People Pleaser

A couple of weekends ago, my friend called me a People Pleaser. I admit it; I am totally a people pleaser and always have been. I go out of my way to accommodate others (so selfless, I know), but oftentimes, I sacrifice the pleasure of the people I’m with just to please strangers. I’m not a fan of confrontation (unless you consider shoving a man for groping my friend confrontation), and I hate getting scolded.

Except for the time my 7th-grade teacher shook her head at me because I was “falling off the wagon,” I can’t recall a time a teacher didn’t love me or at least note me down as a “pleasure to teach.” During a class break in 5th grade, my friend’s teacher pinched my cheeks and told me she wished I was in her class. I couldn’t have been more pleased to please her just for being me, a cute little Asian with squishy cheeks. 

This past weekend I went camping with my cousin and a friend. We drove six hours to Parc National d’Oka in Quebec, less than an hour from Montreal. We arrived after dark close to the campsite’s designated quiet hours, so naturally, I was nervous about making too much noise. I didn’t want to disturb other campers.

On our way up, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel for lunch. The last time I was at a Cracker Barrel I was driving through Virginia and everyone spoke with a Southern accent. (By the way, you don’t go to Cracker Barrel for the food; you go for the experience and correct me if I’m wrong, for the caramel popcorn). 

Based on my first impression of Cracker Barrel in Virginia, I imagined we’d be the only people of color at the restaurant here in New Hampshire. But there were a few tables of Black people and our server’s name was Rodrigo (with an excellent haircut and a sweet attitude). “Okay good,” I said to my cousin and my friend, “we fit in.” 

Driving into our campsite, I also imagined we’d be the only non-White campers. I was so careful about the noise coming from our campsite, always shushing my friend or flinching whenever one of us shut the car door. I didn’t want to get yelled at or be seen as rude: Oh, of course, they’re Asian.

When my extended family immigrated to the States in 2013, I was equally happy and tense to have them here. I was constantly worried that we might be taking up the entire sidewalk (since we do everything in groups), or that my uncle drove too slowly on local roads and too fast on highways, or that my aunt spoke too loudly on the phone, or that we were cheap if we tipped under 20%, or that my aunt and uncles’ cigarette smoke would bother our neighbors. 

I was horrified when my aunt scaled and hacked a live fish over the sewer in the driveway we share with our neighbors. But maybe this one is valid. 

The point is, I’m constantly in a state of paranoia that I am, or my family is, doing something that makes us stand out and look bad; that we’re reinforcing the stereotype of the Chinese family who drives, tips, and speaks English poorly. 

My dad never learned to speak English probably because I made fun of him whenever he tried. A little too late now, but I see how my behavior demoralized him; his American daughter shamed him for not fitting in. 

I grew up in America. All the friends I made in school were non-Asian. I was proud of being a Twinkie, yellow on the outside, white on the inside. 

Then I moved to China, and my Chinese family moved to America, and this switcheroo debunked everything I ever understood about my place in the US. 

A few years ago, when I was visiting home from China, a close friend pointed out how sensitive I was to race. I could sense it, too. After living for so long in racially homogenous Beijing, I developed a hyperawareness of race, particularly my own. 

I remember one summer when I landed in NYC and got on the metro in which almost everyone around me was either Asian or Black, that my shoulders immediately relaxed. Similarly, at our campsite in Parc National d’Oka, when I heard the people next to us speak Spanish, I also felt more comfortable. 

In the restroom, I bumped into a woman who looked of South Asian descent. I struck up a conversation with her, but I didn’t tell her I was pleasantly surprised she was there. When we went to the beach the next day, we settled in a shaded area where most of the folks around us were people of color. There was an Arabic-speaking family to one side and a South Asian group on the other. 

I was surprised there were so many people of color camping. In my mind, it was a very White person thing to do. Most of the #vanlife influencers I follow on Instagram, who camp, hike, and visit national parks, are White. Only yesterday did I stumble upon a Black woman living in a van (with her White, bearded boyfriend). 

When we were pulling into the campsite, I kept warning my friend to slow down, to turn down the music, to not slam the car doors, to turn off the lights, blah blah blah, until my friend snapped, “What are you afraid of?!”

I was afraid of being yelled at. I was afraid of being rude. I was afraid of unwanted attention and looking bad. I was afraid of being seen as the uncivilized Asian person, the same way old immigrants look down on new immigrants. 

But I wasn’t afraid of being yelled at by the Spanish-speaking campers to our right whose presence comforted me. I was afraid of being yelled at by older White people to our left, across, and up and down the road. 

Isn’t that fucked up? 

Yes. It really is. The most fucked up thing of all, though, is that nobody ever yelled at us. In fact, the one person who spoke to us was a middle-aged White man yelling about the young White park rangers who were speeding up the dirt road.

Since the camping trip, I’ve been thinking a lot about where this fear of being scolded at and looked down on by White people comes from. Why do other people of color make me feel more comfortable? Why does being around other minorities automatically alleviate my self-imposed pressure of fitting in? Who am I trying to fit in with anyway? Why isn’t my Chinese family as aware of race as I am?

To be clear, I am not this paranoid when living in China. This behavior and mentality exists only when I am here in the States (and Canada, apparently).

Perhaps having White teachers throughout my elementary, middle, and high school years has something to do with it. There were a handful of teachers of color in my schools, but I wasn’t in their classes. My only direct figures of authority of color (that I remember off the top of my head) were my Black high school guidance counselor and my Asian chemistry teacher who went on maternity leave after a couple of months.

Perhaps moving to China where I finally looked like people around me has something to do with my racial hyperawareness and paranoia, too. Having grown up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, I was one of the few who smelled like mothballs and ate dried seaweed for snack time at school (now it’s trendy and is sold at Trader Joe’s). Then I went to college in Ithaca, in upstate New York, where I received a scholarship for being Asian and MLK day wasn’t a holiday off from classes until I started college. It wasn’t until I transferred to NYU that I felt more blended in. 

Then I transplanted myself to China where I was faced with my first identity crisis. Was I Asian-American? American-Chinese? Chinese? American? ABC? American passport with Chinese blood? The only positive thing that has come out of the Trump era is that this kind of crisis is now on the table for public discussion. Where do I stand as an Asian American in the United States?

You might think the answer is simple—I am American, I have all the rights White Americans do, I am financially well-off, and that’s that. But that would be undermining my feelings and experiences. 

Perhaps experiencing America differently, through the perspective of my extended family new to this country, has something to do with it. The Boston I knew growing up and the Boston I know now is totally different. The city itself hasn’t changed—it’s the way I see things that has changed, and my Chinese family has a lot to do with that. I don’t see things out of the lens of a first-generation American anymore. 

It’s exhausting keeping up appearances as the model minority (I know, boohoohoo, but don’t knock it until you know how it feels). It’s annoying to my family that I always hound them for being too something or other. And it’s probably unfair for me to presume that the White people who walk by our campsite staring at us are thinking how unusual it is to see Asians camping when really they might be thinking how amazing our campfire is. 

I don’t know if this paranoia of being looked down on by White people is “reverse racism,” if this fear is valid or if it’s unreasonable, if it’s all in my head, or what. But all this people-pleasing business does come from someplace, and I’m trying to figure out where.

What difference would it make, though? Well, I’d be able to contribute to the conversation about race and identity in the United States from the perspective of a Chinese American woman, which could potentially help other Asian-Americans trying to understand their place in a country coming to terms with this complicated and uncomfortable issue. 

The least it could do is help me relax in the country where I grew up. That would be nice.