Man, this boy is really Asian
The New Hotness
By Chhun Sun
The Collegian
In my sweetest dream, I’m
a freestyle rapper. In front of a large crowd, I’m wiping out wannabe
emcees one after another with Eminem-type lyrics — from talking
with complete rudeness about how short they are, to their mother, who
any rapper can’t help but insult. Basically, I take it back to 1989
and break them off something proper-like.
And I almost always finish off the whack emcees with a ferocious line
they never thought was coming.
And it goes a little something
like this:
“You better give Chhun respect now/Take off your shoe because this
be an Asian house.”
Even in my sleep, I represent that I’m Asian, one of millions living
in the United States.
This representation even has its place in my real life, without, of course,
the vulgarity. And sometimes I’d get the occasional, “You’re
so Asian,” because of my lowered Honda Civic, my slight accent and
my Asian family.
Before I go into a discussion of how I’m so Asian, I have to make
a confession: Sometimes I get influenced and enraptured by the American
way, like Taco Bell, “The Simpsons” and pro wrestling.
This also means I don’t have the penchant to say something like,
“Back in my country, we did it this way,” because I simply
don’t remember too much of Thailand, considering I left when I was
5 years old.
I do remember, however, growing up in a traditional Cambodian home in
Modesto for almost 20 years.
During those years, I developed
cultural habits.
Like when I step into anyone’s house, I can’t keep my shoes
on. It’s not because I stepped in cow poop. I was taught to take
off my shoes before entering someone’s home. It’s a sign of
respect and you have to take part in the same practice if you ever step
foot in my home.
For the most part, I’m treated like anybody else.
But sometimes, there’s that idiot who thinks because my eyes are
a tad bit slanted, my complexion is the sweet hue of caramel and I look
like Bruce Lee that I really am Bruce Lee. That’s when I want to
do some “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” move, leap-frogging
from one tall building to another before taking the person by the head
and pile-driving that fool into the ground with my legs. But then again,
I can’t. Not only is it very violent, but also it’s because
I don’t know kung fu, people.
That’s not all, the Asian stereotypes continue.
I don’t own a donut shop, but I do have relatives who do and when
I say they make the best donuts you’ll ever eat, believe me, they
do.
I have a non-English speaking grandmother who lives for free at my parents’
home. But come on, no one else wants to take care of her.
Now that I’m taking an Asian-American studies class I feel like
I have this responsibility to keep it Asian. Not literally, of course.
Just to keep my heritage alive in some way, even if it means falling victim
to a stereotype, as long as I can do it with a positive attitude and smile
in the end.
When I first moved into my new house, I set a rice cooker on the kitchen
countertop.
“Look at you, you rice eater,” one of my roommates said light-heartedly.
I just smiled and I thought, “Yes, I am.”
When I find myself in these situations, I try not to take it literally.
Instead, I take it to the rap stage and bust out with:
“Don’t hate on me because I’m not Caucasian/Love me
because I’m so Asian.”
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