Living While Asian
Christine Toy Johnson
LAURIE, early forties, an Asian American freelance musician, gives a video update to her Facebook friends from her home on the Upper Westside of Manhattan during the COVID-19 pandemic. April 17, 2020.
LAURIE
I’ve developed a new relationship with my T-shirt drawer. I mean, who knew I had so many T-shirts—oh, and so many pairs of black, stretchy pants? Or as I currently call them, work clothes. Daytime pajamas. Quarantine couture. But this is part of the “new normal,” right? Sheltering in place. Meeting on Zoom. Rationing toilet paper. Avoiding looking Asian while outside.
I actually haven’t been outside for twenty-nine days, ten hours, and thirty-nine minutes. But if I did go outside, I’d definitely try to do that last thing. Avoid looking Asian while outside.
Actually, sometimes sorting through my T-shirt drawer is my favorite activity of the day! I get to take an awesome cotton-poly blend stroll down memory lane: Barcelona, St. Croix, Montreal, the St. Louis Cardinals, the Basketball Hall of Fame . . . Souvenirs from a happy visit to somewhere far away from home.
We’re supposed to wear masks in New York City any time we go outside now, and I made one for myself, so I can wear it to the laundry room or to get the mail. Or if I decide to go for a walk someday. It really is a beautiful spring morning outside my window. I can see people walking their dogs and going out for a jog. They look almost normal. Except with face masks on. I don’t know. Maybe today’s the day. I don’t know.
I found a pattern online for making a homemade mask and extracted one of those T-shirts I haven’t worn for ages out of my drawer—because who really needs to commemorate a trip to Señor Frogs from junior year in college anymore, right Celia? Anyway, I measure the fabric carefully to make sure it covers my nose and my mouth—you know, in case someone around me is sick, or might be sick, or might have been around someone who was sick. And I sew, making sure the Señor’s mouth is right where mine is underneath. I kind of love it.
But then I think, you guys, is this really, actually gonna protect me? I mean, my eyes still show.
I think my eyes are amazing. I do. I mean, they’ve let me see all kinds of incredible things! Barcelona, St. Croix, Montreal, my first boyfriend’s love at first sight, the sun setting over the George Washington Bridge. And really—I really wish to, long to be proud of them; these souvenirs from my mother’s father’s father’s father’s father’s treacherous journey to this place filled with so much possibility and opportunity and democracy! The land of the free, home of the brave. But yep. My eyes still show—that I’m Asian American. And these days they might make someone want to hit me—with their fists or their words, or their knives, or their acid, or . . . I mean, after all, they’ve heard that the reason their stocks are plummeting, their wedding’s been canceled, their job’s been furloughed, their grandfather has died is all because of this virus, this virus some people insist on calling “SomeoneWhoLooksLikeMe.”
You know what? On second thought, I think I’ll stay inside.
Christine Toy Johnson
LAURIE, early forties, an Asian American freelance musician, gives a video update to her Facebook friends from her home on the Upper Westside of Manhattan during the COVID-19 pandemic. April 17, 2020.
LAURIE
I’ve developed a new relationship with my T-shirt drawer. I mean, who knew I had so many T-shirts—oh, and so many pairs of black, stretchy pants? Or as I currently call them, work clothes. Daytime pajamas. Quarantine couture. But this is part of the “new normal,” right? Sheltering in place. Meeting on Zoom. Rationing toilet paper. Avoiding looking Asian while outside.
I actually haven’t been outside for twenty-nine days, ten hours, and thirty-nine minutes. But if I did go outside, I’d definitely try to do that last thing. Avoid looking Asian while outside.
Actually, sometimes sorting through my T-shirt drawer is my favorite activity of the day! I get to take an awesome cotton-poly blend stroll down memory lane: Barcelona, St. Croix, Montreal, the St. Louis Cardinals, the Basketball Hall of Fame . . . Souvenirs from a happy visit to somewhere far away from home.
We’re supposed to wear masks in New York City any time we go outside now, and I made one for myself, so I can wear it to the laundry room or to get the mail. Or if I decide to go for a walk someday. It really is a beautiful spring morning outside my window. I can see people walking their dogs and going out for a jog. They look almost normal. Except with face masks on. I don’t know. Maybe today’s the day. I don’t know.
I found a pattern online for making a homemade mask and extracted one of those T-shirts I haven’t worn for ages out of my drawer—because who really needs to commemorate a trip to Señor Frogs from junior year in college anymore, right Celia? Anyway, I measure the fabric carefully to make sure it covers my nose and my mouth—you know, in case someone around me is sick, or might be sick, or might have been around someone who was sick. And I sew, making sure the Señor’s mouth is right where mine is underneath. I kind of love it.
But then I think, you guys, is this really, actually gonna protect me? I mean, my eyes still show.
I think my eyes are amazing. I do. I mean, they’ve let me see all kinds of incredible things! Barcelona, St. Croix, Montreal, my first boyfriend’s love at first sight, the sun setting over the George Washington Bridge. And really—I really wish to, long to be proud of them; these souvenirs from my mother’s father’s father’s father’s father’s treacherous journey to this place filled with so much possibility and opportunity and democracy! The land of the free, home of the brave. But yep. My eyes still show—that I’m Asian American. And these days they might make someone want to hit me—with their fists or their words, or their knives, or their acid, or . . . I mean, after all, they’ve heard that the reason their stocks are plummeting, their wedding’s been canceled, their job’s been furloughed, their grandfather has died is all because of this virus, this virus some people insist on calling “SomeoneWhoLooksLikeMe.”
You know what? On second thought, I think I’ll stay inside.