Before we begin, imagine a motorized rickshaw that has four wheels. It has space at the front for one person, the driver, and space at the back for two people and a suitcase, or perhaps a small human. It’s completely enclosed. It has windows that can be rolled up and down. It is a bright red color. It’s primarily made of metal, with some plastic. Now imagine several of these all in a line down the bike lane of a large street with drivers hanging out nearby looking for customers.
One day I was waiting for a Didi (the Chinese Uber) with Ben, my husband. Near where we were standing was a line of those red rickshaws I just mentioned. I have never taken one myself. Mostly because there are many much faster means of getting around, and I do not need to negotiate a price using these other, faster methods.
On this day, one of the drivers came over with a grin on his face and asked if we wanted a ride. Ben and I assured him that we were okay. I even showed him that we had already called a Didi. I think there is an honor system among taxi drivers of all sorts. You never change modes of transportation when someone is already on their way to pick you up. At least, I had heard of such a code, and I hoped that this driver would appreciate my following it.
He just laughed and asked Ben where I am from, assuming that I cannot speak Mandarin. He probably also thought that Ben was my guide, my classmate, personal assistant, or translator, as many people do. So, he felt very comfortable talking to him about me as if I were invisible. Ben points out that I can speak Mandarin, and the driver should ask me himself. I’ve already explained to Ben that I do not like being talked about in the third person like I am unable to speak for myself. So, he knows to deflect those questions.
The driver then laughs again in a way that suggests he doesn’t really believe I can speak the language, but he tries anyway. He says to me in that loud, slow way you might speak to someone you think is either deaf or mentally disabled. “Can you speak Chinese?” I make an effort not to roll my eyes and respond that I can. He then asks me where I am from. I tell him I am from the United States. He laughs again. Many people in China are quite confident that only white people live in America, so I am sure he did not believe me. This is confirmed by his next question.
Back to the imagination. It is important to imagine this person slowly puffing his chest out and tilting his chin ever so high when he says, “How did you feel when you came to China and saw such white skin?”
Wait… what?
You can imagine I’m completely confused by this question. I say, “I come from the US. I see people of all shades and colors all the time. There are many white people. I do not feel anything when I see white skin. There are people from all over the world in the United States.” I look at Ben for confirmation on this. He nods his head and adds that this is accurate.
The driver laughs again. Then he asks me, waving his hand in front of his face. “You can’t wash it off, can you?”
If you didn’t get that, here he is referring to the color of my skin as though it were dirt to be washed off. I respond, “No, I cannot wash it off.” He responds, “There’s just nothing you can do about it, is there?”
He says it as though I’m doomed for the rest of my life. My husband jumps to my defense at this point, and I stop listening to the conversation because I’m too busy laughing hysterically. When our Didi driver arrived, he looked at Ben and asked, “Is she okay?” Ben responded, “Yes, she’s fine.” After one final look, the driver decided to drive off. That is how hysterically I was laughing. This driver thought I might actually be suffering a mental breakdown in his vehicle.
I do remember at some point the rickshaw driver asking again if we were sure that we didn’t need him to give us a ride. I also remember the other rickshaw drivers were listening intently to our conversation and found it highly entertaining, though not for the same reasons I was laughing. I felt like the whole conversation was not really about getting to know a foreigner. I wasn’t about curiosity. It was about breaking up the monotony of waiting for customers. It was about finding some entertainment, though at the expense of the black foreigner. It was an opportunity for this driver to show that he may be ignored, even looked down upon, by people going by, but he was still superior to me because at least he wasn’t brown.
When people are ignored, underpaid, and undervalued, they will find their value or meaning anywhere they can. This normally means finding someone else to look down upon. It feels to me that brown people are used worldwide for just this purpose
My first reaction to this event, as I mentioned, was hysterical laughter. My second reaction was anger. Society told me that if I worked hard enough, was educated enough, made enough money, etc., I would one day be respected. It wasn’t true. I am a faculty member at one of the top universities in the world. I live very comfortably. I do not know this guy’s income, but I’d venture to guess I make at least 5 times as much, maybe even 10. Even if he magically made more money than me, I would not switch my job for his on any day of the week. This guy drives an oversized microwave, and he still feels superior to me because of the color of our respective skins?!
My next reaction was humility. My socioeconomic status does not make me any superior to this guy than his skin color makes him superior to me. My education and income levels are more the result of the passport I hold than hard work on my part. We are all equals. We were born that. We don’t have to do anything to be worthy of love and respect.
My final reaction was relief. Relief that I could stop trying to prove my worth. The truth is that no amount of money, education, or fame was going to change the way the world saw me. I am black first and then everything else to everyone who meets me for the first time, whether consciously or subconsciously. I do not mind this, but there’s no doubt that this skin color comes with a lot of negative stereotypes.
I also judge everyone immediately based upon how they look. It’s how our brain works. What is important is what we do after that. How do we proceed? How do we challenge ourselves to remain open to all the possibilities?
The exchange with this driver is one of my top 10 experiences in China because it helped me identify some of the unconscious ideologies that were motivating my career choices, the relationships I formed, and how I interacted with others.
Of course, old habits are hard to break.
I still catch myself sometimes trying to be “good enough,” believing that there is some point of achievement I can reach that will free me from all the crap I get walking around in my beautiful, black skin. But none of us are free. Maybe there are a few. But most of us are doing everything we can to be pretty enough, smart enough, successful enough, good enough for… what purpose? I don’t know.
**The featured image was taken the day I spoke to that rickshaw driver. I passed round 2 of The Voice of China that afternoon. It was overall a pretty good day!
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