Twinkie, identity: half white/half Asian. Finding my place among peers. Dealing with overt racism. Not being offended by Asian jokes but bothered by being singled out. Learning uniqueness is a precious thing. Finding uniqueness a burden. Called weird. Singled out for being fat. For having a large head. For being Asian. Assumptions about my manhood because I am Asian. I had a bowl cut, I have squinty eyes but not too squinty. Mistaken for a Mexican. I am not Mexican. I am Asian.
Do you hate me because I’m Asian?
“Does he love me, Mommy?”
I lay across our small town house floor at two years old, legs filled with rubber. Guilliam-Barre. My mom said it was Guilliumbre. It took me a while to spell it right. I didn’t see my mom for half a year. Do you want the boy sleeping on a hard mattress at a shelter? Where’s Dad? Nowhere, his feelings are fleeting, his absence habitual. He had a bad childhood. As Mom wept, I pretended. I liked to pretend. I played the game Mommy played, pulling tissues from the box and wiping my face. I made a grunting or weeping noise, But, couldn’t make my eyes water. I’d try to help her, give her some tissues, sit next to her to see how she did it. Not my fault I was a momma’s boy. Or a Grandma’s boy. When I was in Canada, Grandma kept me safe. Substituting love with candy bars and daily cinemas: Power Rangers, Hammerheads, Japanese Cartoons and Ninja Turtles. I liked the blue ranger. I liked Donatello. They were the nerdy ones. I guess I was always the closet nerd.
Do you hate him? It’s because he’s Asian.
I was raised by a single mother and one of the coping mechanisms I used in trying times was turning everything into a game, such as “fake crying”. I found solace in entertainment through these hard times; this influenced who I am now. Mom arrives with David—David, David. Skinnier, more youthful, clean-shaven, not like my old dad. He taught me things that boys need to learn. Biking, Basketball, Catching. He played with me like he was a kid. I played with new friends. Friends with siblings. I want a baby, brother--maybe a sister.
“Where do you get baby sisters, Mommy? Can we go to the store?”
“Can’t buy them,” Mom says. You need to have a husband.
“David, marry my mom.” He laughed. He must have twitched at that remark. I can only pretend of falling in love; marriage.
Do you hate him because he’s Asian?
With David in my life, I had a new father figure who enabled me, made me brave. And showed me ways of escaping, of identifying myself through sports, activities and camps. Much of who I am now is because of David.
With David’s family in Colorado, I learned to ski. Mom ecstatic as she emerged from the basement of a loft house with a ring on her finger. I was working with puzzles at the time; I liked to put things together. They were getting married, July. A wedding at the Episcopal, sliding with my friends on a ballroom floor, pretending Perrier water was beer, imitating drunk adults. Silly dances with my friends. But my friends then— I don’t see them much any more. My good friends were home schooled, so I was blamed for bad behavior and fights. I learned from my bullies at school, who hated me, because to them I was so weird. Weird. You know it means supernatural in the dictionary. Fuck it. I hate that word. I was an Asian among white trash, Arabic upstarts, Spanish immigrants and struggling African families. I try, I do try. I try girls ‘cause my bullies do. I gave away my food to the cutest girls. The girls still hated me. If I was nice, they were uninterested; if I was mean they just hated me more. I age, lower my standards; girls still find me repulsive. At mid-child crisis, here comes Selina. She came from Mom’s tummy; there was no store, no money exchanged—or at least I hoped not. The only child was now the oldest. I’m glad, I have a sister.
You can hate me because I’m Asian. It’s okay.
As time passed other’s influences had less of an effect on me. In early stages I knew self-loathing. I became a brother and now this insight of play would be transferred to my sister. I had to start working on improving myself and maturing. This time, I make decisions about the person I would become.
It’s too small, this townhouse. I have befriended my bullies to a point, my newfound charm surfacing. I still get beat up. I can’t win fights, too small, I’m soft. Mom said I was good, she says it comes from good parenting.
“We are moving, Erikk.” As I settle into our new home, I curl into a corner and cry. Man, I am such a girl, or a pussy. No. Mom says I’m just sensitive. Time and time again, a repeating cycle of failing at new schools; a victim of manipulative peers; low self-confidence. Frustration becomes a daily session of breaking down, fighting my mother, fighting my dad. Middle school is a blur of hard times. The Spanish kids like to haze me the most. I’m not like them, but I want to be. I want them to like me, for any reason. Stupid girls attracted to men, just by the fact of race.
Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m Asian.
In middle school I became conscious of things such as race and physical appearance. I struggled in accepting my own race and who I was, pushing myself into something I wasn’t. Bombarded with stereotypes, I changed, and worked hard to become something I wasn’t.
Two awkward years and I was still bad with girls, not used to manipulating. I was going to wait till marriage anyways. I was going to be a football star. I was put into honors science, I had a good G.P.A. School is redundant; school is useless. I don’t need a good GPA, I can get into school for art. I am mediocre in art at best. This idea was not well planned. I defy all Asian stereotypes, but inside, can’t conquer my fear of Asian manhood. I built reasons, barriers for myself, claiming that love was through god. I was a late bloomer, though my body said different. Chatting on AOL with strange girls. Four hours of conversation, two weeks of a relationship and I was crushed, the closest to love I had been. I wrote songs about heartbreak, foolish concepts of love. Clingy. That’s what I was, that’s the truth about it. The trend of being rejected. I’ve counted. 28 times since grade school. Maybe less, but twenty eight serves for dramatic value.
He’s lame, so you can hate him, ‘cause he’s Asian.
In high school, I focused less on schoolwork, more on girls and more on sports. I was more confident but doubt lingered. Who is he? Him? He’s Asian.
I was a good athlete in a sub-par school. A middle tier competitor in the hardest division of AAA through all of Virginia. Wasn’t amazing, but underrated. I knew this. Two hundred pounds, five ten. Should’ve done wrestling, I would have been good at wrestling. But then the reality of college slipped through. I tried to pick my crowds. None of them really stuck. I didn’t choose to click. They were mostly just arrogant tools and wealthy airheads. Girls came and went. Fuck it. High School was finished. Didn’t want to play football. Got rejected from my top three schools. But then Longwood— I’ll get in. Waitlisted. It looked bad and I accepted the reality that I’d be stuck in Northern Virginia,
Where they hate me 'cause I’m Asian.
A man learns. A man knows. I had lived two lives, unsure of what I truly wanted. I worked for the wrong things and played around with things I should have worked at. Things looked bad because I had been too uncomfortable with my true self.
That boy learned. That man knows. No woman decides my value, no teacher could berate my brilliance and no one would kill my playful smile, always smiling, sometimes through curled lips, sometimes through adoring glances. As I sat at the restaurant after winning the regional Rugby tournament, I heard some banter from a kid I might have once considered a bully.
“Hey, Shupp, nice playing. But seriously, can you see? That pass was so wide,” he jests. I smile and reply, “Hey, don’t hate me ‘cause I’m Asian.”
ERIKK LEEROY SHUPP is a young half-Korean/half-German writer from Northern Virginia. He is currently undertaking his Undergrad in English Creative Writing at Longwood University. He writes screenplays, poetry, creative non-fiction, and flash fiction. His poetry has been published on Short, Fast and Deadly and Willows Wept Review.
Do you hate me because I’m Asian?
“Does he love me, Mommy?”
I lay across our small town house floor at two years old, legs filled with rubber. Guilliam-Barre. My mom said it was Guilliumbre. It took me a while to spell it right. I didn’t see my mom for half a year. Do you want the boy sleeping on a hard mattress at a shelter? Where’s Dad? Nowhere, his feelings are fleeting, his absence habitual. He had a bad childhood. As Mom wept, I pretended. I liked to pretend. I played the game Mommy played, pulling tissues from the box and wiping my face. I made a grunting or weeping noise, But, couldn’t make my eyes water. I’d try to help her, give her some tissues, sit next to her to see how she did it. Not my fault I was a momma’s boy. Or a Grandma’s boy. When I was in Canada, Grandma kept me safe. Substituting love with candy bars and daily cinemas: Power Rangers, Hammerheads, Japanese Cartoons and Ninja Turtles. I liked the blue ranger. I liked Donatello. They were the nerdy ones. I guess I was always the closet nerd.
Do you hate him? It’s because he’s Asian.
I was raised by a single mother and one of the coping mechanisms I used in trying times was turning everything into a game, such as “fake crying”. I found solace in entertainment through these hard times; this influenced who I am now. Mom arrives with David—David, David. Skinnier, more youthful, clean-shaven, not like my old dad. He taught me things that boys need to learn. Biking, Basketball, Catching. He played with me like he was a kid. I played with new friends. Friends with siblings. I want a baby, brother--maybe a sister.
“Where do you get baby sisters, Mommy? Can we go to the store?”
“Can’t buy them,” Mom says. You need to have a husband.
“David, marry my mom.” He laughed. He must have twitched at that remark. I can only pretend of falling in love; marriage.
Do you hate him because he’s Asian?
With David in my life, I had a new father figure who enabled me, made me brave. And showed me ways of escaping, of identifying myself through sports, activities and camps. Much of who I am now is because of David.
With David’s family in Colorado, I learned to ski. Mom ecstatic as she emerged from the basement of a loft house with a ring on her finger. I was working with puzzles at the time; I liked to put things together. They were getting married, July. A wedding at the Episcopal, sliding with my friends on a ballroom floor, pretending Perrier water was beer, imitating drunk adults. Silly dances with my friends. But my friends then— I don’t see them much any more. My good friends were home schooled, so I was blamed for bad behavior and fights. I learned from my bullies at school, who hated me, because to them I was so weird. Weird. You know it means supernatural in the dictionary. Fuck it. I hate that word. I was an Asian among white trash, Arabic upstarts, Spanish immigrants and struggling African families. I try, I do try. I try girls ‘cause my bullies do. I gave away my food to the cutest girls. The girls still hated me. If I was nice, they were uninterested; if I was mean they just hated me more. I age, lower my standards; girls still find me repulsive. At mid-child crisis, here comes Selina. She came from Mom’s tummy; there was no store, no money exchanged—or at least I hoped not. The only child was now the oldest. I’m glad, I have a sister.
You can hate me because I’m Asian. It’s okay.
As time passed other’s influences had less of an effect on me. In early stages I knew self-loathing. I became a brother and now this insight of play would be transferred to my sister. I had to start working on improving myself and maturing. This time, I make decisions about the person I would become.
It’s too small, this townhouse. I have befriended my bullies to a point, my newfound charm surfacing. I still get beat up. I can’t win fights, too small, I’m soft. Mom said I was good, she says it comes from good parenting.
“We are moving, Erikk.” As I settle into our new home, I curl into a corner and cry. Man, I am such a girl, or a pussy. No. Mom says I’m just sensitive. Time and time again, a repeating cycle of failing at new schools; a victim of manipulative peers; low self-confidence. Frustration becomes a daily session of breaking down, fighting my mother, fighting my dad. Middle school is a blur of hard times. The Spanish kids like to haze me the most. I’m not like them, but I want to be. I want them to like me, for any reason. Stupid girls attracted to men, just by the fact of race.
Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m Asian.
In middle school I became conscious of things such as race and physical appearance. I struggled in accepting my own race and who I was, pushing myself into something I wasn’t. Bombarded with stereotypes, I changed, and worked hard to become something I wasn’t.
Two awkward years and I was still bad with girls, not used to manipulating. I was going to wait till marriage anyways. I was going to be a football star. I was put into honors science, I had a good G.P.A. School is redundant; school is useless. I don’t need a good GPA, I can get into school for art. I am mediocre in art at best. This idea was not well planned. I defy all Asian stereotypes, but inside, can’t conquer my fear of Asian manhood. I built reasons, barriers for myself, claiming that love was through god. I was a late bloomer, though my body said different. Chatting on AOL with strange girls. Four hours of conversation, two weeks of a relationship and I was crushed, the closest to love I had been. I wrote songs about heartbreak, foolish concepts of love. Clingy. That’s what I was, that’s the truth about it. The trend of being rejected. I’ve counted. 28 times since grade school. Maybe less, but twenty eight serves for dramatic value.
He’s lame, so you can hate him, ‘cause he’s Asian.
In high school, I focused less on schoolwork, more on girls and more on sports. I was more confident but doubt lingered. Who is he? Him? He’s Asian.
I was a good athlete in a sub-par school. A middle tier competitor in the hardest division of AAA through all of Virginia. Wasn’t amazing, but underrated. I knew this. Two hundred pounds, five ten. Should’ve done wrestling, I would have been good at wrestling. But then the reality of college slipped through. I tried to pick my crowds. None of them really stuck. I didn’t choose to click. They were mostly just arrogant tools and wealthy airheads. Girls came and went. Fuck it. High School was finished. Didn’t want to play football. Got rejected from my top three schools. But then Longwood— I’ll get in. Waitlisted. It looked bad and I accepted the reality that I’d be stuck in Northern Virginia,
Where they hate me 'cause I’m Asian.
A man learns. A man knows. I had lived two lives, unsure of what I truly wanted. I worked for the wrong things and played around with things I should have worked at. Things looked bad because I had been too uncomfortable with my true self.
That boy learned. That man knows. No woman decides my value, no teacher could berate my brilliance and no one would kill my playful smile, always smiling, sometimes through curled lips, sometimes through adoring glances. As I sat at the restaurant after winning the regional Rugby tournament, I heard some banter from a kid I might have once considered a bully.
“Hey, Shupp, nice playing. But seriously, can you see? That pass was so wide,” he jests. I smile and reply, “Hey, don’t hate me ‘cause I’m Asian.”
ERIKK LEEROY SHUPP is a young half-Korean/half-German writer from Northern Virginia. He is currently undertaking his Undergrad in English Creative Writing at Longwood University. He writes screenplays, poetry, creative non-fiction, and flash fiction. His poetry has been published on Short, Fast and Deadly and Willows Wept Review.
