On Monday, I went to the viewing of a documentary titled “Vincent Who?” detailing the brutal murder of Vincent Chin in 1982.
On a June evening, Chin and his friends were enjoying his bachelor party when two white men, Ronald Ebens and Michael Nitz, began a heated argument with the group, claiming, “It’s because of you little motherf—ers that we’re out of work.” Both Ebens and Nitz had recently been laid off when U.S. auto-manufacturing jobs were giving way to Japan and decided to blame the first Asian-American they saw, despite Chin being Chinese.
After parting ways, the two men searched the town for half an hour, trying to hunt Chin down. They found him at a McDonald’s and beat his skull in with a baseball bat. As he slipped into a coma, Chin whispered to a friend, “It’s not fair.” He died four days later at the age of 27.
I sat there watching the film, listening to the sniffles echo the room and thought about why I, a Jew and not an Asian-American, felt so moved and disheartened by the entire incident.
I mean, hate-driven murder is always unimaginably sad, but I didn’t know what it was like to be asked if I spoke Ching Chong. And I had never been confused as Japanese when I was, in fact, from Vietnam or China simply because of the slant of my eyes. Those weren’t experiences I grew up seeing or feeling. So, again, why did I feel so strongly attached to the crime against Vincent Chin?
Sure, as a Jew, I was occasionally asked about my devil horns and was constantly told I was going to hell for not believing in Jesus Christ as my savior. But that’s not the same thing, is it?
Well, why not? Hatred for those who are different can be, in any form, just as painful and often as detrimental to the emotions of those bearing the brunt of the ridicule.
Take a look at the following list closely.
Kike. Nigger. Faggot. Whop. Mc. Gook. Spic. Hajji. Wasp. Redneck.
If you’ve ever been called one of these or other similar names, circle it. Remember what it felt like to be labeled, to be marked, to be burdened with an immense amount of hatred and ignorance. I’m willing to bet you can recall the moment it was said and who it was that made the comment. And I’m thinking that, to this day, you still feel the sting of it.
Now, I want you to look at the list again. Read each name and circle the one(s) you’ve called another person, jokingly or not. You’re probably not as quick to identify those, are you? And you probably never thought to compare your experiences with what you’d said or done to those around you because you weren’t being hateful per se. We’re all guilty, at one point or another, of making slurs and unkind remarks regarding other people, friends, and even family members. But aside from any joking disclaimers and apologies afterwards, it’s never all in good fun.
In grade school, we’re taught the phrase, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I loved my kindergarten teacher, but I’m starting to think that she was a bit of a liar. Bones will more often than not heal, but a broken heart rarely ever fully mends.
“It’s not fair.” Three unintentional last words that ring so profoundly in the bandaged hearts of those around the world who have been hurt for being who they are. You, my constant reader, are the same as I am. And together we are Asian-Americans, African-Americans, Muslim Americans, Caucasians, Christians, Jews, Buddhists and so on. In the end, we all bleed red.
Debra Flax is a sophomore majoring in journalism. Her column runs on Thursdays.
