My White Boyfriend's Sister's Husband Really Knows His Filipinos

It's a hard-knock life for us Filipinos. Our biggest contributions to the melting pot are a disturbing influx of hospital nurses and a noodle dish, "pancit," our grandmothers call it, that looks more like anemic spaghetti the more you chew on it. Still, we are a proud Asian country and we demand recognition, dammit!

Alas, no. Day by day, I am confronted by well-meaning friends and strangers. "Kimi, tell your people thank you for inventing the abacus." I must respond, no, I am not Chinese. "Kimi, your people are wonderfully disciplined at business." No. Points for noticing my slant-eyes, stick-straight black hair and PSP, but I am not Japanese. "Kimi, your people are really creeping the world out but your women are hot." No. I am from neither Korea.

Imagine my surprise then when I was at my white boyfriend's sister's barbecue this weekend, and her husband got it right. I mean, that man was on top of his game like white on... salt.

"Pardon my peaches," he said to me. "But are you Filipino? By the way, I'm Chet."

Do I enjoy being reduced to a guessing game with legs?  I mean, not exactly. But if you're going to play, do your homework. And by golly, did Chet do his homework!

So instead of saying with a sneer, "Yes. Boy, do I feel special, being recognized as the one Filipino at the all-white all-night brigade," I said with a cheer, "Yes!!! Boy, I do feel special, being recognized as the one Filipino at the all-white all-night brigade!!!!"

He responded by looking at me funny. He then demanded five dollars from his wife ("Told you," was his victory cry) and stumbled, Schlitz in hand, toward the snack table.

I was, however, too intrigued to let this go. How did he know I wasn't Chinese or Japanese or Pekinese or Eazy-Ease?

"Wait. Excuse me," I said, catching up to his side. "How did you know I was Filipino?" I asked him about all the hints that the other failed guessers had failed to pick up on. Was it my unique, greasy face? My odd-shaped skull? Did he catch a glimpse of my Bowling League of Champions membership card? Did he hear me publicly criticize someone's weight?

Clearly, he wanted to get away from me, because he said, "I want to get away from you." Nevertheless, I pressed on. Finally, he caved. "All right, all right! Put the pepper spray down. You are scaring the children. I just figured you were Filipino because, uh... Well, shit."

He took a final swig from his beer.

"My buddy married a Filipino, and you kind of look like her. Am I the biggest jerk on the planet now or what?"

I looked like some other Flippo chick? That was it?

"No!" I yipped with joy. "You're great! Thank you so much!" I said and bear-hugged him. Man, I was on him like white on ... a science lab. At this point, he said something like, "Um."

I looked like another Asian. That's how someone knew what kind of Asian I was. Do you know what this means? It means that to the frontrunners of this great big melting pot (aka, whitey), Asian is Asian! So why rock the boat with this whole cultural identity mess? It's much too complicated, so just let it go. Smile and nod.

Chet, however, took this whole encounter to mean something else. "Look," he said, prying me away. "You are nice and all, but I'm probably going to have a long talk with Matt, and you probably won't see him again after today."

Matt. That's my boyfriend. He's Irish. Or German. Or Polish. Whatever.