Nina Bingham - 2019 Creativity Award Winner
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2019 Creativity Award
Oil and Water
by Nina Bingham
Oil and Water
by Nina Bingham
When I was eight, I woke up one summer morning with pale yellow rays of sunlight woven through my hair and warmth encasing my body. I was in a wonderful mood, and I’ll never forget that, because that day my identity changed completely.
The day started like every other. My brother and I ate breakfast in front of the TV, and my mom, a hair stylist, left for work. We barely turned our heads to say goodbye. That evening, she called to say she was working late. This meant that my brother and I could play in the break room of the salon while she finished working, which we loved.
An hour later, she was done. Night had arrived, and the three of us stepped out into the cool, humid summer air. I liked to think I was big and strong at 8 years old, but I stuck close to my family, just in case, as we walked in a trio to the car. I relaxed as I grew used to the sound of tires rolling over pavement and feet shuffling on the sidewalk.
All of a sudden, a shrill, harsh woman’s voice tore through the night. Instinctively, I clung to my mom, but she put her head down and quietly told me to keep moving. It took a second for the shock to die down and for me to register what was happening. I looked over at the woman screaming at us. She sat on a stoop. Bottles littered the area around her. Her hair was grey and tangled. Her clothes were ripped. I finally heard the words leave her mouth.
“Fucking gooks! Go back to where you came from!” A deep, masculine laughter. I jumped, realizing there was a man lurking in the dark corner behind her. My brother started to cry. I froze in fear as she spoke. “I wonder if they can even see where they’re going. I’m over here! More laughter. I was privileged enough to not understand the magnitude of the paralyzing insults being shot at me, but I was terrified of the woman nonetheless. I looked up at my mom. There was something in her glassy eyes. A deep sadness, but an even deeper recognition of what was happening to us.
We drove in silence the whole ride home. When we arrived, I looked up the woman’s words. Each definition detailed the racist, degrading slurs. Warm tears fell down my face. I was numb. I looked at my eyes in the mirror. I knew they were different. Smaller, longer. I had seen the “funny” TV references. I had even laughed at the mean jokes, and joined in when kids were pulling their eyes back and speaking in accents. I looked at my eyes again. Less worthy, less beautiful, less American. Less. I raised my eyebrows. A little better. I curled my eyelashes, wet from crying. I contorted and disguised my face until I finally felt American.
One day, my mom told me about her struggles as an adopted Asian girl in an all-white Florida suburb. How she was called “frypan face” by her classmates, bullied for looking different. I looked into her deep brown eyes and remembered the look of recognition I had seen that summer night. I finally understood it. That was not the first time she had faced racism. And it was not the last, for me or for her.
I’ve been asked if it’s in my DNA to like rice. My mom has been told she is not a real Asian, since she was adopted from Korea at three. We have been refused service at restaurants, told they don’t serve people like us. I have had gibberish twisted to sound Asian screamed at me by a friend. And people laughed. People always laughed.
There has always been a divide in my life. I am half Asian, half White. I’ve been told repeatedly that my white side is American, and that my Asian side is foreign. Maybe it hasn’t always been spoken. But I have felt the rift since that night years ago. Asia and America, like oil and water.
I used to spend hours trying to make my eyes look bigger, more American. Until recently, when I realized that my small eyes were just as beautiful as my friends’ big blue eyes. When I realized that Asian-American is a synonym for all-American. And I have lived with nothing but pride for my culture and my family ever since.
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The day started like every other. My brother and I ate breakfast in front of the TV, and my mom, a hair stylist, left for work. We barely turned our heads to say goodbye. That evening, she called to say she was working late. This meant that my brother and I could play in the break room of the salon while she finished working, which we loved.
An hour later, she was done. Night had arrived, and the three of us stepped out into the cool, humid summer air. I liked to think I was big and strong at 8 years old, but I stuck close to my family, just in case, as we walked in a trio to the car. I relaxed as I grew used to the sound of tires rolling over pavement and feet shuffling on the sidewalk.
All of a sudden, a shrill, harsh woman’s voice tore through the night. Instinctively, I clung to my mom, but she put her head down and quietly told me to keep moving. It took a second for the shock to die down and for me to register what was happening. I looked over at the woman screaming at us. She sat on a stoop. Bottles littered the area around her. Her hair was grey and tangled. Her clothes were ripped. I finally heard the words leave her mouth.
“Fucking gooks! Go back to where you came from!” A deep, masculine laughter. I jumped, realizing there was a man lurking in the dark corner behind her. My brother started to cry. I froze in fear as she spoke. “I wonder if they can even see where they’re going. I’m over here! More laughter. I was privileged enough to not understand the magnitude of the paralyzing insults being shot at me, but I was terrified of the woman nonetheless. I looked up at my mom. There was something in her glassy eyes. A deep sadness, but an even deeper recognition of what was happening to us.
We drove in silence the whole ride home. When we arrived, I looked up the woman’s words. Each definition detailed the racist, degrading slurs. Warm tears fell down my face. I was numb. I looked at my eyes in the mirror. I knew they were different. Smaller, longer. I had seen the “funny” TV references. I had even laughed at the mean jokes, and joined in when kids were pulling their eyes back and speaking in accents. I looked at my eyes again. Less worthy, less beautiful, less American. Less. I raised my eyebrows. A little better. I curled my eyelashes, wet from crying. I contorted and disguised my face until I finally felt American.
One day, my mom told me about her struggles as an adopted Asian girl in an all-white Florida suburb. How she was called “frypan face” by her classmates, bullied for looking different. I looked into her deep brown eyes and remembered the look of recognition I had seen that summer night. I finally understood it. That was not the first time she had faced racism. And it was not the last, for me or for her.
I’ve been asked if it’s in my DNA to like rice. My mom has been told she is not a real Asian, since she was adopted from Korea at three. We have been refused service at restaurants, told they don’t serve people like us. I have had gibberish twisted to sound Asian screamed at me by a friend. And people laughed. People always laughed.
There has always been a divide in my life. I am half Asian, half White. I’ve been told repeatedly that my white side is American, and that my Asian side is foreign. Maybe it hasn’t always been spoken. But I have felt the rift since that night years ago. Asia and America, like oil and water.
I used to spend hours trying to make my eyes look bigger, more American. Until recently, when I realized that my small eyes were just as beautiful as my friends’ big blue eyes. When I realized that Asian-American is a synonym for all-American. And I have lived with nothing but pride for my culture and my family ever since.
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