I Don't Know How I Look

A weird response slash ode to my favourite book "How Do I Look?" by Sennah Yee. What better way to celebrate the reboot my terrible blog.

Second Generation Immigrant

Summer of grade eleven I’m a lifestyle intern at the Huffington Post. I work on their second generation immigrant campaign, which is about sharing the experiences of Canadians who grew up with immigrant parents. My editor lets me write my own piece for the campaign. It takes me forever because I think I have nothing juicy to write about. Or at least, nothing juicy enough for people to listen. No one ever made fun of my lunch. I never went to Chinese school. Never been called a slur. When I write an article for the Post the reader I have in mind is a middle-aged housewife with dyed blonde hair with brown highlights and lives in a townhouse with her two terriers. I don’t like how I search for juicy anecdotes to get this woman’s attention but I write a fluffy article about food in my mixed household for her anyway. Maybe she’ll think it’s cute.

POC

There is a box on this job application for racial minorities. They say they would prefer to work with one and so I close the tab. Then re-open it again. Scroll through instagram. Close it. Open it. Start filling in my address. Open Messenger. Open group chat. “Am I considered POC???” I feel stupid for asking because it is my first time saying it out loud and not just thinking it to myself but I need someone else to tell me so that maybe it could put my mind at ease. “yes” but I never had a language barrier between me and my parents. “yes” but I go to dim sum like once every few months. “yes” but I can’t even count to five in Cantonese. “yes” but I’m not, really. She tells me to check off the box. So I do because I could really use the job. I see another job posting like that a few weeks later. I open the app. Start filling in my address. Scroll through instagram. Close the tab. Scroll through instagram. Re-open tab. Fill it in. Check off the box because I could really use the job.

Tinder Date

I am here for shits and giggles. I recognized his face because he’s on the same team as my friend and so now I wait at The Alley. He texts me that he’s on his way and I realize that actually I am here to take a shit (the giggles never even make it to the party). This shit manifests half way through our conversation when I say that I have been thinking a lot about being Asian. “I have been thinking a lot about being Asian” I say. “I’ve been thinking about whether it’s my place to talk about my culture or like be offended if some white girl wear a cheongsam. Because like I’ve never had to experience the life of someone who speaks the language or has immigrated from China or even has a Chinese last name.” He watches the shit go down and he isn’t disgusted. I wonder if he’s reacting this way out of politeness. I wonder if he has thought about the same things as me. He says there isn’t one monolithic experience of being Asian. Your experience is still valid. I know this already. I don’t know why I have all this shit and no giggle. I don’t know why I need my tinder date to tell me this to believe that it is true.

PSY100 Credit

You’re not supposed to talk about studies after you do them because it could affect the results if future participants hear about it. (I was never good at keeping secrets.) I take a survey in my psych100 class for extra credit and I check off the box. Few days later I get an email from a psych lab personally asking me to participate in their social study. I kind of know that it’s because I checked off the box but I do it anyway because I need the credit and it could be interesting. She gives me a minute and thirty seconds to write about a time when I experienced mistreatment because of my race. I spend 55 seconds trying to think of one. 20 trying to articulate it. And 15 acknowledging my privilege and contextualizing my story. When she tells me about the deception that occurred during the experiment, I know that my story is useless to her. She’ll never even read it.

(this is my fluffy huff post thing)