Okay, first read this ludicrous piece of well-meaning but ultimately terrible horseshit. Then read my little satire.
So after a long day of playing mah-jong with my grandmother’s ancient ivory tile set and doing math homework for fun, my rumbling stomach told me that I needed to head into the most sacred of all places to Chinese-Americans – Chinatown, NYC. Would I be thrifty and get a simple plate of chow fun? Could I splurge on Cantonese lobster without angering my ancestors with my frivolous finances? Luckily, I had a whole J train ride to make my decision.
I walked into my favorite hole-in-the-wall basement Chinese restaurant, Wo Hop, on Mott Street, the same place where my family had been getting char siu baos and curry buns for almost three decades. The host pointed at a table and mumbled something (probably rude) in Cantonese and I sat down. The waiter slammed a glass of water on the table and threw down two menus without a single greeting. Ah, the ambience!! This had been my sanctuary through many dark times in my life, from break ups to family deaths.
I decided on the thrifty plate of chow fun with bok choy because, after all, my people are a model of economical living and fiscal responsibility. It arrived piping hot and I eagerly dug in, my agile chopsticks digging through the slippery noodles without fear.
Normally, hearing the entrance bell isn’t a big deal. I don’t even turn around, especially after the chowfun with bok choy shows up. But this time was different. This time, a white boy had entered my beloved restaurant. He looked scared and confused, like he had stepped into the wrong basement. He was wearing a pair of well pressed khakis and a button down polo shirt – he looked equally ready for the golf course or after work drinks with his biz caz office buddies. This, I thought, was a man who was used to fitting in.
And yet he seemed perturbed at how rude the host was, and didn’t seem to understand why the waiter brought him a pot of tea without asking. He demanded to know whether he was going to be charged for it. The waiter just stared at him for a second and shook his head, shocked that anyone could be ignorant enough to ask that question. Poor guy. He has probably been conditioned by years of Starbucks and artisanal coffee shops that any tea worth drinking has to be at least $7 for a small. I’m sorry, a tall.
He asked the waiter why General Tso’s chicken wasn’t on the menu. When he settled on beef and broccoli, I had to resist the urge to put my head in my hands. He asked the waiter to repeat himself four times, and then generally asked the room, “Doesn’t anyone here speak English?!” I considered speaking up and informing him that not only did I speak English, I was a writer. But I didn’t want to bring too much attention to his confused plight.
Unfortunately, this disaster area of a customer was seated in the booth directly in front of me, so I couldn’t help but watch him fumble helplessly with his chopsticks. They fell out of his hands once, twice, three times. The fork was right there! RIGHT THERE! Why didn’t he just use it? Eventually he settled for stabbing his beef with the chopstick and lifting it into his mouth like he was eating a barbecue skewer. Should I have encouraged him to order something different? Should I explain to him how to use chopsticks, a skill I mastered at three years old? Would that come off as condescending? So what if almost two billion people can eat with chopsticks? One of the best things about being white is that people never blame your race when you’re bad at stuff. If I were him, I’d want as little attention brought to my incompetence as possible.
I tried my best to not to stare while I deftly lifted noodles into my mouth, but his bright blue eyes glared deeply into mine. I thought that he might feel some racially charged hatred for me and my chopstick-competence. Did his investments tank because Samsung or Sony or another totally-unrelated-to-China company is excelling? Was his dad an out of work auto assembly line repairman? Should I make a point of explaining to him how members of the Chinese diaspora don’t benefit from the actions of profitable East Asian companies? I thought back to the murder of Vincent Chin, and thought maybe now wasn’t the best time.
Eventually, he stopped looking at me, dropped his chopsticks, and stared despondently at his food, which wasn’t even half eaten. He had even given up on his stab-and-lift chopstick routine. He just sat there as the host glared at him, clearly wanting to give the table to a Chinese family from down the block. After twenty five agonizing minutes, he threw a twenty dollar bill on the table, wiped down his chopsticks and started to stick them in his pocket.
“You can’t just steal chopsticks,” I said, finally moved to say something. He flinched, probably surprised that I spoke English, and even more surprised that I tried to speak to him.
“No, it’s cool, man. These are for my girlfriend. She’s going to wear them in her hair.” And before I could respond, he walked out.
Should I have stopped him? Was his girlfriend going to wear these in her blonde, blonde hair and go to a theme party at her sorority? Or worse, was she going to wear them to Chinatown, complete with chi pao, expecting Chinese people to compliment her on her chopstick bun? I could’ve saved them from looking like total and complete assholes! How could I call myself an activist – a socially aware and compassionate person, after letting that happen?
And that white boy didn’t even ask the waiter to give him a box! He wasted an entire plate of food! Surely, his ancestors would disapprove! The Pilgrims starved for a whole winter when they got off the Mayflower, didn’t they? How could he waste food now?
I wish I could tell you that his passing made an impact, that just by being here, Wo Hop, and maybe even Chinatown, is a very different place than it was before he got here. But the truth is, I don’t think anyone noticed him but me. You can’t fuck with Chinese people when we’re eating. We don’t really give a fuck. No matter how white you are, you aren’t more delicious than a good plate of walnut shrimp.
But the more I thought about it, the more worried I got. What if this white boy, no matter how bad his experience is, comes back with friends? What if he decides this neighborhood is hip, and finds out how cheap the rents are? What if the fish stench on Canal Street isn’t enough to drive him off? God, what if my neighborhood becomes hip? The Lower East Side and SoHo are so close – it wouldn’t be a stretch for real estate developers to buy up a block of affordable Chinatown green grocers and replace them with a Whole Foods! The tea wouldn’t be free anymore! The service wouldn’t be rude! You wouldn’t be able to choose from a wide selection of dim sum restaurants! It would be an apocalypse as I knew it. I went home to my sparse, but elegantly decorated house (wall scrolls, natch) and wept my tiny, tiny eyes out.
like an open book 