Thank Me for Selling Out

People think it’s easy being a banana sellout. Just ditch the identity and suddenly you’re greeted with cold suds at every kegger. Dream on. It’s a lot harder than just putting on a smirk and spouting cheesy pickup lines and insider tips on micro-breweries. The bitchslap of truth: to become an all-star sellout, you must lay down major league sacrifices. I know. I was a standout frat rat at an elite college.

Hey, but inside I’m no different from you. I have Asian parents who worked like Siberian Huskies to give me a nice American home, Italian clothes, German wheels and a Latin sheepskin from a name college. They wanted to spare me that whole hardship trip and set me down the road to a life of brie on brioche and walnut burl on English leather. They laid down major league sacrifices for me. Was it easy for me to forget that and make a total jackass out of myself day in and day out throughout my college career? Chyeah right!

I couldn’t have done it without pickling my frontal and parietal lobes in alcohol, herbs and quality pharmaceuticals. Yeah, I became just like the sons of the people my folks spent their days steam-cleaning. Are you seeing the letterbox version here?

There’s this whole lost identity bull. Get real. Think I couldn’t see that I don’t have blue eyes, wispy blonde hair and pink freckly fuzz-covered arms? But what would it have accomplished for me to go around tripping on the race thing and become a total downer to my frat brothers. That would have been like peeing on our herb garden out back. If I hadn’t chilled out the race thing, people would have been left off invite lists for keggers, raves and roadtrips down to Ensenada. I look at it this way: as long as my frat brothers were busy getting sloppy, they weren’t taking honor roll slots from you all grinding away on the med/engineering/law-school trip. Capiche? I did it for you, my Asian brothers.

There are so many small sacrifices I made every day that nobody will ever appreciate. Like scarfing grilled burgers and hot dogs every meal. Don’t you think I worried about getting colon polyps that could turn me into a prematurely old fat fart? Why didn’t I push for Asian nights? And teach three dozen frat rats how to use chopsticks and mix the little horse radish packets in soy sauce? If I did that, they might have started thinking I’m like those Chinese delivery guys and those sushi chefs with the bad accents. My folks didn’t lay down those sacrifices so I could be lumped with delivery guys and sushi chefs. You’ll never get me to break their aging Asian hearts that way.

I even sacrificed my love life. Why didn’t I date Asian chicks who could help me with calc and be taken home to meet the folks? Chyeah right! Why didn’t I just go up on the sundeck and announce to frat row that I’m an Asian supremicist? How would it look if the only Asian brother at the frat hooks up with some Asian chick from the other side of campus? I had to date inside the Greek system — and trust me, that’s like bungee-jumping without a cord. Sorority girls date frat rats who spend spring breaks in places where hookers don’t require protection. Do the math. Why didn’t I just hold at first or second? Get real. You’re talking about the Yeastmeister here and he sacrificed to uphold the Asian male image! When you get down to it, I risked my life to represent. But do I get so much as a thanks dude and a high five?

Just be grateful for sellouts like me so you can sit around in your little Asian groups being smug and judgemental. The next time you see me, don’t look at me like a steaming barf bag. Give me knuckles for the sacrifices I’ve laid down for my family, my culture, my brothers, my race. But do me a favor — wait until my frat brothers aren’t looking.