Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Kent, WA

When my dad became frustrated, it was customary for our family to pretend as if we didn’t hear the four-letter words coming out of his mouth. One morning, I woke to my dad murmuring curse words while slamming drawers and doors. “Hey, Dad,” I said still groggy and delirious enough to actually ask him what was troubling him.

“Get the paint out of the shed and repaint the garage,” he replied.

Retracting any further consolations, I asked why, and he told me someone spray-painted “Go back to Chinas” across our garage door.

“We aren’t even Chinese,” he said. He was partly right, we were, and still are, Filipino. But due to a history of colonization in the Philippines, most Filipinos are a little Chinese and Spanish, including our family. He continued, “Well, your mom is a little…”

“I don’t think they’re too concerned with subtleties, Dad.” I went out back, and collected some paint rollers, trays, and two half-full cans of Ivory Milk.

In 1999, my parents became homeowners for the first time, moving to Kent, WA in an attempt to find a safe place to settle. According to the 2000 census, Kent’s demographics are more diverse than Seattle’s, and, even more appealing, the diversity isn’t sectioned off into neighborhoods. With various ethnicities living amongst each other, Kent would be the perfect place to raise a child in developing multicultural awareness. My parents, oblivious to this opportunity, moved us into the city and maintained reclusion.

Before I painted the garage, I washed it with soap and water. I unwound the hose, rinsed off the suds, then sat there, frustrated, waiting for the wall to dry in the morning sun. I wasn’t mad at my dad. I wasn’t mad at the jerk who had the handwriting of a third-grader. I was angry because I should have stayed in my room when I heard my dad cursing.

We never caught the culprit. How were we to – go door-to-door asking how many countries were named China? I just sat there, thinking that this doesn’t happen in Kent. It happens in Alabama, or Mississippi, amongst a group of bald men in leather boots.

I had a cut on my hand that I reopened because I stretched out my palm while carelessly throwing the materials back in the shed. I went back in the house, washed my hand, put ointments on it, and bandaged it correctly. And I spent the rest of the day giving it the time it needed to heal.

I couldn’t avoid the cut on my hand, just as my family couldn’t avoid the vandalism on our garage. We needed to treat it delicately, with sincere concern. But first, we had to realize that wherever we are, we’re going to scrape our hands. It’s not about avoiding the cuts, but instead, about how carefully we treat them when they do arise.

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