... white supremacy stands tall and seemingly confident; and just like the friend, Asian Americans and other non-Black people of color are offered close proximity or “friendship,” with white supremacy. All they have to do is keep their heads down, keep silent and stay small. But this doesn’t keep them from constantly being reminded of their place in the “friendship.”
~ Ness White ~
Sometime during early 2012, I was doing a review of a local restaurant in Orange County, California’s Little Saigon. I was chatting with the owner’s son and his friend, while waiting for the owner to arrive. To provide some context for what I’m about to write, I’ll mention that the owner’s son was white-American and his friend was Asian-American. I am African-American.
I don’t remember the conversation we were initially having but I do remember the dynamic between the owner’s son and his friend. Just by looking at the two of them together, it appeared obvious who was the leader, or the one in charge, in their friendship. The owner’s son was taller than his friend and carried himself with what some might describe as confidence. His friend appeared shy, didn’t say much and avoided eye contact. If I had any doubt at all about whether my summation was correct, that doubt was erased by something the owner’s son said.
“ … he’s kind of stupid, which makes no sense, because he’s Asian.”
I remember being shocked, then furious as I listened to the owner’s son laugh. My body began to heat up as I held back my anger. How could he say something like that? Why did he think that was funny? How could he talk about his friend like that? I wanted to respond but didn’t know how to. I was, after all, there for work and felt I had to maintain my professionalism.
I looked at the friend. His head was down. He said nothing. I wondered why he didn’t defend himself. I wondered why he just stood there and took it.
I’ve thought about this incident a few times over the past decade and have come to realize that it’s representative of a larger issue all Americans find ourselves entangled in. Just like the owner’s son, white supremacy stands tall and seemingly confident; and just like the friend, Asian Americans and other non-Black people of color are offered close proximity or “friendship,” with white supremacy. All they have to do is keep their heads down, keep silent and stay small. But this doesn’t keep them from constantly being reminded of their place in the “friendship.” As an African American, I look on at this relationship enraged, knowing I’ll never enjoy some of the perks that come with this proximity as I simultaneously see the cost of such a “friendship.” I don’t think I’d want it, even if I could have it. I don’t think the friend should either.
As I should have done then, I will condemn white supremacy and Asian hate, joining African Americans, Americans of color and white Americans nationwide who are fighting for change, fighting for human rights.
If I could go back, I would. I would speak up. I would say something. I would tell the owner’s son that only stupid people believe such a stereotype.
Then I would turn to the friend and say, “White supremacy is not your friend.”
Sometime during early 2012, I was doing a review of a local restaurant in Orange County, California’s Little Saigon. I was chatting with the owner’s son and his friend, while waiting for the owner to arrive. To provide some context for what I’m about to write, I’ll mention that the owner’s son was white-American and his friend was Asian-American. I am African-American.
I don’t remember the conversation we were initially having but I do remember the dynamic between the owner’s son and his friend. Just by looking at the two of them together, it appeared obvious who was the leader, or the one in charge, in their friendship. The owner’s son was taller than his friend and carried himself with what some might describe as confidence. His friend appeared shy, didn’t say much and avoided eye contact. If I had any doubt at all about whether my summation was correct, that doubt was erased by something the owner’s son said.
“ … he’s kind of stupid, which makes no sense, because he’s Asian.”
I remember being shocked, then furious as I listened to the owner’s son laugh. My body began to heat up as I held back my anger. How could he say something like that? Why did he think that was funny? How could he talk about his friend like that? I wanted to respond but didn’t know how to. I was, after all, there for work and felt I had to maintain my professionalism.
I looked at the friend. His head was down. He said nothing. I wondered why he didn’t defend himself. I wondered why he just stood there and took it.
I’ve thought about this incident a few times over the past decade and have come to realize that it’s representative of a larger issue all Americans find ourselves entangled in. Just like the owner’s son, white supremacy stands tall and seemingly confident; and just like the friend, Asian Americans and other non-Black people of color are offered close proximity or “friendship,” with white supremacy. All they have to do is keep their heads down, keep silent and stay small. But this doesn’t keep them from constantly being reminded of their place in the “friendship.” As an African American, I look on at this relationship enraged, knowing I’ll never enjoy some of the perks that come with this proximity as I simultaneously see the cost of such a “friendship.” I don’t think I’d want it, even if I could have it. I don’t think the friend should either.
As I should have done then, I will condemn white supremacy and Asian hate, joining African Americans, Americans of color and white Americans nationwide who are fighting for change, fighting for human rights.
If I could go back, I would. I would speak up. I would say something. I would tell the owner’s son that only stupid people believe such a stereotype.
Then I would turn to the friend and say, “White supremacy is not your friend.”
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