Stuff
I figure I’ll call this post “Stuff,” because on our work schedule for this week, it said we’d be starting our week on Monday morning with a “Stuff Meeting.” And indeed, we talked about stuff over croissants and coffee. Nice typo, guys.
Today I’m thinking about interracial relationships.
My parents are open-minded for Chinese parents. In college, they watched me swerve way from business school and major in film and english without uttering a single word of criticism, which shows a great deal of open-mindedness and trust that didn’t go uncriticized by their parental peers. They graciously allowed me to explore an avenue that grated against their own practical senses. But the one thing that they’re not so keen on is the arena of interracial relationships. They’ve already gotten used to the idea that the man I’ll eventually marry may not be Chinese, a notion supported by the fact that I’ve never brought a Chinese boy home (not because I’m not attracted to Chinese men, but because they rarely approach me in a romantic manner. I’ve only gone out with 2 Chinese guys [totalling 2 dates] in my life). So over the years, they’ve revised their stance to–they would obviously prefer if I married a Chinese man, but they would be okay with someone Jewish or white.
Now, I’ve never been one who liked other people being the boss of me and limiting my options. I may not necessarily want to do something, but if you tell me I can’t do it, then by God I am going to fight for the right to do it, just so I have that option even if I’ll probably never use it.
My mom and I are very close but our most bitter fights revolve around interracial dating. She feels that if I wanted to date someone, say, black, I should “just be friends.” But I definitely shouldn’t marry them because “your children will have a rough life because of racism.” Her main point isn’t that she doesn’t like black people, but that, as someone who loves me, she doesn’t want me (or my kids) to deal with the ugly end of racism if I don’t have to. It’s a strange example of maternal protectiveness. The thing that’s bizarre is that she cares a great deal about the black community. She’s always donating computers to low-income school districts and starting educational/outreach programs. She’s always said that when she retires, she wants to work specifically with the education of poor African-American kids to help them rise up in the face of an unlevel playing field. But yet, she’d have a fit if I brought home someone black.
We tend to clash over this quite often. I’m always asking her, “Well if you had to choose, would you rather that I brought home a woman…or a black man?” And she gets really pissed when I get mad at her either way, citing that this shows that her love is conditional. Part of me wants to bring home a black woman just to really fuck with her. But I hate that she’s intelligent and caring and kind and yet, there’s this “thing” that just drives me crazy.
But then I thought about this–if I were to bring home a black man that treated me incredibly well and was everything I’ve always wanted in a partner, then it would be hard to ignore that I’m happy and this person is clearly a good person. But what if, down the road, that person fucked up? What if he cheated on me, turned into a jerk or turned out to be financially irresponsible or draining? Then it becomes this thing where my family can act like I-told-you-so, based solely on the color of his skin. A guy could be Chinese or white and possess the same good traits, but the moment things go sour, it’s unfortunate. But if the guy is someone who is already fighting an uphill battle because he’s gotta be a saint to get my family to look past the color of his skin, and then he turns out to be a fuck up, then it only affirms their mistaken blanket stance on race. That’s a lot of weight to place on a partner’s shoulders. And it makes me angry at how stupid prejudice is. Expecting a person to carry the weight of an entire group on his shoulders, with every action scrutinized. It’s so unfair.
*****
I was out until 4am last night. I went to a surprise birthday party at Boardwalk 11 (a karaoke bar). This girl was rocking out to a Journey song, totally into it, doing high kicks and straddling the mic stand like she should have had teased hair and a leather one-piece jumpsuit. I was staring at her in awe and admiration and said to the guy next to me, “My God…I think she has a penis.” And she must have heard because she looked over, looked me in the eye and shook her head, not missing a beat. THAT. Is commitment to character.
So I’m really tired and all my posts today have probably been written poorly, for which I apologize. I’ll go over them later. In the meantime, I’m supposed to be writing an article about the self-storage industry, which is fucking boring. I’ve realized that even when these articles get published and they send me a copy, I don’t even read them. I’m so bored with the subject that I can’t even get through my own article.
That’s pretty sad.
*****
Michael is coming into town today. He’ll be staying with me for 10 days. I’m sure there will be anecdotes to come.
*****
I’ve lost my exercise priveleges. Hurt my back again so I’m banned from working out for 2 weeks. I’m going crazy. I can FEEL my fat cells multiplying. You fat fuck, I hear myself saying. Just go to the gym. Shoot some baskets but just walk after the ball. YouR doctor will never know if you don’t tell him.
But it’s sick. It’s an addiction. I’m an exercise junkie, the worst kind of junkie, the ones that never even get to find themselves passed out on a dirty mattress in a crackhouse with a dead hooker on the ground next to them.
*****
Good God, I’m so sleepy.