On Being White

I never thought I would write something regarding my “being white.” All my life I’ve never been “white” or even come close…although I guess some people may consider me white-washed, but that’s something else. And just because I’ve grown up in America does not necessarily make me white-washed, does it? Okay, the real point of this post – my “being white;” white –skinned, that is. Only in Vietnam (or other like countries/places). And even here “being white” carries with it some privilege, the great ol’ “white privilege.”

Now it’s obvious that I’m not “white” as we often think of that term. When I first visited the firm the second or third day I was here, one of the girls at the firm asked me “where are you from?” Well of course I answered the question as any American would – “From America; the US.” What surprised me, and even made me laugh quite a bit, was her response – “But your hair…” – and I understood that she meant my hair was black, I definitely was Asian, so I had to be “from” somewhere else. I get it. Even in America when you  (the generic “you”) talk about “Americans,” more often than not, you mean a “white” person. Well, we all laughed at the firm and then someone asked the more appropriate question, “What is your origin?” Ahhh…well, my parents are from Laos (is it supposed to be pronounced without the “s”?) but they’re Hmong. Ohh…clarity. At least it all made sense as to why I “looked” Asian. To a few of them I looked Vietnamese, “but a very pretty Vietnamese girl.” Hmmm, I’ve seen a whole lot of pretty Vietnamese girls; a lot of them are pretty actually. But to them I was “Laos,” though technically I’m not.

In fact, I’m pretty sure the majority of them were still quite confused as to my ethnicity because, as Tuyen explained during lunch one day at this vegetarian place where we were meeting a former associate who would be returning the following day, they “had seen Laos people but none as cute as me.” See, I told you they were sweet to me. But again, what she really meant (or this was how I understood it to mean) was that they had never seen a Laotian with skin as white (or light) as mine. This explanation came as a response to the new guy’s failure to guess what my “origin” was. His first three guesses, in the order that he gave them, were China, Korea, Japan. After getting a hint that I was, or my parent actually, were from a country that Vietnam is very friendly with, he followed up with Thailand and Cambodia. No, no, no! My parents were from Laos. I am Hmong. But things regarding my ethnicity remained hazy.

Until…Thursday night at dinner, a male associate that I had not really had the opportunity to talk to or hang out with asked again about my origin or my parents’ origin or, as I like to call it, my ethnicity. After a short discussion, and a lot of Vietnamese being thrown around, the cloud seemed to have lifted and my being “Hmong” though “from Laos” and an “American” was clear. Crystal clear. There was a Vietnamese word for “Hmong” – “H’Mong.” No joke. The “H” is pronounced! I’m not sure if that’s how they spell it, but now it all makes sense why Lonely Planet Vietnam talked about H’mong and where one could visit them and all that jazz. Wow. So all those people all my life who said “Ha-mong” weren’t technically saying it wrong, they were just speaking Vietnamese! Does that make it wrong for me to correct people?

So now they know what I mean when I say I’m Hmong but my parents were from Laos and I’m from America. But it’s not just them that were or are confused when I answer “America” in response to the so often asked question “where are you from?” I get that from people everywhere. The night I went to Acoustic Bar with Tuyen, for instance, I was in the ladies’ room and could not figure out how to turn on the faucet. The girl who was fixing her hair or make-up in front of the mirror helped me. Turns out you have to turn the handle (which looks like a typical long handle that you would push upwards to turn on the faucet) to the right. Boy did I look stupid struggling to push the handle up. But to her, it was clear that I was a foreigner (from my failure and probably also my white skin) and she asked me where I was from. America. “Oh, you look Japanese; I thought you were from Japan.” Oh no, I’m from America. And Tuyen, having arrived just in time to hear the girl’s comment, was quick with her “I told you so” because she had said I looked Japanese or Korean when we had first met.

Well, that’s definitely not the first time I’ve heard that, and it definitely prolly won’t be the last. In fact, I have heard that I have very white skin more during my past two weeks here than in my entire life. I’d get stopped by random strangers who can pinpoint that I’m a foreigner (though not American but maybe Japanese or Korean or maybe Chinese and, as a last resort, even Singaporean) and they’d comment about my skin and ask me where I was from. I’m not saying I’m gonna get tired or annoyed by this; it is to be expected; but every time I hear about my whiteness or see the confused expression that washes over someone’s face when I say I’m from America, I realize all the more how precious white skin is in Asia.

I myself have always considered me pale (or pasty even) but being here has really made me appreciate my “white” skin. It definitely gives me a lot of points in the “good looks” category. And, as I said, having white skin has its perks.

Yesterday, after work, as I was walking home, I strolled into this clothing shop called PT2000. I expected the clothes to be more expensive there because it was a store I had seen often in the Singaporean malls. To my surprise, it was quite affordable. But that’s beside the point. For some reason, this shop had a whole lot of sales associates, a good number of them being guys, and every one of them were so eager to help me find the size of a shirt that I liked or the color that I liked, and some even personally picked some items out for me. They took turns helping me out and I was (and still am) grateful for their attentiveness. Never had I received such outstanding service before and I wondered if it was because I was a girl, or because they thought I was pretty generally, or because they thought I was pretty because I have “white” skin. I guess I’ll never know unless I ask them straight up, or devised a sort of experiment to test out my questions, but eh, I’m fine with not really knowing the right answer. I’ll admit, I kinda like this “white privilege.” =P

What bugs me the most so far is that Vietnamese people for the most part think that I am Vietnamese as well. It’s understandable – I’m Asian; I’m in Vietnam. But really, I’m tired of saying I’m not Vietnamese or I don’t speak Vietnamese or just having to walk away ignoring them because first, I have no idea what they are saying in the first place, and second, if I’m already walking somewhere, it’s really pointless for me to clarify to them that I do not speak Vietnamese nor am I Vietnamese. Elliot, however, gets a kick out of it. He laughs every single time, and I wonder if it will ever get old to him. But there’s more. Worse than the locals mistaking me for Vietnamese is when they mistake me for a Vietnamese girl who’s with a white guy (whatever “with” may mean to them). They stare and openly, too, sometimes with disgust, sometimes with interest at “the white guy and his Vietnamese girlfriend.” And that is was bugs me the most. *sigh*

Well, I cannot do much about that. All I can do for now is bask in the privilege and glory that comes from being “white” among the ”yellows” (please don’t find offense in that) and enjoy Vietnam a little bit at a time.