Sticks and Stones and Words

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?