In 3rd grade I sat at my desk reading a ditto.
Across from me sat a classmate named Freddy Goerlitzer. It’s odd that I still
remember his name. We quietly began our seatwork, and reading the instructions,
I pointed the words out with my middle finger. Freddy saw this, raised his hand,
and yelled, “Mrs. Rode, Mrs. Rode, Josh stuck out his middle finger! Josh stuck
out his middle finger!”
Outraged, Mrs. Rode bellowed, “In the hall... NOW!”
I was shocked. What had I done? What was so wrong about pointing
with the middle finger?
My name was written on the chalkboard, and I was given a thorough
berating in the hall. “I know you come from a Christian family, and this, with
all your knowledge of the love of God, is totally unexpected. I am disappointed
in you.” She wagged a finger in my face, continued berating my Christian
background and my family, and told me how bad I was for pointing with my middle
finger. Freddy also accused me of pointing it at him. The tip of my finger may
have been pointed in his direction, but it lacked the intent of insult or
non-verbal injury to his dignitas and
fama.
Now that I think about it, I actually feel sorry for Mrs.
Rode. What was her problem with the Church and Christians? But I digress.
In my shock, I stood there in the hall with my mouth agape,
not knowing if I should defend myself. I didn’t ask what I did wrong or what
pointing the middle finger meant. I was totally clueless, but she presumed I
knew what that gesture meant. She had never bothered to ask if I knew the
meaning. And I simply accepted her
verdict.
I do come from a good Christian family, and an immigrant
family at that, and they did not teach me the idiosyncrasies of American body
language. For many Asian American families, the home is practically a cultural
capsule. Step inside, and one is in the old country. Step outside, and one is in the United States. The language spoken at home may be English, sometimes with another language mixed in, but culturally one remains in the old country. I was this sheltered from the realities of American life.
For many East Asians, pointing the middle finger has only
begun to take on the American meaning. Many still point at
things (although it is more polite to use one’s hand or a full swoop of a
hand), words, and even people with their middle finger. I shudder when an old
lady points to something with her middle finger at the supermarket, because I remember
that moment the cultural barrier came down when as a child.
That day, I went home, cried, and told my parents what happened at
school. My mother, being a devout Protestant, blankly looked at me as I told
her I was scolded for pointing with my middle finger. Flummoxed, she asked my
father, “Whatever does that mean?” In a hushed tone, my father, also a devout
Protestant who lived in the fear of an ever-watching Almighty God, whispered,
“It means ‘Fuck you’.”
We all gasped over tea. My Roman Catholic aunt choked on her
tea and violently coughed. “Aba, yung ang
meaning?” Lo, is that the meaning?
But something I do wish my parents had done was to speak to
my teacher. They did nothing to confront an injustice. We let someone
else define who I am. We accepted her truth. And I’m not going to say it was a racist incident. It was
simply a cultural misunderstanding. This is American multiculturalism.
Sometimes, it makes me shudder. Is this how badly we think
of other people? Have we, as an American people, become so judgmental that we
transmit our negativity to others? Do we assume the worst of others? Are we that inclined to think of others so unjustly? When did the
presumption of innocence cease as an American cultural value? Or are we
entitled to galloping around the village on a witch-hunt?
That day, among many days throughout my childhood, was a day
when my eyes were opened. I had lost a bit of my own innocence. Sometimes, I wish
never had.
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