“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
Friedrich Nietzsche
When I was a younger Niko, I aspired to be popular, as the movies and TV shows goal set, but truly wanted nothing more than to simply fit in, to find my crowd, to not be “other.” But I couldn’t help but be so damn other.
I remember learning about the Civil Rights Movement in elementary school and being beyond grateful that I was born in a time where segregation and racism were over with. I was so grateful it took me years of distance and hindsight to recognize and process the microaggressions I endured, and still endure.
Sometimes I would bring my lunch to school, leftovers from dinner. As I opened my packed lunch that was sometimes a repurposed Country Crock or Cool Whip container masquerading as tupperware, heads would whip around in shock.
“Ew, what is that, is that a fish head?”
“Gross, it smells!”
“Do you eat rice with everything?”
No curiosity taste test before judgment like with the tiny spoons at Baskin Robbins before selecting a final flavor, no questions to clarify or remove the cover from the boogeyman, just utter disgust at my lack of Lunchables or dinosaur chicken nuggets with ketchup. I’d hang my head in shame, internalizing the mockery. I hated my boring brown eyes, my black hair, my brown food, simply for the fact it wasn’t white, the gold standard of beauty and normalcy and society.
These days, I have found my tribe and feel like I’ve just about grown into the skin that contains my ancestral gift to tan to a toasty shade of brown instead of burn red like embers at the slightest touch of sun. I am proud, rather than ashamed of the differences that make me, me. Now I would answer those questions differently, with unwavering eye contact and straightened spine.
“Yes, it is a fish head. My people didn’t waste parts. Why are these previously ridiculed items like collard greens and oxtails only acceptable once a chef makes a dish with them and earns a Michelin Star?”
“Yeah, it smells, my people season with other spices than just salt and pepper. Different flavors add different smells.”
“No, not with everything, but with a lot of things. Rice is a staple in many countries just like potatoes and bread. My people had to stretch what would have a single serving of steak to feed more than one mouth.”
This hard fought confidence wavers slightly in recent days, mixing and melding with the noxious scent of fear as the smoke of anti-Asian sentiments rises with 45 fanning the flames of hatred.
These days, the Q&A session is slightly different. And I have more questions in return than answers.
Q: “Why don’t you go back to where you came from?”
A: “To California?”
Q: “Don’t you think that we should stop buying Chinese products? They obviously knew about the disease and didn’t tell anybody.”
A: “So are you mad at the American companies who didn’t want to pay a living wage so they outsourced the American jobs to other countries to cut costs?
Q: “Hey, I bought these groceries at the Asian market and I forgot about the China virus for a second. Do you want these instead?”
A: “Are you implying that all Chinese people are inherently or spontaneously carrying the virus? Or that Asian markets source their produce directly from China? Or that I am immune because I’m Asian?”
I hear people who say they aren’t racist, but in the next breath say, “So and so is cute for an Asian.” As if the default was that we are not. I hear people say they are not Nazis, but walk with those wearing Nazi symbols and espousing Nazi beliefs. I hear people say that America is not racist, but see the policies enacted that deprives rights from people of all colors.
I wonder how long it will take for these questions and sentiments to become ancient history that no longer repeats itself. I wonder if there will ever come a time where my childhood naivety will become reality. Nietsche said “those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” Now, the music is blaring so loudly that some people’s ears are bleeding. What is to be said of those who refuse to hear the music, acknowledge it, or face it?