Confession No. 1: Hollah Atcha, Whitey

When I see white people on the train, in the streets, eating at the mall - I want to talk to them.

I'm the only white person working at one school where I teach. And I comprise two-thirds of the white people at the other school (James is half white, he works there too, so there's your other third). James is wonderful and all, but it would be nice to meet other people whose first language is English.

Unfortunately, when we see them I can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound awkward. I've thought about turning to James and loudly remarking, "Hey, look! White people!" or marching over and proffering, "What's up, crackers?" But that attempt might be wrongly interpreted, or not interpreted at all if said white people aren't from America.

Plus there's just something lame about approaching a stranger just because you share an increased risk of melanoma. Kinda like, "Well look a that! You're white, and so am I! We should be fast friends."

That happened rather often when I commuted by bus in Los Angeles, where very few white folks inflict themselves with America's crappiest big-city public transit system.

I'd be minding my own, and then some other white person (usually a guy) would get on the bus and plop down beside me, ugh, even though there were plenty of open seats. I'd be forced to mingle when I really just wanted to listen to music and keep a look out for drive-bys. Without fail, said white guy always mentioned how he actually did have a car he just couldn't drive it today. Actually, any guy who chatted me up on the bus did this. In America buses are emasculating, apparently.

I was complaining about white people seeking solidarity on the bus it to a black friend once. She shrugged. If there's another black person working at the same office, it's standard to make a point of introducing yourself, she said. Okay, that makes sense, I thought, to seek support in a historically hostile career-oriented environment. But I was just on the 333 Metro Line from Venice to Santa Monica. Commiseration not required.

Now I'm in Taiwan and I'm the weird white person who wants to talk to all the other white people. I don't really care about the occasional family of tourists I spot, it's the unattached, pale-faced 20-somethings I'm interested in, especially the ones I see near my apartment. They could be a wealth of information - they may know schools close by that are hiring, where not to bother looking for work, a decent bar within walking distance ... But alas, my tongue is tied. And I will go on admiring whitey from afar until I vanquish my awkwardness.

The American Way

I got extra homesick yesterday. And I wasn't even homesick for one place - I was aching for the whole Western seaboard: I miss drinking coffee in the morning with my mom and watching the fog burn off Lake Woahink. I miss taking my brothers and the dog out to the beach for romping in the Oregon dunes. I miss driving to Los Feliz with friends for midnight pie on a Tuesday. I miss Highway 101. I miss pine trees. I miss palm trees. I miss Fall in Alaska.

So today James and I went to the megaplex in downtown Taipei and saw Eagle Eye. Before the movie we ordered Burger King.

Feminism or control freakishness, I don't like men ordering my food for me. If I'm hungry, I can tell you about it myself. But since we're here and I can't talk real good ... that's pretty much what James has to do, every day.

But today I pushed ahead of him at the Burger King counter figuring I could manage "We want two number ones."

The lady behind the cash register waited for me to quit speaking and pointing. Then she turned to James and pressed forward with the transaction.

"Two not six," he said afterward. Turns out I'd said something like "We want six ones." That might've actually been more cheeseburgers than I could eat. But had I been given the chance, I would've considered it my patriotic duty to finish them. As it was, just one Burger King cheeseburger had that familiar overdone flavor and entirely too much mayonnaise.

During the movie some dude behind me kept readjusting his feet on my chair. If we were in America, I would've done a 180 and given him the stink eye. But we're not in America, and I don't know if stink eye is the appropriate means to defend against movie theater feet in Taiwan. Maybe I'm not supposed to ward them off at all?

Back home I wouldn't think twice about busting out my "could you please take your feet off my chair" in my voice that says "if you don't, we may have to throw down outside." But, groan, like it or not, I am representing America over here. And I don't speak Chinese. So I try to keep myself in mild-manners mode. We'll see how long that lasts.

USA - home where I don't mind being a bitch - I miss you.