Culture encompasses more than just race

Wednesday, April 22, 1998

Culture encompasses more than just race

CULTURE: Melting pot, salad bowl, Twinkie fail to explain
Americanism

My memory works like an old television with poor reception.
Thinking about my youth brings up terrible buzzing sounds and
warped images. Usually I opt to turn it off. (This may explain my
grades.)

Watching the uproar over the UC admissions motivated me to look
back at some really strange events in the insane idiot box of my
mind.

During a vague episode of my life called "Elementary School
Confusion," a well-meaning teacher force-fed me the subject of some
dead fellow named Martin Luther King Jr.

King once said, in the confines of a black and white film clip,
"I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation
where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by
the content of their character."

As usual, I glazed over these words. For some odd reason, I felt
that these words held some vast meaning, but what? (My imagination
often whisked me away from the lesson plan, and at that moment the
prospect of recess monopolized my mind.)

Growing up as one of the few minorities in a predominantly white
suburban neighborhood in Orange County, I soon witnessed the black
and white film clip gradually melt into a sharp, colorful image.
King came to life when I found out I wasn’t like the other kids on
the block.

For some odd reason, a few kids called me a nip, chink and gook,
depending on their mood.

I don’t recall tattooing "label me" on my forehead, but some of
the kids in the neighborhood decided to define me by these terms. I
grew to despise being the Oriental that I was. Looking in a mirror
was like looking at a stranger or an enemy.

Do you hearing that buzzing? Please wait as I knock my memory
into clarity. Ah much better … or is it?

I began to view Asian cultures as inferior. Whenever my family
went out in public, I made a conscious effort to remain at least 10
feet away from my parents. (I may look Asian, but I’m not. I
swear.)

In the media, movies or just in everyday life, I only saw
"white" people. Occasionally, I saw a minority amongst the sea of
white faces. (Remember that this was Orange County during the early
’80s. At times, I find that leaving the TV alone when the reception
is terrible is a blessing in disguise – this being one of the many
moments.)

But then a strange phenomenon occurred during the transition
from elementary school to high school. A huge influx of Asian
immigrants flooded North Orange County. I began to see people who
"looked" like me.

No, they weren’t Julianne clones (more proof of a merciful God),
but often I had strangers run up to me and say, "Hey Cindy! Sorry I
thought you were someone else."

Still bitter and anti-Korean by high school, I mentioned my
prejudice to a friend of mine. I don’t recall the exact wording of
my racial tirade due to some fuzzy memory reception, but it
involved Korean rappers and some of their killer wardrobe.

"So, I guess that makes you a Twinkie," said my insightful Asian
American friend.

"A what?" I asked in confusion. Images of gooey, moist, yellow
sponge-cake with creamy filling floated in my mind. (And now it’s
time for a Twinkie break. Yum!)

"A Twinkie is like a banana," she explained with a grin. I
mindlessly nodded.

Suddenly something clicked in my brain. What was I doing (other
then lusting after Twinkies)? I looked Asian, but at heart I wanted
to be "white." I disparaged a culture I didn’t understand. I
belittled my parent’s homeland.

Being compared to the ultimate junk food jolted some sense into
me like a midnight snack sugar rush.

We can never escape what we look like. (Well, that’s not
entirely true – look at Michael Jackson.) I pondered this a few
weeks later while watching a friend prepare her physics egg
drop.

She took an egg, provided by the teacher, and proceeded to mash
two Twinkies into a protective layer around the egg. After she
wrapped the Twinkie layer with some plastic wrap, she dropped it
from a three-story building. The egg survived. (Twinkies consist of
68 percent air and 32 percent actual Twinkie goodness.)

For a second, I didn’t feel so terrible being a Twinkie. I am a
Twinkie, hear me roar! Soon afterwards, I learned to feel ashamed
of my "lack of culture." (This assumes that America doesn’t have a
legitimate culture, but that is not true. Culture is everywhere. It
is everything that helps us become functional members of
society.)

I recall some tense scenes on family vacations trying to prove
that I was an American (not a Korean American or an Asian
American). My dad once booked us on a Korean tour package bus trip
to the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone National Park. Elderly Korean
folks often took it upon themselves to save my brothers and I from
losing "our" Korean culture.

"You should learn Korean."

"What’s wrong with you?"

(Obviously, it’s being on this trip with all you fine
people.)

How could I be an American? I didn’t look like one. Sometimes I
sense certain people expect me to speak with an accent. It’s
strange to live in a world where people don’t expect to understand
you because of the way you look.

My mother told me of how a fellow doctor kept telling her that
he couldn’t understand her. He always asked her to repeat herself.
(She speaks near-perfect English. This tends to happen when people
live in a country for nearly 30 years. Perhaps he needs a hearing
aid.)

The picture improves as time progresses. People seem more aware
of other cultures. Cultural relativity seems alive and well. (This
means that instead of taking an ethnocentric perspective, one
examines a culture on the basis of their values and beliefs.)

Unfortunately, hyphenated labels are everywhere. That makes me a
second generation Korean-American-Native-Californian. (George
Orwell, help us all!)

There still is a lot of work to do. Appearances still play a
factor in how we judge people. (I still catch myself walking away
from raggedy-looking people who mutter to themselves.)

Martin Luther King Jr. stepped out of that film clip and became
very alive to me. The once-grainy images of a man speaking about a
peaceful revolution for freedom and equality are now clear. Imagine
a world where people didn’t judge you by your appearance, but by
the content of your character. A place where people proudly
proclaim that, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all
men are created equal."

The United States built its foundation on such lofty ideals of
equality and freedom. It fell miserably short of ascertaining those
goals (just as communism failed in its goals).

Mark Twain once dubbed America a "melting pot." Can you imagine
how nasty things get when hundreds of things melt in a pot?
Obviously, not everything melted properly. (Is that a toasted
Twinkie I see in there?)

Then some brilliant person corrected the melting pot analogy to
the salad bowl theory. This theory assumes that each ingredient is
self-contained.

The United States is a lovely mixture of cultures. In searching
for my cultural identity, I realized that culture is dynamic.
Cultures evolve like people. Whenever one culture meets another,
the other changes. Salad tends to stay limp and a melting pot
contains a lumpy and gross mess.

Recognizing that cultures are interconnected in America and
respecting each one are just a part of achieving equality.
Acknowledging that we all harbor some bias is vital. (All people
are capable of being racists. We also have great potential to do
good.)

I think it’s time for a revolution for equality and justice. It
begins with you and me.

Damn. There goes the reception again – but not for long. I’ll go
grab a Twinkie. It’s going to be a long, hard road ahead, but worth
it.