Dear Men. ARRGGGGHHH! What is the point of catcalling?  It never gets you anywhere.  Granted, us ladies are fab.  But are you so threatened that you find the need to degrade a woman in public to puff up your chest a bit more?  Here is a list of things I’ve heard from you in my short stint on this planet, where, mind you, women make up half and Asian women a big chunk of that 50.  
 
“Nihao.” First of all, I don’t go up to white folk and list all the things I know how to say in French, German, Dutch, Italian, Swedish and Finnish.  Though I should stop myself, cause it’s not just white folk that make this faux pas.  I hear this one from all  types and blends of male folk.  Second, I know this may be a shocker, but not all of us are from China.  (Also … side note: Chinese is not a language).
 
“Be my geisha?”
“Shall we have a tea ceremony in my pants?”
“Be my wife.”
So you like submissive women, huh?  Three words.  Small Penis Syndrome.  Secondly, this idea that Asian women spend their lives on their knees to service you is making light of years of history and tradition. 
 
“You me sex long time.” 
Someone spent a lil too much time with the lady boys.  Is paying for “sexy time” something you want to be advertising?  Second, you should've stayed in school.  Your grammar is appalling. 
 
“Yo I hear you bitches are tight.” 
“Don’t be afraid.  I’ll stretch you out.”  ​
This is not something you should ever be saying out loud.  Machismo is often a veil for something lacking … downstairs.  Have too many girls been asking you, “Is it in?” 
 
Not to mention, women are not bitches.  You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for us.  A woman gave birth to you.  Unfortunately.  

A German supermarket cleared all its stalls of foreign foods to make a point about racism. We could learn something. 

Something to lighten the mood on this here blog. Been a bit too melancholic lately. Don't get me wrong.  I love spice. It's in the genetic code of Koreans, even adopted ones. But this is most definitely an ass on fire situation:)  

Yellow seems to be the color of choice for the so-called open-minded elite.  Yes I’m talking about you preppy private school boys that date something off the white spectrum, which shows everyone you obviously can’t be racist, but not too off spectrum that you find yourself with someone with that “funky smell.”  Yes you know who you are and yes I heard you say it.  But let me just say, we (as in all Asians) are not the other white meat.  And I have to say we, because you’ve clumped us all together.  We may not be as blonde, long and lean as chicken, but apparently we’re “perfectly acceptable” on your carnivorous diet.
 
In prep school, We yellow girls were the girls that were “okay to date,” the token so to speak, a yellow notch on the worldly belt of the top percentile.  And by date, I don’t really mean date.  I was over the moon when approached by the dashing Mr. Popular.  I didn’t even think he knew my name.  Then came Mr. Legacy and then Mr. Old Money and then ... the attention quickly faded when my pants didn’t magically fall off in their glorious presence.  Turns out they didn’t want to date me.  It was more a yellow right of passage, a classed up “happy ending” so to speak.  It was appalling, for sure.  But more so than that, (and I really hate to admit it) it was self-esteem-shattering. 
 
But, contrary to what stereotypes purport, I did have a backbone when it came to this.  I didn’t open my legs for a fabulous 16 second quickie in high school.  Yeah for me!  And they couldn’t slap that nerdy Asian stereotype on me, cause I was really bad at school!  So I fell into the last Asian stereotype – the eager-to-please virgin sidekick, the Robin to the blonde bitch brigade – i.e. the purse carrier.  (It turns out my backbone didn’t extend to being okay with being a social nobody.  It was a low time for me, don’t judge. The Asia you see today is a buildup of one hardened callus after another.  Calling the Waaa-ambulance as we speak).
 
Some might say my outspoken outer voice is classic over-compensation for being put in my place in high school.  I say who gives a crap where my outer voice comes from.  At least now, my outer voice more closely resembles my inner voice .. and it’s loud.  Yes it’s often off-putting, I know.  I’m working on it.  Sort of.  After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.  All I know is I am no longer number two.  I am no longer the agreeable choice.  I am Asia.  Hear me roar.  

There’s a lil American rhyme that we’re taught at a young age, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”  We’re taught to chant this at bullies in the playground and use it in later life as a mantra we repeat to ourselves in our heads.  
 
Gook.  Chink.  China. Chinina. Ching-Chong. Egghead. Pancake face. Rice Picker. Kimchi. Sleepwalker. Armrest. The list of racial slurs can go on for pages.  If I were “over-sensitive” or “weak,” they might sting a lil.  But as a New Yorker, these words slide off our coats like the cool cats we are.  Right?  We’re not bogged down by small-minded idiots.  Right?
 
In fact I’m so cool that I’m the first to call myself a twinkie or banana, i.e. “An Asian American who has lost his/her heritage; Yellow on the outside, white on the inside (Urban Dictionary).”  People always laugh when I call myself this, because my “English is so good.”  People love a good-humored, self-deprecating minority.  
 
In fact, because I’m the first one to outright call myself a racial slur, it puts me in front, right?  I got there before you did.  I own this.  Right?
 
It’s sarcasm.  Right?
 
You didn’t mean it.  Right?
 
It’s just a joke.  Right? 
 
It’s just words.
​
Right?

So this happened.  My mom had a little get together for the ladies at the PTA, aka an excuse to get blotto with other moms, who want to bitch about how difficult it is to be a mom these days while their nannies watch their children.  Let me just preface this comment by saying my mom is a tall, thin, blonde, blue-eyed, modelesque milf.  And I’m about half her size in stature and imported from Korea.  The lady friend in question was one of those functionally alcoholic women, who had a repository of nice-isms perfect for occasions such as this. 
 
So it goes something like this.
 
Mom goes, “Libby, this is my daughter Asia.”
 
Libby on autopilot goes, “She looks just like you.”
 
Libby, realizing she’s had too much of the happy sauce, simply laughs at herself, as do the both of us, before I say I have to go to the ladies room and bolt.
 
Got me thinking though.  Granted I don’t look like my mom.  But on a deeper level, am I my mother’s daughter?  I mean, I do have the fine palate for vino and day-drink a bit more than I should, just like her, but then again, my cheeks go red the minute I have a drink, unlike her.  Makes me wonder.  Does my birthmom’s cheeks go red too?  

Seriously people.  Asia is not a country.

Dear White People, 
This one's not about you.  Relax.  
​
So riding the A train downtown the other day, this Korean girl (yes, I can tell the difference!) sidles next to me and asks, "What whitening cream are you using?" What she meant was, I can't help but notice you are one of the lighter yellow varietals. This cannot possibly be natural.  I must be using a daily dose of bleach on my face.  I mean seriously. I'm American, and in America, a ski goggle tan is a status symbol. 

And a note to all you white people. When you adopt your token child from the Orient, don't overdo it with the cultural heritage bullshit. I'm reminded I'm not from here every day I wake up and look at myself in the mirror.  Plus it doesn't help that I'm named Asia.