Benny

What It Means to be Asian American

Oral recording accompanied, to be donated to Swem Archives

Dedication: My mentor, Francis Tanglao-Aguas

Introduction:

I was always confused when my father chastised me, saying how I never lived up to my “Asian” heritage. Then, when I explored having a career in politics, my father told me to come back to New York. He wanted me to start my career in Chinatown, where swarms of similar faces by the color of our skin merits familiarity and such. Confused, I asked him why I could not stay in Virginia to pursue my political dreams.

“You will never get elected. The white people will not vote for you.”

I was shocked, and hurt. All my life, I grew up with “white” people. I played with them, studied with them, and even dated one of them. It was this moment that I suddenly became sensitive. Sensitive that I was different, superficially, not by the nature of my heritage. But simply by the color of my skin.

Another event that will always stick to my memory was working for the Southwest Virginia special election for the state Senate. After driving a long-winded ten hours, I was told that I would not have to go door to door canvassing (thank goodness, actually). But the reasons weren’t because I was not qualified or clueless about the region, it was for my own safety concerns. Safety as in I was susceptible to face certain bodily harm. Safety as in I was yellow and not white like the majority of these folks were. It was this fact I nonchalantly wave off when I tell others, but it’s a fact that I despise within. This was supposed to be the 21st century, I would always think.

Anger is useless though. Hatred is even more deflating. What I began is an endless journey to what it means to be an Asian American.

Two Worlds Connected

As I boarded on my flight, I was excited and curious to see what adventures would bring forth. Then, the dread of a thirteen hour flight consumed my sense for adventure. I’ve been on these long-trekked journeys before with my family, and I had not grown accustomed to the numerous times I suffered from jet-lag and the thirteen stationary hours of sitting in the same damned cramped spot.

Just as I thought things were going to get worse, the flight attendant came up and asked me what I wanted to drink - IN CHINESE! After she saw I stuttered a few incoherent words, she spoke in English. I embarrassingly asked for orange juice, and she hurriedly went on her way to the next passenger. Truth is, she probably dealt with many passengers like myself, but I was borderline mortified. Alas, I thought, I will have to take Chinese again when I get back on campus.