Unapologetically Asian

Story by Chika Ma

“You’re such a bad driver. It’s because you’re Asian.”

I heard that sentence a week ago. But I won’t let it escape my mind.

Throughout my lifetime, I have had many Asian stereotypes and assumptions thrown at me, but I just took them with a laugh. I just assumed they were joking around, so I didn’t let it affect me as it should have. If I felt hurt, I didn’t worry too much. In my eyes, I was just as human as everyone else. But I realized last week that not everyone thought the same as me. My sister and I were at Walmart, ready to go home, when she backed out of her parking spot. A white car came rushing past us and both of our cars accidentally hit each other. It was a small bump, so my sister continued driving. Later, the white car pulled up next to us, where white man rolled down the windows, furious that we hadn’t pulled over to check the damage. He started yelling that the bump happened because we were Asian. Why he said that, I didn’t know. If we had been another white person, would he have just laughed it off?

“I’m sorry, I’m Asian,” my sister said sarcastically, furious. She was strongly against racism, and going home from Walmart, there was a slight tension in

the air. I had dealt with these stereotypes all my life. Because I was Asian, I was expected to get straight A’s, not speak English fluently, play the piano, be bad at driving, be unorganized, and have greasy hair. If I didn’t have one of these traits, people would just laugh at me. Because that was what was expected of me as an Asian. I felt guilty that I wasn’t living up to their standards. So my whole life, I tried being the “Asian” people were used to.

And I shouldn’t have. It was their fault that they didn’t understand what it meant to be human.

90 percent of the population in Stevenson Ranch is white. None of these people had ever experienced racism or stereotypes, at least not in the way we the minorities were treated. So to most of them, making fun of the minorities was nothing. But to us, it was everything. I was hanging out with my “friends” at a plaza after the incident. When I told them what happened to me, they either laughed at it or didn’t even bother listen to what I was saying. I let the topic slide, which was a big mistake. If I had really cared about the topic, I should’ve said something and not just simply have ignored it.

To make matters worse, I had been joking around, pushing a shopping cart when I accidentally bumped into a wall. One of those friends -- who I knew had listened to my story earlier and laughed at it -- decided to make a snarky comment that made me feel ten times worse.

“You’re so bad at driving. Is it because you’re Asian?”

Hearing this, I felt the same emotion I had the other day: rage, so angry that I wanted to scream at his face and wake him up.

I’m sorry I’m Asian. I’m sorry I’m bad at driving. I’m sorry I’m not a straight-A student and I enjoy other things besides the piano. I’m sorry I can speak English well. I’m sorry for not being born here. But, you know what I’m not sorry about? For being me. I’m not sorry that when I see someone being yelled at for being a minority, I will stand up for them. I’m not sorry I have the guts to call you out and make you feel bad for what you said. I’m not sorry I care about the people who are treated badly. And I am certainly not sorry that I am not your Asian. So let me leave you with this:

To the minorities who just take it in: Stop sitting, and start standing up for yourselves. We cannot take this intolerance anymore.

To the white racists in Santa Clarita: I am calling you out. This article is for you.

To the “friends” who did not listen: You now exactly know the reason why I can’t look or speak to you anymore.

And to the man in the white SUV: Maybe I am a bad driver. I wish people like you did not exist, as you do nothing but bring people down. I know I am Asian; thank you for pointing that out. But I will never apologize for anything I do because I am Asian.

I am human. I am real. I deserve a chance to live and thrive, and I am unapologetically Asian.

I know I am Asian; thank you for pointing that out. But I will never apologize for anything I do because I am Asian.

Where do I belong? It’s a very stereotypical teenager question. Who am I? What is my place in life?

All questions that I’ve been asking myself for years.

Everyone has at least one big struggle in their life. For me, it’s trying to figure out where I stand in the spectrum between the two cultures I am torn between. Pakistan, where my family is from, and America, my home today. I guess you could describe me as a black sheep in a herd of black sheep. I’m too American for Pakistan, and too Pakistani for America.

Pakistani culture has been a part of my life since day one. I grew up surrounded by people from my family’s culture. It gave me a sense of belonging, a way for me to relate to the person next to me. But as time went on, it became evident that we were too different, too open, and we drifted away from the group. I suddenly found myself as the only Pakistani in an ocean of ethnic groupings. I’ve always taken pride in being different, but soon, being different became lonely.

The years passed, and soon, the American culture became dominant in my life. Pakistan was now a side conversation, a fun fact about me. I instead grew accustomed to the open American society. Pakistan simmered in the background of my head. Then, two summers ago, I visited Pakistan after an eight-year gap. I remembered nothing from my previous trip, and was anxious and nervous not only to see my

family again, but to witness the country where my family was from.

I’ll never forget the feeling of the utter, gutting shock I had upon walking off the plane. It was nothing like I had ever expected. It was so different. The roads. The cities. The way people would stare at us. The way we were questioned. It was just so different. This was my culture? I didn’t like it. I remember the pain, the confusion and the anger. Anger for everything I was seeing. Anger for how I was judged. It festered, and it burned inside of me.

Tensions were no better here in America. I always thought that things were better here, that I was somehow more moral living here, not realizing how wrong I was. The same dilemmas I had faced in Pakistan I was now facing here in America. Questions that I hadn’t asked myself for years suddenly resurfaced in my head. Who am I in a world where both sides hate the other? I had suddenly been made somehow lower in a country where I had felt cushioned and pampered for all my life. Where do I go? Where do I belong?

My first approach to this article was to totally trash Pakistan, and talk about how I would never survive there. But seeing the hurt in my parents’ eyes, made me realize how hypocritical I was being. I was biting the very hand that fed me, the very platform which helped me stand taller in life. I had never thought, until then, how much I had really been influenced

by Pakistan. I, who firmly believes in acceptance and tolerance, was going to disrespect and insult an entire country of people, hiding behind a shield of superior moral values I had because I lived in America. I was blind to the fact that the same discrimination I faced there, I faced here as well. I somehow upheld my false and arrogant sense of superiority and used it to project my misinterpreted hate.

No. That’s not okay. There’s already enough hate in the world. Traveling to the other side of the globe made me realize how small the world really is. It’s futile to classify and divide us between the so-called races. Because, hey, we’re all human, and we’re all sharing this beautiful and chaotic world together. And we have only one life, one body, one mind, and one soul, so we might as well be proud of it. So yeah, I guess I’m proud of me. I’m proud of my imperfect and beautiful self. I’m proud that I’m a Pakistani, and I’m proud that I’m an American. So I will hold a Pakistani flag in one hand, and an American flag in the other. I’ll laugh at the way I speak Urdu with an overbearingly horrible American accent. I’ll wear my kurta with jeans and ripped Converse, binge watch “Agents of Shield” and dance to Bollywood songs in my head. Because I’m a proud “amreeki larki” -- a proud American girl.

I'm too American for Pakistan, and too Pakistani for America