order, Sylvia was whispering angrily into Rachel’s ear, “Hey, are you mute or something?
Enough with the Asian freeze-out!”
Rachel decided to play along and join in the conversation, but it soon became apparent
to her that Nicholas had no idea that this was a set-up and, more disturbingly, seemed
far more interested in her colleague. He was fascinated by Sylvia’s interdisciplinary
background and peppered her with questions about how the economics department was
organized. Sylvia basked in the glow of his attention, laughing coquettishly and twirling
her hair with her fingers as they bantered. Rachel glared at him.
Is this dude completely clueless? Doesn’t he notice Sylvia’s wedding ring?
It was only after twenty minutes that Rachel was able to step outside of her long-held
prejudices and consider the situation at hand. It was true—in recent years, she hadn’t
given Asian guys much of a chance. Her mother had even said, “Rachel, I know it’s
hard for you to relate properly to Asian men, since you never knew your father.”Rachel found this sort of armchair analysis much too simplistic. If only it were that
easy.
For Rachel, the problem began practically the day she hit puberty. She began to notice
a phenomenon that occurred whenever an Asian of the opposite sex entered the room.
The Asian male would be perfectly nice and normal to all the other girls, but
special treatment
would be reserved for her. First, there was the optical scan: the boy would assess
her physical attributes in the most blatant way—quantifying every inch of her body
by a completely different set of standards than he would use for non-Asian girls.
How big were her eyes? Were they double-lidded naturally, or did she have that eyelid
surgery? How light was her skin? How straight and glossy was her hair? Did she have
good child-birthing hips? Did she have an accent? And how tall was she really, without
heels on? (At five foot seven, Rachel was on the tall side, and Asian guys would sooner
shoot themselves in the groin than date a taller girl.)
If she happened to pass this initial hurdle, the
real
test would begin. Her Asian girlfriends all knew this test. They called it the “SATs.”
The Asian male would begin a not so covert interrogation focused on the Asian female’s
social, academic, and talent aptitudes in order to determine whether she was possible
“wife and bearer of my sons” material. This happened while the Asian male not so subtly
flaunted his own SAT stats—how many generations his family had been in America; what
kind of doctors his parents were; how many musical instruments he played; the number
of tennis camps he went to; which Ivy League scholarships he turned down; what model
BMW, Audi, or Lexus he drove; and the approximate number of years before he became
(pick one) chief executive officer, chief financial officer, chief technology officer,
chief law partner, or chief surgeon.
Rachel had become so accustomed to enduring the SATs that its absence tonight was
strangely disconcerting. This guy didn’t seem to have the same MO, and he wasn’t relentlessly
dropping names. It was baffling, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with him. He
was just enjoying his Irish coffee, soaking in the atmosphere, and being perfectly
charming. Sitting in the enclosed garden lit by colorful, whimsically painted lampshades,
Rachel gradually began to see, in a whole new light, the person her friend had been
so eager for her to meet.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something curiously exotic
about Nicholas Young. For starters, his slightly disheveled canvas jacket, white linen
shirt, and faded black jeans were reminiscent of some adventurer just returned from
mapping the Western Sahara. Then there was his self-deprecating wit, the sort that
all those British-educated boys were so well known for. But underlying all this was
a
Enough with the Asian freeze-out!”
Rachel decided to play along and join in the conversation, but it soon became apparent
to her that Nicholas had no idea that this was a set-up and, more disturbingly, seemed
far more interested in her colleague. He was fascinated by Sylvia’s interdisciplinary
background and peppered her with questions about how the economics department was
organized. Sylvia basked in the glow of his attention, laughing coquettishly and twirling
her hair with her fingers as they bantered. Rachel glared at him.
Is this dude completely clueless? Doesn’t he notice Sylvia’s wedding ring?
It was only after twenty minutes that Rachel was able to step outside of her long-held
prejudices and consider the situation at hand. It was true—in recent years, she hadn’t
given Asian guys much of a chance. Her mother had even said, “Rachel, I know it’s
hard for you to relate properly to Asian men, since you never knew your father.”Rachel found this sort of armchair analysis much too simplistic. If only it were that
easy.
For Rachel, the problem began practically the day she hit puberty. She began to notice
a phenomenon that occurred whenever an Asian of the opposite sex entered the room.
The Asian male would be perfectly nice and normal to all the other girls, but
special treatment
would be reserved for her. First, there was the optical scan: the boy would assess
her physical attributes in the most blatant way—quantifying every inch of her body
by a completely different set of standards than he would use for non-Asian girls.
How big were her eyes? Were they double-lidded naturally, or did she have that eyelid
surgery? How light was her skin? How straight and glossy was her hair? Did she have
good child-birthing hips? Did she have an accent? And how tall was she really, without
heels on? (At five foot seven, Rachel was on the tall side, and Asian guys would sooner
shoot themselves in the groin than date a taller girl.)
If she happened to pass this initial hurdle, the
real
test would begin. Her Asian girlfriends all knew this test. They called it the “SATs.”
The Asian male would begin a not so covert interrogation focused on the Asian female’s
social, academic, and talent aptitudes in order to determine whether she was possible
“wife and bearer of my sons” material. This happened while the Asian male not so subtly
flaunted his own SAT stats—how many generations his family had been in America; what
kind of doctors his parents were; how many musical instruments he played; the number
of tennis camps he went to; which Ivy League scholarships he turned down; what model
BMW, Audi, or Lexus he drove; and the approximate number of years before he became
(pick one) chief executive officer, chief financial officer, chief technology officer,
chief law partner, or chief surgeon.
Rachel had become so accustomed to enduring the SATs that its absence tonight was
strangely disconcerting. This guy didn’t seem to have the same MO, and he wasn’t relentlessly
dropping names. It was baffling, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with him. He
was just enjoying his Irish coffee, soaking in the atmosphere, and being perfectly
charming. Sitting in the enclosed garden lit by colorful, whimsically painted lampshades,
Rachel gradually began to see, in a whole new light, the person her friend had been
so eager for her to meet.
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something curiously exotic
about Nicholas Young. For starters, his slightly disheveled canvas jacket, white linen
shirt, and faded black jeans were reminiscent of some adventurer just returned from
mapping the Western Sahara. Then there was his self-deprecating wit, the sort that
all those British-educated boys were so well known for. But underlying all this was
a
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