Our softball team of the Richmond District and Rossi Playground played in the championship game of the summer CYO league. The opponents were from Catholic schools around San Francisco, an assembly of pretty, freckled white girls with sun kissed sin and gentle smiles. I was the only Catholic school girl in our squad of Buddhist kids from other San Francisco public school, mostly from around Chinatown.
By this time in my young teenage life, I had already become well versed in racism. Being called a chink was nothing new, although the setting in which the name calling occurred was always interesting. Chink was yelled to us by day camp leaders as they saw our little JCYC (Japanese American) troupe wander past occupied barbecue grills in Golden Gate Park or babbled to us by drunken adults seated in the pricey seats at San Francisco Giants games. I never became immune to hearing “chink”, no matter how many humiliating times it seemed to cut through us in our silent response.
It seemed so appropriate that our game opponents would begin to yell “ching chong ching chong ching chong” from the bench, followed by titters and nasty looks. Sporting opponents should at least have a modicum of class, or it should have warranted an adult discussion from the coach. No such thing occurred as we ended up losing the game by 3-1. My other team mates were happy the whole season was over, but I was still hung up on the whole “ching chong…” incident from the 5th inning. I told my friend Diane how it made me angry, but she seemed to store the incident into a long library of memories of incidents and suggested we go eat ice cream like every great childhood best friend would do.
Someday, we would both be big enough to combat the catcalls. In the interim, I developed a fear and loathing of the ching chong. Where did that taunt come from? I know people whose last names are Ching or Chong, but those words seem so non-existent when listening to someone speak in Mandarin or Cantonese. Ching chong is similar to the judo chop, a wrestling word frequently used except when realizing that there is no such actual move in judo. So in using the words “ching chong,” is that a summon to every Ching and Chong? Someday, I might just pound someone over the head for ching chonging or go all Peter Finch and yell out the window “GODDAMMIT, WE’RE JAPS! ”
While the ching chonging was hurtful, I seemed to live with the main culprit. My mother, a Japanese woman true to her Emperor saluting and Chinese hating generation, seemed to blame the Chinese for everything. They were responsible for the toilet paper wars that caused long lines at Value Giant. They had too many children. They spoke too loudly on the 1 California, and they were dirty. These were just starter complaints, which would eventually boil down to war time stereotypes of opium hooked coolies and distrustful, money grabbers who were not quite on par with her. What Chinese we did know were above the norm, people who managed to overcome being Chinese, transforming into acceptable people.
My father seemed to counter my mother’s prejudices by immersing me in a universe of delicious food made from steamed rice noodles, along with white sugar rice cakes and Char Siu Bao. He brought home his little pink box of dim sum from the Eastern Bakery in Chinatown, never seeming to care much for my mother’s protests. Between the two of them, my parents seemed to play out World War II in my living room, the aggressive country versus the nation trampled over by the Imperialist army. There were times when they wanted me to choose sides, a silly notion. My life, to that point, was neither Japanese nor Filipino nor American. For all intents and purposes I was simply ching chong to most.
Though times have changed, and I have become older as the world has become smaller, these prejudices against race are still far too strong for my liking. We do live in a time when a sad segment of people believe that our President is a Kenyan and where Sikhs are mistaken for Sheiks. A producer friend once asked about film ideas for her new movie, and I suggested an Asian American actor for the role. Her response was, “…but they have small penises….” Somehow, living through a ching chong remark seemed so much simpler.
Over time and with age, I have learned to let ching chong lose its effectiveness. Such remarks are an indictment against the taunter, a badge of ignorance and intolerance, unleashed from anger or too much beer. Other times, the remarks come with curious experiences.
I accompanied a Japanese tourist friend through a big box store one day, a journey he seemed compelled to take in order to experience real America. I explained the different merchandise to him, speaking in Japanese, when two elegant looking old ladies approached us.
“Stop speaking in Chinese. Ching chong! Speak in English!,” one yelled, pinching her mouth so tightly that all flesh disappeared from her lips.
Of the range of responses I could offer, I stuck with the one basic.
“No,” I replied, offering a little smile as I grabbed my friend by his jacket and led him away from the unfriendly confines of the cereal aisle. He had no idea what had transpired. He did not speak ching chong. Hopefully, he never would.
(c) 2014 Slow Suburban Death. All rights reserved.
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