(I’m sure there are other ironies, and I’d love you to share them with me… I’m just pondering this one for today.)

One of the great ironies of being Asian American has been, for me, the notion that other Americans don’t consider me American.

Despite that fact that I speak English better than what I underestimate to be 90% of the country’s inhabitants, despite the fact that I feel no national pride greater than American, despite the fact that I have never even been to the country of my parents (nor even, really, Asia), despite all these things, I am frequently asked where I’m from or spoken to as though I don’t speak/understand English, or things are said to me that imply I’m not from the US.

Born and raised, sweetness. Born and raised.

Most of the people who imply this to me are white – though there have been a fair number of black people to do the same, they are usually men trying (and failing) to hit on me, because I don’t know what crazytown you come from, but where I live, anyone coming up to me and speaking gibberish to me in what you think is Chinese… that’s grounds for a slap in the face, not a “oh, hehe, here’s my number, call me you big stud” – and I have to wonder where THEY are from that a person with Asian features is automatically considered not American.

Of course, even those of us from big cities, where we’ve been exposed to Asian people en masse, are not immune to being this ignorant. I was reminded recently of an incident during high school; a coworker who also attended my predominantly Asian high school was lamenting her score on the writing SAT II, which I’d also taken.

I mentioned that I’d gotten a discouraging score as well; she responded, “Well, that’s alright, considering you weren’t born here.”

My head snapped up. If you know me at all, you know of my great love affair with the English language. I adore the English language with a passion; it indulges me insomuch as it allows me to use and overuse it. My English is impeccable, flawless, and what did you just say about me?

“I was born here.” I looked at her.

She stumbled, stammered, and finally went oh um I should check on the kids (we were camp counselors). Yeah… okay there buddy. I only got 30 points lower than you.

Sometimes people will take it upon themselves to ask me where I’m from and when I respond New York, they tell me “Oh, you have an accent.” Really? What accent is that?

I’ve discovered that when I get really excited, I’m all Valley Girl. When I’m really upset, I stutter. When I’m among friends, speaking casually, I speak with a Queens (New York) accent, which is most evident when I’m surrounded by non-New Yorkers.

Nowhere do any of these accents say “Hi I’m not from America.”

I find it a bit sad when, for whatever reason (sometimes none), other minorities will choose to scream racial slurs and epithets at me. It would almost be amusing to recount the innumerable times that Latino immigrants, possibly illegals (!!!) have screamed at me to “Go back to your country!!!”

Go back to my country? I’m already here.
(In more heated moments, I’m tempted, so tempted, to scream back “You go back to YOURS!!!” and other assorted wonderful sentiments, but I have made sure that unless it’s relevant to the conversation, I do not bring another person’s race [or religion or sexual creed] into the insults. For example, when I’m feeling a lot of road rage, there’s no reason to yell at people and use their race/nationality/gender/(assumed) sexual orientation/religion. I can easily just scream “ASSHOLE!” which transcends all of that – and let’s face it, no matter what you believe, every group in the world has at least one asshole in it – and keep above resorting to racial slurs. It isn’t because of your race or gender that you’re in my way on the road [all jokes aside], you just suck!)

So, living in my own country and being constantly placed in this slot that says “Not American” – are my eyes not big enough for you? Is my hair too dark? Are my eyes too black? My skin not pale enough? Am I too short?*** – is fucked up enough.

But the ironic part comes when I travel abroad.

I’ve been to a couple of countries: Spain, Greece, Turkey, and Argentina. Not a lot by anyone’s count, but in each of my trips, I have been pegged right away as an American. Maybe for a small, initial moment, a brief glance, someone might assume I’m an Asian tourist. But as soon as they take a minute to see how I’m dressed, how I look, or I open my mouth, it’s a given that I am American. My behavior marks me as an American (yes, sometimes I AM the asshole-American-tourist, but I try to notice that and fix it ASAP). I am treated like an American.

Which, as some of you well know, is not always with respect or open arms.

While in my own country, I am occasionally treated like an outsider, assumed to be not American.

While outside my own country, they KNOW I’m American. And they treat me like one.

Oh, the irony of being Asian American. It almost makes one want to not be American… except for me, that’s part of the pleasure of being American. I embrace the realization that most Americans are assholes – hell, I’m one of them, whether they realize it or not.

I wonder if I’ll ever live to see the day where I am so much part of the scenery, or people are less willing to jump to the assumption that I’m not American based on the slant of my eye or the color of my skin. I wonder.

***Note (for those who have never met me): that is total sarcasm; I have larger eyes than most Asians, lighter hair than most Asians, lighter eyes than most Asians, and I am pretty pale as well.  I also exceed the national average for the height of adult women.