Did you know…racism comes in many flavors?
Well then, ret me tell you a story–though I might not be doing anyone any favors…
“Let’s go get some Chinese food.”
I jerked my head up from my lab computer, startled to see Mark, my soon-to-be-roommate and slacker extraordinaire, standing in my lab doorway.
“Wha– wha– what are you doing here? And why the h*ll would we go get Chinese food at 3:45 in the afternoon?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Scoot aside. I need to show you something on your computer. And then it’ll all make sense, Young Grasshopper,” he said, with that sh*t-eating grin of his plastered across his face.
I gave him a long sideways glance.
“You not going to pull up an inappropriate video, play it at full blast, and then run off, are you?” I asked suspiciously, seeing as how that is exactly the type of prank he would find hilarious.
“Nah, man, you’re gonna want to see this–and I promise it won’t get you kicked out of grad school,” Mark reassured me with the face of a man with a couple of aces in the hole.
“Okay, but I swear, it better not be NSFW,” I said as I reluctantly gave up my seat to him.
With a few quick strokes of the keyboard, Mark had logged into his academic record in UNC’s system.
“The grades from my summer class posted today,” he said, utterly failing at acting nonchalant.
I perked up. Now he had my attention.
Quick side note here–if he doesn’t have your attention, Dear Reader, then would you be dear and go read my most recent musings here, which crucially has set up the story for today. (As usual, I’ll wait…)
“Sooo…I didn’t exactly get that ‘easy A’ in my Health class that I was counting on, but I did get a B+.”
I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop–or in this case, the other grade.
He continued: “And apparently, I didn’t totally bomb the final in my math class…I got a B+ in it as well, thanks to your help, my friend.”
He intentionally paused for a moment, a comic attempt at letting the tension build.
“Don’t be a sh*t head, dude, just get to the ----- point.”
He grinned at me.
“You are not going to believe this…” he said scrolling down the page, past 10 years worth of transcripts, finally landing on the Cumulative GPA section.
My eyes rapidly scanned the page for the single-most critical number of Mark’s academic career.
“Speaking of ‘the ----- point’,” he quipped, “How about ‘point-zero-zero-six’ for a ----- point?”
It was an incredible moment. In fact, I have footage of me, staring at his GPA on the screen:
In front of that ‘.006’ was the most beautiful number in all of the English language: ‘2’.
“No, my friend, we did it,” Mark said with utter satisfaction. “And with a GPA over 2.0, I get to avoid the most shameful fate that could befall an Asian son: never graduating from college. Now let’s go celebrate with some effing Chinese food!”
For a brief moment, my stomach felt like it was trying to digest a bolder, as I realized how harrowingly narrow of victory it was. Just one more wrong answer over the whole summer in either of his two classes, and Mark would have had jack-squat to show for the last decade of his life.
I was pretty sure that had we known it would all come down to such a razor-thin margin of a singular question, we would have caved from the pressure.
I let out a long-ass sigh of relief, knowing that irregardless of how close we had come to driving off the proverbial cliff in the proverbial fog, we had done what we had set out to do: Mark was going to be able to graduate. The 10-year nightmare of his was finally over.
My mid-afternoon appetite for crab Rangoon quickly returned.
“I know just the person to ask for Chinese restaurant recommendations…”
“Ha ha–You don’t want to go any of the Chinese restaurants in Chapel Hill…” Dr. Wu, the head [Chinese] head of our lab proclaimed, his voice laden with the wisdom of the orient.
For a moment I was starting to question whether it was racist (or at least culturally insensitive) to ask a Chinese person which Chinese restaurant one should eat at. A
Dr. Wu continued: “…because they’re all run by Mexicans–hah!”
I about spit out my drink, and likewise I could see Mark trying desperately trying not to snicker. We definitely did not see that plot twist coming.
But I suppose if one asks a racist question, they shouldn’t be too surprised when they get a racist answer, after all…
“Ahhhh, moo-ving to-daaaaay, B-Jaaaay?”
With the ‘most authentic Chinese restaurant in Durham ran by actual Chinamen’ recommendation from Dr. Wu in hand, Mark and I were scurrying across the parking lot to his illegally parked car when we heard that unmistakable Chinese cadence from behind us.
I spun around to address the accusations Charles, the Chinese post-doc in our lab was lobbing at me.
“Huh, what? Oh…oh yeah. Yup, yes, that’s where were off to right now!” I stammered, as I suddenly recalled my conversation with him the previous week–the one in which I had told him “Sorry I can’t help you with whatever you’re asking me to do–I’ll be moving that day.”
Mark gave me that look that says, ‘You sir, are so full of sh*t,’ because he knew dang well that we weren’t going to be doing anything moving-related until 7 that evening when we were to pick up the UHaul truck.
I doubled-down on my half-lie: “Good memory, Charles, we are indeed moo-ving to-daaaaay. Thanks for remembering–but we really gotta go!”
As we got in Marks car, I finished my thought.
“…got get some Chinese food, that is, motherfucker…”
The point of the story is sometimes it’s pretty darn hard to figure out if you’re Asian-racist. Seriously, for realz–even for someone like me who may think themselves to be somewhat woke.1Like in it’s real sense, as originated by Erykah Badu–not the dumbass ‘anything that might make me be considerate of anyone unlike myself (heavens forbid!)’ meaning imposed on it by Fox & Friends. ----- dipsh*ts.
You see, the story didn’t quite end there in the parking lot of Phillips Hall. The problem is that Mark witnessed that infamous interaction with Charles, and of course he found it ----- funny, particularly because of how Charles said what he said. And that inside joke got repeated so much that it quickly migrated to my newfound marriage a few months later and infected My Beautiful Bride.
And even then it wouldn’t have been that bad, except that, coincidentally, I-as-a-physics-grad-student had joined the American Physical Society about that same time…which came with a complimentary subscription to their flagship publication:
Listen, I’m not going to apologize for My Beautiful Bride–who happens to be half-Asian herself–when she would once a month toss my mail on my desk in our home office and say-…
Wait for it…
Wait for it…
“Phy-siiics, to-daaaay, B-Jaaaay?”
Could it possibly be a legacy of racism we got going on here? Nobody lily knows.
But what is certain is that it’s ----- hilarious every time.
…
Oh, dear The Jesus, I feel so conflicted…
Content created on: 22/23 September 2023 (Fri/Sat)
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