No, I’m Not Crazy
by guest contributor Paula, originally published at Heart, Mind and Seoul
Last week my husband and I were shopping at a store which I have frequented a few times times before on my own. The same sales woman who has assisted me in the past happened to be working the night my husband and I were there. Though this woman has never outright refused to help me, I have noticed how much more friendly and how much more time she is willing to spend with other customers – customers who just happen to be white. I honestly wasn’t even thinking about my previous interactions with her when I walked into the store. But as soon as I did, I couldn’t help but notice how different she was. Like how much quicker (read: instantly) we as a couple were acknowledged by her than I have been on previous occasions when in the store by myself or with my son (read: never). And how interested she was in helping us and answering all of our questions. How cordial and downright hospitable she was toward us, taking all the time in the world to ensure we were taken care of. Could it have been that she was just in an extraordinarily good mood that night? Perhaps she had just had a review with her manager and was encouraged to greet customers in a more timely and friendly manner. Maybe she had plans after the store was closed that she was really looking forward to and as a result, had a little extra pep in her step. Perhaps she had downed too many energy drinks from the nearby convenience store and she just couldn’t contain her enthusiasm to eagerly help the next customers that walked through the door.
I acknowledge all those scenarios are possible. I can’t say for sure. But I do know this: Her behavior was different. It was unquestionably different toward me this week when accompanied by my white husband than it had been on any number of the previous visits when I’ve been alone or with my Korean-American son in tow.
Situations like this recent incident are not new or sadly all that infrequent. It happened to me as a little girl when all of a sudden I would become visible and noticeable when the person in charge eventually realized that the white couple a few paces behind were actually with me. And it still happens now in certain situations when it’s obvious that I’m part of a group that includes my husband, my parents, my brothers (who are white) or my white friends.
And though I’m not terribly surprised when it does happen, I’m still very much caught off guard on how to fully process it, articulate it and more importantly – how to unapologetically validate it to myself – without second guessing what I feel and believe to have taken place.
“You know, you really have to stop looking for these things, Paula. You’re just seeing what you want to see”, is something I have been told before when I’ve shared these experiences. That along with, “The person could have been just having a bad day” and “I highly doubt it was even about you at all; I’m sure she’s rude and miserable towards everyone”, and the one that seems to convince the person saying it that there must be absolutely no racism or personal prejudices at play: “Just let it go already. It’s not like the person called you a name or something!”
As messed up as this is going to sound, in a way it is a lot easier on my conscience to be called a “chink”, a “flat face gook”, “slitty eyes” or any other racial slur. When I’m called a name or when people pull back their eyes to try and mock mine, at least I can easily identify and have certifiable proof of their intentions. When someone unabashedly yells out “Yo ching-chong – where you from?!”, it’s pretty easy to tell where they stand and what they’re trying to do – and as a result, it is much easier to separate myself from the actions of the perpetrator. It’s the more covert, ambiguous and almost imperceptible acts of racism and prejudice that I find are far more difficult – both at times for myself and for certain others – to reconcile, validate and to believe without question. And as a result, I find it extremely hard to publicly address certain situations like the one last week with my husband when I feel that the only proof I have is the feeling that resides in my gut.
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