In the first and second grade, I lived in Salem, Oregon. This throws most people for a loop when they find out that this isn’t the first time I’ve been to this glorious nation. (Yes, I’ve seen a dollar bill before. No, this is not the first time I’ve seen my breath, thank you. That’s very nice, but I like to think that I speak English very well.)
I don’t have to tell you that my class was full of tow-headed Jacqueline’s and Jeremiah’s and I was the only Pacific Islander there. I brought a mango for snack time and when Bobby Moore cackled, I saw someone else’s tonsils for the first time.
And reading this makes me believe that Pat Robertson must have made his way to Salem and taught my classmates that playground game of overt Asian racism in which you take one finger and pull the corner of your right eye up and say, “My mommy’s Korean,” and use your other hand to bring down the left eye and say, “And my Daddy’s Japanese,” then with that stupid, twisted face, you yell, “SO WHAT AM I?”