unceremoniously replaced with Anne Frank in high school (long story short: I confessed I occasionally dreampt the Nazis were after me and suddenly, I was known as "that girl who thinks she's Jewish").

I already get approached by grown men in their forties asking me whether I'm "Chinese or Japanese," so I'm willing to bet the next time I hear that, it'll unquestionably follow-up with, " ... and what are your rates?"

Nigga, please [cereal]! If you can't determine the origins of my eyes now, what difference does it make after you find out? It's just my bloody luck to have a Mandarin father, a Cantonese mother, and a grandma who resembles a typical Korean: I end up slipping down the birth canal looking like an Asian parody. I tend to pass for whatever nationality that better suits me on vacation. "Yeah, I can do Japanese. You want Chinese? I got your Chinese right here!" But savvy natives will point out something "off" about me; I'm not completely right for a supposed Chijapthaiporenese. I don't mind being objectified as a walking eugenics lesson, so long as I get to be treated as an inconspicuous localite. It's when the projected image of me is that of a high-class escort that peeves me off. Though I don't necessarily mind being compared to a hooker (money is money, right?), it's the ultra-feminine behaviour that is expected of me that knocks my rocker. I mean, it's one thing to think every giggling sailor-suited schoolgirl sells her panties on the Internet before given the finger by more businessmen than candles on her cupcake. It's another thing all together to make an overture to me and actually expect my quivering body to swoon over these lame-ass proposals (capped off with the ever-attractive, "I want to see you again. Be here tomorrow. You must promise me!"). Isn't there a rational voice located somewhere along the Head-to-Head highway?

It's not like I expect every white guy to be the size of Ron Jeremy (because compared to Chinese troops, they all are. Zing!). Seriously though, I'd at least deviate three or four variations from the same theme at one time. But when it comes to the enigmatic Asian woman, we're apparently all waiting to be kept, fucked, and fed.

How do you say, ah yes, bullshit.

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