Lots of Monkeys

When I left this morning at seven fifty-five, it was seventy-three degrees. I was contemplating going to the grocery store for lunch. I just recently checked weather.com and now it’s eighty-three degrees, it’s not even eleven o’clock and it’s predicted to get to ninety-three degrees today. I’m staying indoors.

This weekend was so chock full of things that I have to sit and process things tonight, just to get a grip on my own feelings about certain issues.

On Saturday, I volunteered at FAYD (Filipino American Youth Day). This is a series of seminars and discussions focused at high school Filipinos. I’m rather conflicted about the whole thing. Nothing bad or good, just conflicted.

“Hey, are you all twins?”

“No. No we’re not.”

I get this a lot when JungFroid and I go out. The thing is, he’s got about twenty thirty pounds on me, our skin tones are different, his facial structure is completely unlike mine, he has the ability to grow facial hair (I don’t), and well–we just look different. At least I think so. Other people don’t understand it either. Brothers, maybe. If you squint real hard. Twins–no.

Why do complete strangers think that we’re twins? I don’t know. It could be any number of things. We both have glasses. (Which are different.) We’ve got similar hair styles. We both work in the “tech” field. We’re roughly the same height, although he’s probably taller than me. Finally, there’s another factor that I don’t like to think counts–but there’s the fact that we’re both Filipino.

There is evidence that make me suspect that the outdated concept of “they all look alike” is the driving factor behind the twins comments. The majority of people that ask this question are caucasian or african-american. For the most part, other Filipinos have never assumed that we are twins, nor have they asked if we are brothers. Probably because they know what other Filipinos look like.

On the other hand, we could just look alike and I don’t see it. At least he’s a pretty good looking guy, so hey–I’m not complaining.

One of the earliest recollections that I have of my father is him bringing me to work. He would take a late break at two-thirty to pick me up from school. Then, instead of bringing me home, he would bring me to work. He was a sales associate then, at a jewelry store in La Jolla. I would sit in the back, do my homework, and make silver bows of various sizes on the bow machine. Every now and again, my father would come to the back and make sure that I was okay.

I always remember my father working. He would leave early and come back late. He went to Japan to work, while my mother and myself stayed in the states. We ate out a lot during that time, since my father normally did the cooking. (My mother baked, thank you very much.) Every week, we’d get postcards addressed to the both of us. I would place these on the back of the door to my bedroom and see them every day before I went to school. I always kept the writing side up.

Twenty years later–I am separated from him by three thousand miles.

I have seen older pictures of my father and me. There is one taken in the Philippines where he is holding me in his arms. I must be ten months old. I recognize my father–the only difference between the way he looks now is the addition of a salt and pepper beard.

I see myself in that picture as well–but not the visage of the child. I see myself in my father. I know that he and I are very much alike, more so sometimes than I would like to admit–but we are.

And I like it.

I like being my father’s son.

“I’ll have a half oriental chicken salad and a lemonade.”

“Got it.”

He pauses, looks at me.

“Half oriental?”

I pause.

“Full actually, but a half salad, yes.”

I have never liked the word, “oriental.” I hate it when I have to say the word itself. Most often this is when I have to order some “Asian Inspired Cuisine” from a fusion-trendy restaurant. The very moment the word comes springing from my mouth, it leaves a bad aftertaste. When I say it, I feel as if I’m perpetuating the myth of the “Far East.” In my opinion, it’s not on the level of an ethnic slur–but it is often offensive. It is a word that is past its time. Along with words like, “Negro” and “Colored.”

Dragon Ladies, Dog Eating, Sexless Male Martial Artists Who Never Get The Girl Even If This Is Their Movie, Chow Mein, Gay Wedding Planners, Overachievers, Ancient Chinese Secrets, Mail Order Brides, Laundries, Coolie Hats, Triads, and the Model Minority.

It makes me feel dirty–and not in a good way.

As an American Born “Oriental” I’ve got nothing to do with all of those rug stores. Another thing I’ve got nothing to do with is the “oriental” ramen flavor. The other flavors make sense. “Steak” tastes like steak. “Shrimp” (I’m assuming) tastes like shrimp. “Chicken” tastes like, well, chicken.

“Oriental” tastes like. . .

Etymology Lesson:
Orient - c.1375, from L. orientem (nom. oriens) "part of the sky where the sun rises," originally "rising" (adj.), prp. of oriri "to rise." The verb is c.1730s, originally "to arrange facing east," from Fr. s'orienter "to take one's bearings," lit. "to face the east" (also the source of Ger. orientierung), from O.Fr. orient "east," from L. orientum. Meaning "determine bearings" first attested 1842. Oriental (adj.) is 14c. from O.Fr. oriental, from L. orientalis "of the east," from orientem. Orientation is from 1839 and originally meant "arrangement of a building, etc., to face east or any other specified direction;" sense of "determine one's bearings" is from c.1870.

— Etymology Online

If you take an Oriental person and spin him around several times, does he become disoriented?
— George Carlin