Deep fried twinkie

It was my freshman year, and the two years of high school AP English hell had paid off -- I had exempted my freshman English 101 and 102 classes, and I was able to pick any upper level English class of my choice. I fail to remember the bs name UGA assigned it, but it was multicultural English literature, and I was all about it. Finally I was able to delve into true muticulturalism, which at my high school, was defined by African-American writers only (it seems that African Americans are the only non-white people who could write according to my high school English department). I was elated to see names such as Amy Tan, Sun Tzu, and Julia Alvarez.

Two minutes into my first class, I began to realize my classmates were as multicultural as the syllabus -- 12 out of 14 were NOT Caucasian. I came from a black and white town, and I was accustomed to being the only in between shade, so it was a bit surreal to be in the middle of such a concentrated amount of Asians. We'd read short stories, poems, and more importantly, entire novels by blank-Americans (fill in the blank with Latino, Asian, or African). Our thoughtful conversations about what it was like not being white in white America were both disturbing, yet intoxicating...until she chimed in...

How do I began to describe my freshman archnemisis? Like me, she was Korean, with long dark brown hair. That's where the similarities ended. Unlike me, she was born in Georgia, attended a prep high school, and her Korean parents owned a gas station. She also had a flat chest and stick-straight hair. My born in Seoul, Korea, adopted non-flat chested, curly-haired, public-schooled, housed by a second generation Italian and German adoptive parents self was not prepared for my venomous archnemisis's tongue lashing.

"..and do you know what I hate the most, when people have the nerve to ask me if I'm Chinese! That just pisses me off. How dare they?!" she began ranting during our discussion over cultural misperceptions.

I sat there, disturbed as always, at how loud and angry my archnemisis always sounded.

"And I always say, 'Do I look Chinese? How dare you? I'm Korean dammit! And do you know what they have the nerve to say? 'Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you' Like saying they're sorry can actually make up for such an insult?" she yammered.

I thought to myself, "wow, I didn't know I should be offended when people assume I'm Chinese." And as if my archnemisis could read my mind, she twisted her cobra like head towards me, and spat out, "What do you think Jinny? Do people ever ask you if you're Chinese?"

"Yes."

"And does that offend you?"

"No..." and before I could even finish my sentence she leapt from her seat to stand up in front of me.

"How can that not piss you off?!?" she yowled, her arms as animated as her mouth. "I mean, how dare they. It's like they think we're all the same or something. It's so offensive. It's total disrespect!"

Her face was actually red from anger. I felt the blood rushing up to my cheeks. I was mortified.

"I guess it's because I don't think that people are trying to be disrespectful. Sometimes I can't even tell the difference between..." I attempted to explain.

"Don't even say it! Don't even say it!" she yelped out, horrified I would even admit to not being able to differentiate between Chinese and Koreans.

The professor finally came to my rescue, asking my archnemisis to please take her seat. She rolled her eyes, breezed past me, and took her seat with her fellow Korean friends. One of the Caucasian men raised his hand wanting to dissect the word "naturalization," which to my relief, the professor graciously accepted as our new topic. Then I heard the almost indiscernible whisper in the back of the room.

"Twinkie." I heard her knowingly giggle to her friends.

Class was almost over, and in my ignorance, I had no idea that the twinkie they spoke of was indeed their opinion of me. I recounted the incident over lunch with one of my Caucasian friends, and to her horror, she revealed its meaning to me.

"You know, white on the inside, yellow on the outside. Don't tell me you've never heard that before." she exclaimed, her eyes wide in all their Caucasian discomfort.

I had been teased for being Asian all of my life...I can't even count the number of times I've heard slant-eyed, chink, and gook. But this was the first time I had ever been teased for not being Asian enough. It didn't stop with my archnemisis. I was actually corrected throughout my college years by non-Asians.

"Rugs and vases are oriental, not people," one of my dates pointed out when I sarcastically referred to myself as an oriental scholar.

So here I am, still somewhat wrestling with not being Korean enough at age 28. In a genuine attempt at exploring my ethnic cuisine, I talked Jonathan into going to "The Mirror of Korea" restaurant with me after my latest doctor's appointment. My last brush with Korean food was a disaster (basement kitchen in the dorm, enough said) so I diligently read over the reviews of the restaurant and googled the recipes of the dishes mentioned to make sure it didn't contain anything that would make me gag at first sight. I felt particularly confident since I had frequented the Righteous Room bar with my good friend Rob next to Mirror of Korea, which in my mind, meant good dining karma. When we arrived at noon, there were people there, which is always a good sign. I took out my citysearch printout of the dishes that would pave the path to my love of Korean cuisine.

"I'll just let you order," Jonathan conceded, recognizing the menu was far too intimidating for the unprepared.

We ordered the bi bim bop and bul go gi. Fresh kimchee was quickly brought to the table with a steaming pot of green tea. After I choked down my fifth cold green bean, I started to lose hope. The red pepper covered seaweed was vile. It was akin to a vinegar soaked locker room sock. The carrots were even more nauseating, and the bean sprouts almost drove me to the edge. I quickly gulped down more green tea, hoping that my bul go gi, aka, Korean BBQ, would stamp out the sick flavors my tongue had absorbed.

Our food arrived, the bi bim bop in a cute black pot, and my bul go gi neatly cut up into bite sized strips with a side of rice on a beautiful white dish. I took two bites of my bul go gi, and felt ill. The consistency of the meat was just wrong. I felt like a vegetarian that woke up suddenly in a carnivore's body in complete horror. wtf was in my mouth, and did I actually willingly put it there? I quickly smashed some rice into my mouth. I chewed, silently praying I wouldn't throw up.

"I have an egg in mine," Jonathan stated, putting on his good sport face. He dug into his pot of veggies, occasionally pointing out a vegetable he recognized.

"I can't eat this," I conceded apologetically. To my chagrin, Jonathan actually liked Korean food more than me.

Fast forward to now...

"Are you Chinese?" asked my acupuncturist during my first appointment.

"No, I'm Korean."

"Oh, I'm sorry..." he quickly apologized.

"Don't be, I'm not," I laughed.

"Oh wow, sometimes people getting really offended when, well, you know. Thanks for not getting mad."

I smiled, nodding knowingly.