Measuring up Asian male sexuality

MOnday, May 20, 1996

Silent ridicule and insults reinforce self-denigrationBy Edward
Hsu

"Rice stick" is what they call it. Rice stick is what they call
me. Other names are less offensive: PeeWee, Mr. Happy, Skipper and
of course, Penis. But mine is a rice stick.

Eat me.

I was having lunch in Griffin Commons. A friend came and told me
to check out the Kerckhoff Art exhibit, "It’s on the Asian
penis."

Everyone at the table laughed. HA HA HA HA.

"You know," he continued sarcastically, "I had always thought
that the Asian penis was virtually imperceptible. Oh, but now!
NOW!!! I know the truth!"

While he laughed, I tried to figure what the hell was so funny.
What the hell "the truth" was. I should’ve said that his commentary
was callous and offensive, but I didn’t want anyone to think I had
a small dick. So I remained quiet and smiled a nice
nonconfrontational smile. Only then did I realize that I had lost
my balls. Ha. Ha.

In the ’70s, Down’s Syndrome was termed "Mongoloid Idiocy." Were
they referring to my eyes? My height? Or my mind? I’d love to
believe that the PC movement has effaced such a barbarous term from
mainstream vocabulary, but PCism merely dresses the issue with
niceties; the real problem still exists. There are times that I
can’t help but feel like a Mongoloid Idiot. No one says it aloud.
No one mouths it under the breath. They don’t have to; I can hear
them thinking. And for those that do not think, I feel their deep
unsettling.

Tell me, am I just insecure? Or am I really being ridiculed as I
walk to class, dribble on the court or drive across town? After a
life of silent denigration I cannot distinguish whether I’m being
insulted or I’m insulting myself. My self-consciousness is
perpetuated by the perception of Asians as "short short" idiots and
reinforced by the fact that speaking almost every language is
acceptable and even sexy, but the mere chinky-chanky babbling of
any Asian tongue is met with snickering and sneers.

I look down and he’s there ­ my Mr. Wang. He’s not tiny,
he’s just crushed. Funny, huh? Go ahead, laugh! All yellow people
have crushed Wangers, right? Laugh!!! Laugh because it’s true.
Laugh because it’s funny to crush Mr. Wang; crush him into
submission.

My whole life I’ve been laughing laughing laughing; laughing at
myself. All these Asian stereotypes never used to bother me. After
all, they didn’t apply to me, because I speak perfect English,
because I dress like an American dresses, because no one ever calls
me a Chink or Gook or Jap (to my face). Then I realized that my
Face was yellow, but my Mind was white. Is this what it means to be
Asian American? To be banana?

I never thought that my Dad was intelligent because every time I
spoke to him he never fully understood. And when he talked, he
spoke in riddles. Strange oriental enigmas. There were times when
he’d try to make conversation with some white people and I’d see
them fighting back their grins, holding back their laughter like an
almost spilled cup. I could make out the insults in their minds (or
was it my own mind?) ­ "Listen to that idiot, that Mongoloid
idiot!" I wanted Dad to stop talking, shut up, stop embarrassing
himself, stop embarrassing me! But he kept speaking. He was showing
off his balls. Big balls. Even still, you think him a rice stick.
Look, there’s one now, right next to you, Look! Look!

I refuse to be gawked at, so I blended in. Blend and blend and
blend and blend myself away. And you call me banana?

And I have no banana?

That was then. I realize now that it’s impossible to change the
shape of my eyes. So many wish they could crush their almond eyes.
So many dream to slice their beautiful almonds into a double fold.
Why? To feel accepted, to feel sexy, to feel white. To be more
American. America is the land of the free.

I once heard that freedom is only for Whites. Untrue. It’s also
for those who act White. A bitter truth to swallow, but it’s become
appetizing: Double fold, blond hair, big breasts, big dick …

At the Kerckhoff exhibit, there’s a photograph of an Asian man
examining his penis under a magnifying glass. Don’t laugh. In my
eyes, he is fondling an illusion. He is trying to comfort his
crushed ego. If it could be bigger maybe he would be seen. But
magnifying the stereotypes won’t erase the false images. Without
facing the truth about how we view ourselves, we’ll begin to
believe the stereotypes, and begin hating ourselves. Hating rice
sticks that aren’t even there.

I don’t want to be like everyone else anymore. I don’t want to
act "White" and I don’t want to act "Asian." Acting merely dresses
the individual in niceties; the real person no longer exists. I
really don’t care if you think my penis is dinky or daring ­
as long as you’ve seen it. And while your eyes are open, see me as
I am. Yes I can be quiet. Yes I can roar. It is my choice to be
either; not my disposition. At times I can be limp; I may look like
a wimp; like all I know is "Submit!" But listen, but look, and see
my balls, and how I stand tall ­ an Asian erection.

Hsu is a first-year English/Chinese student.