I've now spent nearly a third of my life away from my country of birth, and every day I'm even more aware of the things I have yet to learn or re-learn.
Like most days, I fumble over grammar. Is this the right English word to use in this English-speaking country?
Or the cucumber story. I still don't know where to find them in the grocery store in Singapore. Every time I'm back, I have a mild panic attack before I head downstairs to the shops because I wouldn't know where to find the cucumbers.
Or the realisation that I've lived in Western countries for the past 8 years but I still don't know how to make a white sauce.
Today it was the realisation that my cultural biases toward racism surprised even myself. While I was at the store earlier, these two men were yelling rather loudly at each other. It took me a while to realise the store manager, a White man (using "White" here because I couldn't figure out if he had non-European blood as well), had been accused by an Indian man of being racist. These were the bits I caught:
"I'm a customer here. Don't think that just because you're the manager here, you can tell me to come back later."
"I was saying that to the other man."
"Don't think that you're the manager here so you can be racist."
"I don't think you understand what that word means."
It went on for quite a while, but out of fear that someone would end up getting hurt, I quickly got my yoghurt and walked down the next aisle.
That was when I realised that I was feeling sorry for the White man even though I hadn't had the full story. The bits I gathered seem to suggest that he wasn't the one at fault, but again I didn't have the full story.
But it made me realise too, in similar situations of ambiguity, I always end up feeling bad for the White folks. Then I had another mild panic attack. Have I become that kid that thinks of her roots as inferior to the Great White that I should always assume they're right? Or was it something else?
I had a moment of flashback to Freshman year. It was a very vivid scene where I was sitting up in the balcony with the other international kids (cos we're badass like that). Bear in mind these were in my good-girl days where I decided I was going to hang out with the "bad" kids so that I could influence them to be like me and Jesus AKA before the realisation we were all equally bad, just at different things. It was the usual chaos that I tried to tune out, but the Gospel Choir leading the Black History Month celebration was the bigger distraction this time.
Why in the world is it necessary to celebrate Black History Month, asked the kid that grew up in multi-culti Singapore where the worse of racial riots happened in the 1960s, prior to our independence. Why can't everybody just decide they want to get along and do it? I mean, I acknowledge Singapore is small and the history of racial tensions is short compared to the rest of world history. Still, it's been so many years since Dr King's assassination. Aren't people tired of that tension?
It wasn't until much later when someone pointed out the far-reaching effects of slavery that I understood why it was difficult. Reconciliation IS hard work. But reconciliation can't happen while one side hangs their head in shame while the other continues wagging a finger at them. They'll always hear the, "Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad." We know it's not good for kids' self-esteem so we avoid it, but why do we do it elsewhere?
I remembered having the same struggle in Germany. How long are we going to wag fingers at them for the 2 World Wars? Or the Pakeha for not holding up their end of the Treaty of Waitangi?
Maybe it's easy for me to speak since I come from the part of the world that history books would paint as victims of violence rather than perpetrators. Maybe it's because neither of my grandmothers have any stories (or at least, not ones they've told) of being raped by the Japanese soldiers. Maybe it's because I live in such a safe bubble that I don't have any reason to hate the perpetrators of violence. Maybe it's because as I loaded groceries in the van, I caught a reflection of myself--that Asian-looking girl that sounds American but is dressed like a hippie (I know, I know, I'm far from looking anything like a real hippie since I'm still refusing the dreads. But try convincing my ANTM-watching sister of that...) and drives a family van that's only loaded with kids on the rare occasion--and realised anyone meeting me for the first time would have no idea what box to put me in so I feel less judged by either side. Or maybe it's just very simply because I haven't gotten the whole story, or the historical accuracy of the stories.
But really, how long?
And what are WE, as Christians, supposed to do about reconciliation?
I don't know how I would respond if the day should come where I, too, become a victim of violence. I hope someone would look and say, "She responded with the love of Christ," but I also know I'm human.
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison.
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy.
