Politics: John McCain’s willingness to use racial slurs against people of Asian descent

John McCain's racist remark very troubling

Thursday, March 2, 2000

By KATIE HONG
SPECIAL TO THE POST-INTELLIGENCER

.. -->Katie Hong: On his campaign bus recently, Sen. John McCain told reporters, "I hated the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live." Although McCain said he was referring only to his prison guards, there are many reasons why his use of the word "gook" is offensive and alarming.-->

On his campaign bus recently, Sen. John McCain told reporters, "I hated the gooks. I will hate them as long as I live." Although McCain said he was referring only to his prison guards, there are many reasons why his use of the word "gook" is offensive and alarming.

It is offensive because by using a racial epithet that has historically been used to demean all Asians to describe his captors, McCain failed to make a distinction between his torturers and an entire racial group.

It is alarming because a major candidate for president publicly used a racial epithet, refused to apologize for doing so and remains a legitimate contender.

Contrary to McCain's attempt to narrowly define "gook" to mean only his "sadistic" captors, this term has historically been used to describe all Asians. McCain said that "gook" was the most "polite" term he could find to describe his captors, but because it is simply a pejorative term for Asians, he insulted his captors simply by calling them "Asians" -- a clearly disturbing message. To the Asian American community, the term is akin to the racist word "nigger." A friend of mine, a white male Vietnam veteran, pointed out that veterans, especially Vietnam veterans, know how spiteful the term "gook" is. It has everything to do with labeling someone as "other," the enemy and yellow. McCain sent the message that all Asians are foreigners and remain forever the "other" and the enemy.

The perception of Asians as "foreigners" or "the other" isn't new. This sentiment is what led to passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 and the Japanese American internment during World War II. The internment of Japanese Americans is now recognized as one of the worst civil rights violations in our country's history and a powerful lesson in what can happen when race alone is used as a test for loyalty or who is defined as an American.

We've made tremendous progress as a nation in overcoming racism. That is why it is so disturbing that a major candidate for the U.S. president can perpetuate the stereotype of Asians as permanent foreigners, hurtling us backward to a time and a place where such racial epithets were an acceptable part of mainstream discourse.

What makes this incident even more disturbing is how neither the media nor the other presidential candidates have highlighted that his use of a racist term is unacceptable.

Asian Americans are one of the fastest growing minority populations in the United States. And the media's choice to ignore or excuse McCain's behavior is a painful reminder that Asians remain outsiders on the back steps of national American politics.

McCain's main campaign message is inclusion. What his actions have told me, however, is that his inclusion does not include people who look like me.

I love this country just as much as McCain does, and I am committed to serving my community and my country. That is the reason I have entered a career in public service and why I am committed to making America a great country where equal opportunity and justice for everyone is a reality and not just a vision.

This is also why I am so hurt by McCain's comment: He has reminded me that despite my commitment to serving my country, there are still some people in this country who would first perceive me as the enemy.

Katie Hong is a Korean American woman who lives in Seattle and works for Washington state government.

...run

It's been a week. At a meeting tonight, someone said "How does that woman have time to blog?"

Don't. Just sometimes HAVE to!

Sometimes when things are really hard, you just have to tell someone. Maybe not someone specific. Just another human. Another person who might get it.

I wish I could write for a couple of hours every day. Like during Nanowrimo when nothing eles matters and all you want to do is write. I feel like that everyday.
But there are responsiblities. Requirements. People counting on you. You can't let them down. You have to step up.

But sometimes.

Maybe.

You just want to....take that huge step back, that leads right out the back door.

And run.

In Concert

I love Ellis in concert, and going to the concert with friends was the best. And when you walk in early and get hugged by the artist, now that's gotta be the very best. OK, except the concert was in a chocolate factory--kinda not really like Willy Wonka, well except for the circus performers at the next venue over--but with chocolate that was a real honest to god spiritual experience. No lie. The ultimate evening.
We belly laughed, and cried and giggled and ate amazing chocolate and had a lovely glass of red wine. And shared in the best music going, anywhere.
Thanks, Ellis. And thanks Jen and Melinda. The ultimate.

number 41

So, I do this weird thing. When I go to the Y, I put my stuff in the locker with the number that corresponds with my age. OK, well when I go to the West Seattle Y I put my stuff in locker 150 unless I know Roberta will be there, then I defer to wisdom and age and the woman who fed me my first Thanksgiving meal in Washington. But usually, I put my stuff in the locker that's the same number as my age. Today I opened locker number 40 and there was all this funky stuff in it--ear wax to keep pool water out, and some random swim cap. Oh yeah, I'm not 40 any more. I moved to the next locker, to number 41. And this sent me. The years go marching, it's what Sophia Lyon Fahs said, the years go marching. Yes they do. I looked just a little to my left, and there against the wall was locker number 37. There she was all cute and young with no troubles. And 38 stood next to her, a little worse for the wear, that locker has been through some stuff. And then was 39, proud of her spot but still, just barely holding it all together. And 40, oh yeah 40. Now that locker has waited, and waited, usually pretty patiently. Now here we are, locker number 41. Half way down the aisle. Finally. Here we are.

I put my clothes in the locker, changed into my work out clothes, tucked away my towel for the shower later, and slammed it shut. 41. Locker number 41.

Locker number 41.

Mother’s Day 2008

Happy Mother's Day!

Even though this day was originally a call to leave war behind (http://www.prism.net/user/fcarpenter/howe.html) I kind of think Mother's Day is a call to remember just what this whole dishes-laundry-carpool carousel we ride is all about.

Even before I had any babies, I knew that raising kids was an art, that creating a home that would be a nest to grow a family would be the biggest thing that any person could ever do, and that I; with the biology and sprit I'm equipped with as a woman, would be perfectly suited to do just that.

I'm not talking Martha Stewart perfection of obsession with the bric-brac that sometimes comes with a house. Really what I mean is that funny ju-ju you feel when you come into a home. Maybe it's the sizzle of onions and veggies that will make a long simmered soup, or maybe it's the fabric softener that goes into the washer on the rinse cycle. Maybe it's the homebaked cookies that poor Hillary Clinton will never live down. But really, I think it's the air that invites a long conversation. It's the cozy, sometimes cluttered couch that invites sitting together for some down time. It's the feeling of acceptance and time and love and hope and care that comes when someone who lives in the house has chosen, as their primary function in life, to create a home for a family.

It's nothing for a delicate soul. There are no raises. The benefits are that eventually someone might take out the garbage FOR you and maybe they'll find your commitment to them lovely. But there will be days that they wish for nothing more than for you go just get out of their way and leave them alone.

Full time employment looks pretty good when this happens.

Someone else can run that afternoon with snacks and homework and the ride home from school.

Someone else can make dinner.

Someone else can get the kids to get on the bus to just go to school, even if homework isn't all done just right.

But those drives have little moments of clear brillance that you'll miss. And those dinner prep moments have chemistry lessons and LIFE lessons that you'll miss. And if you leave for those tricky times, you can't help but MISS things. There's no way to capture all of it, unless you are just there. No other way.

I've worked full time while homeschooling three kids. It's not easy, it's not fun. But if it was what I had to do to make the days work, well then, that was the only choice. I am not willing to miss those days.

Quality time is a lie. Time is time, and it doesn't matter if you're gone for an excellent reason. You are still, to you own child, just gone.

Maybe lots of moms disagree and feel that they'll lose themselves if they are JUST home with kids (http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/362567_optin10.html).

For me, there is no greater art, nothing more important, no better way to spend my life, than with my amazing sons, doing the laundry, the dishes, driving to practice. There is nothing I'd trade for the chance, the honor, of being their mother. Nothing.

Happy Mother's Day.

Hunh?

Am I really hearing this? You know, my kids, what they say? I mean not just when they say "I need more graph paper. The sugar is gone. Can you drive me to the movie?"

But what about the things that they say without saying them, or the things they say in just in a little whisper? Or the things they say with a little sideways look that evaporates in a moment.

Yesterday I was headed into the YMCA. I was late, the day was just one road block after then next, and I really had to be to Youth Group on time. I was on my cell phone with a friend trying to figure out the details of a big event the next day. Then I saw one of my favorite families. They were down at the corner; the dad and the two older boys were talking and looking up the street. There was a mini cello case, so I'm sure it was either just before or after cello lesson for the kindergartener and they must have been waiting for mom to come swoop in and pick them up.

But the baby was up over dad's shoulder. She's about a year-and-a-half old now. I got to do her child blessing when she was a newborn, so she's pretty special to me. And across the parking lot I can tell that she sees me. I can see the look on her face "hey, that's Kari from church, hey guys we know her!" But she's still little. She can say "chip" and "no" and "more" but to say "hey guys, there's our friend Kari" is just more than she can do.

So I can see her pointing and making toddler noises. But there's too much going on, and dad and brothers just miss it. And I've got 45 minutes to do my hour long work out, so I just wave crazily to her, turn and open the door and head into the Y.

I think I miss these moments with my old, old kids sometimes. So, OK, they can say more than "chip", and the things that they have to say are way more than "hey, there's our friend over there", but it's the same kind of thing.

There are things that people who I love, my kids and even other people, there are things that they say to me, and sometimes I miss the whole thing. "Hunh?" "What?" "OK, what did you say?" Or sometimes, just nothing. Nothing.

I'm gonna try to watch for the little finger pointing, and the little moments that point, too. And I promise to try really hard to stop, and to follow where the little finger points and to listen while you or anyone else explain it to me, because really. I want to hear. I care about it. Really I do, I care.

And if I flake it out, well then, just smack me upside the head and say "duh, you WANT to hear this" "you need to hear this" "hear this"

I will. Really, I will.

Sweet and Sour

I know what I’m having for lunch today. We’re gonna go to the little Chinese place that’s by the bowling alley—not the new one down the hill we just found that has fantastic authentic food where the menu is in Chinese and they only give you chopsticks and I’m the only white person in the place. Nope, we're headed to the little hole in the wall that doesn’t even have chopsticks if you want them, and the tables are really just to sit at while you wait for your to-go order.

Because I want crappy sweet and sour “mock” chicken. I don’t want authentic. I want sweet and I want sour and I want it with high fructose corn syrup and breading and food coloring. And soy sauce that’s made in Kansas.

This morning I was in the car with my middle son. As we sat at a red light waiting he looked over at me, squinting, brows pulled tight and said “how you do?” He’s psychic, or so super sensitive and perceptive and intuitive that if he lived in a calmer society, he’d be the shaman. I looked at him. I don’t want to lie to my kids. They know when something’s up. They get it; this one especially. Telling less than the truth breaks the trust between us. So I told him.

“It’s like life just can’t be straight forward. It’s full and empty, up and down, the good with the bad. Can’t we just have the sweet or the sour? Why do they have to be all mixed together?”

This was the moment the 13-year-old came back to the surface and the shaman faded and he looked at me like I was nuts.

“I just got an email from someone I’m so deeply happy to hear from, but it’s fall-out from the guy from high school who just died.”

“Mmm” he said, and looked out the window—earbuds stuffed in his ears and the ipod so loud I can hear the “Chemical Romance” song right through his ears.

I guess I need to remember that sweet and sour go so well together. It’s the perfect thing. Yes, this man died. It is deeply sad. It’s loss. Life always swings to death, it’s what makes room for the rest of life to move on, it’s sacred and good and part of life. If none of us ever died no one would be able to take a breath here on the planet. Even the sad is good. And hearing from this lost now found person is all good—like divine sweetness. Like pineapple. It sounds like this is happening across the country from this one man’s death—old friends finding each other after years and years and years. Sweet.

I think I’ll bring my sweet and sour “chicken” home and dump super spicy thai sauce over the whole thing. Like life. Sweet; sour; and if we’re lucky— wicked spicy.