February, 1999
This past week, I worked with a new associate. And so I noticed a curious set of circumstances which played their way rather like a weird symphony. You see, this young go-getter was Asian.
And of course I am black, and so I wondered when 'it' all would come out. And I wonder curiously exactly how and under what circumstances that our racial identities would arise in conversation.
Looking at Mr. Chung, I adjudged him to be Chinese. He stood about 5' 11', same as me, his hair a feathery textured black, a strong jaw and good posture. He dressed in the standard upper middle class uniform complete with an admirable tie, Nextel cell phone, BMW 325i, type-A voice projection and casually fashionable shoes. I didn't notice his watch. We were to present up in Sacramento, our arrangements on the phone had been brief and upbeat. But I hadn't put the face with the voice until that morning.
"Helen", whom is also vaguely Asian was working with us as well. She is generally all business, and somewhat impatient without the benefit of the sense of humor that should go with her wry smiles. She noticed with a bit of sarcasm that he kept his Sharp organizer tuned to Californian and Korean timezones. So I noticed at about 1:20 am Seoul time, that my guess about China was off.
Young Mr. Chung benefited over that day from my age, wisdom and grace in the arcane matters of presenting technically impressive products to various audiences. And since it had been decided by my agent/boss that I should stay another day for an additional foray with Chung, we agreed to hang out in the city for dinner.
But somewhere between the seminar and client number two the inevitable question arose. Why the hell would anybody want to live in San Francisco? He liked it, definitely better than Texas, where he confided his previous boss was black. Ha, that's much better now. I guess. And so as we crossed into the industrial wasteland that is somewhere east of Sacramento, Mr. Chung related to me his New Mexico redneck bar story. I grinned wisely, which I have learned is always the best thing to do when hearing these things from young adults. I asked if there was line dancing *and* cowboy hats.
"Yes", he related "and I was having a pretty good time. But I looked up and I was surrounded. I was the only Asian there, probably the only one in the whole state. It was pretty weird." Well, at least he didn't get his ass kicked.
That evening, I did something I haven't done in ages: wash my shirt at a Laundromat. In the thick of the yuppie Marina district of San Francisco, a neighborhood of which Mr. Chung is especially proud, I watched my Nordstrom shirt tumble with my Calvin Klein shorts while reading Martin Aims and checking out babes in that time honored tradition of flirting/not flirting at the washeteria. I looked forward to our evening at Ace Wasabi's the neighborhood sushi bar which pumped the Cure, Nirvana, gourmet cold sake and college ball. I imagined a happy drunk evening in which Mr. Chung and I would introduce ourselves as Kim il Sung and Rodney king. "for 50 bucks, we'll kick each other's asses right here". Reading Martin Amis does that to me. On a more likely note, I would be able to investigate his taste in women, which is a very important man-thing. He'd been talking about San Francisco babes, on and off, all day. So while the prospect of Ace Wasabi was a mixed blessing (love ikura, hate yuppie holding tanks), there was at least one exciting prospect ahead. So I dropped my clean clothes back at the motor inn, and shaved up my head.
He wore a fleece and corduroy shorts. We were met just inside the door by Jim, Dave and somebody else forgettable. Hi hiya howdy, old friends? No. Football league... 45 minute wait. He gets a Kirin, I a sake martini, already bemoaning the lack of whiskey and jazz music. Oh well, at least it's crowded and the conversation in the air is fatuous. We end up with a table within 15 minutes. Cool.
It turns out that Mr. Chung goes for the Helen Hunt look. Well, Helen Hunt with a smaller bustline. But it's more interesting to me that we migrate to the subject of hating Japanese. It turns out that Chung left Seoul at the age of 8. He speaks some Korean but is interested in taking a class. However almost nobody teaches Korean at the local schools - he'll have to pick it up somehow. People should get along, he intoned. Family is very important. He wants to get back into speaking Korean. I mentioned that it's easier these days to take pride in one's heritage. In the old days, you *had* to assimilate.
Chung spoke of growing up in Southern California where all of his friends were blonde and blue while he was desperately trying to fit in and 'be American'. He had a defender, a white kid who watched out for him when all the others were laughing, pointing and telling jokes. I nod. I understand in the abstract - but the very idea is entirely foreign - a white kid taking up for you like a big brother against the other white kids. Preposterous! I try to suppress an ironic grin; that explains Helen Hunt I think, unfairly. Then again, he did attend Amherst too. But I think Boston left him cold too. He much preferred Chicago, a town in which he admits he was rarely sober on the weekends. But San Francisco was where the real money is, "and all these beautiful women." Again I suppress the kind of barf you would expect from that Garafalo chick, who would probably be my type if she weren't so short. But we have reached an accord. We toast to 'us, and those like us' and now my ethnic curiosity is satiated.
And we didn't even have to talk about Los Angeles.
mbowen