Compilation

Reverse Racism

It was a bygone habit of mine to gaze into the mirror and despise myself.

I would gaze at my flaxen, platinum hair and azure-hued eyes and clench my fists, tormented with ever-plaguing, ever-deprecating contemplations of the mind. I would stare at my fair, melanin-lacking skin and curl my lip in profuse, immense repugnance and detestation. Vicious, malignant adjectives I have formerly been addressed with would afflict woe upon my conflicting mental state — "Pasty". "Basic". "White trash". "Expired cheese". And the word, the one malicious, rancorous word most hurtful of them all — the c-slur. Cracker. These virulent and crude remarks hurt me beyond measure, placing a burden of turmoil in my mind I had to bear.

I cannot begin to count the copious amount of microaggressions I have had happen to me, as a white person, in my life. The teacher that taught me during high school was wont to confuse me with another blonde in my class; my culture has been derided and appropriated many times by non-white people; fetishization has happened to me, particularly considering the instance when a fellow classmate of mine said to me I was his "type" — meaning, he had a preference for white individuals over people of color. But white people are people of color too. We are discriminated against for our skin color and race. Reverse racism exists; it is time to open our eyes, to discard the old notion that white people cannot be discriminated against. It is time we stopped distinguishing between skin color and gatekeeping cultures that are not our own.

It is on this note I will end my mental quandary. I bid you adieu, dear readers — until next time.

Finished. Proofread. Posted.

The comments started rolling in. "Your activism and advocacy for human rights is so inspiring!" one wrote, and Sarah couldn't help but beam at the positivity in her comments section. She loved this — writing on social media, recounting experiences, letting others know they weren't alone in their struggles, making an impact on the world with the sheer power of words alone.

A new notification popped up with a tinkling sound, the icon marker on her screen glowing bright red. Sarah tapped on it absentmindedly, her azure-hued eyes scanning the most recent comment underneath her post — a comment written by a user named Summer Ching. What a funny name! Sarah chuckled slightly, tickled, reading the text next to the bolded username.

White people can't experience racism.

What absolute balderdash! Bemused, Sarah shook her head and deleted the comment, sighing at Summer's misguided hostility. May God help the poor woman. Feeling a sense of wooziness pass over her, Sarah placed her phone on the night stand next to her and drifted off to sleep.

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BRRRRNG! BRRRRNG!

A distant ringing noise. Searing bursts of white. Spots in her eyes, a tugging sensation in her gut, and the feeling she was being sucked into a black void of nothingness — then —

"Summer Ching!"

Abruptly, she became all too aware of a sudden, stifling heat, and the uncomfortable sensation of cloth clinging to her sweaty, flushed skin. She turned, and a face appeared in her vision — the wrinkled, strict countenance and harsh glare of a woman with greying-hair. "Ah Ching, are you listening?" she asked again impatiently. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy, her spoken dialect foreign to Sarah's ears. And somehow, Sarah could understand it perfectly.

"Why... why is it so... hot?" Sarah managed to get out, the feverish sensation of her skin and spots in her eyes still not fading.

"That's Chinatown and redlining for you. Didn't I teach you this already? Ah Ching, I need you to call someone for me and ask him to come fix the air-con. Ah Ching, are you listening?"

But the woman was fading. The outlines of her silhouette becoming blurry, faded, her voice becoming indistinct. "Ah Ching? Silly girl, you're burning up! Why didn't you say anything? Ah Ching? Ah Ching!" The sound of the woman's voice faded completely, and Sarah found herself sucked into the same black void, smoke and overwhelming scent surrounding and hemming in on her, blinding her senses, stinging her eyes, until she finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

When Sarah next opened her eyes, she was in a crowded restaurant, smoke pervading the air and the aroma of food suffusing the stuffy place with scent. A smile was plastered to her face, masking the pain of the ache throbbing through her arms.

Sarah opened her mouth, but found herself unable to speak. Where am I? What's going on? Why can't I say anything? she thought in a panic; she attempted to twitch her pinkie finger, but nothing moved. Instead, she found her legs carrying her over to an isolated table near the window, as if her muscles seemingly had a mind of their own. Her right hand moved to her pocket, fingers closing around a small white notepad and pen. "Have you decided yet?" issued a voice from her own throat, addressing the platinum-haired woman seated by the window.

Instead of answering, the woman's lip curled, her icy azure gaze drifting upward to meet Sarah's own. "Where's the actual menu?"

There was a prolonged, awkward pause at the question. "What actual menu?"

"The real Chinese menu here. The one with bats and dogs. Don't you all yellows eat that shit?"

The sheer aggression and hostility in the woman's tone was like a splash of cold water in Sarah's face. She blinked. Once. Twice. "I'm sorry, but we don't have-"

CRACK.

A blinding burst of pain blossomed across the right side of Sarah's cheek. "You don't sell bats and dogs? Huh?" The heat, the unbearable heat, swelling, numbness- she could barely feel the side of her face- "Fucking dog-eater. You eating dogs was what caused the pandemic-" The yelling drowned out everything else — the gasps in the background, the ringing in her ears, the rising, searing agony threatening to engulf her entirely. Her vision was blurry now. She couldn't see — whether it was because of the tears welling or the bruising of her eye, she didn't know — but through the chaos, she could hear one distinct sentence, repeated over and over in a nasally shriek: "go back to where you came from, chink."

The ringing in her ears, the heat, the pain, it was too much. It spread, spread like a fire setting every nerve in her body alight, and then she was drowning, burning, falling... then — nothing.

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BRRRRNG! BRRRRNG!

With a gasp, Sarah sat up, the sheets falling to her sides. Her heartbeat was thundering, hammering, the roaring of her blood still ringing in her ears.

BRRRRNG! BRRRRNG! She looked around wildly. Her alarm clock. She hit the stop button, and the ringing cut off abruptly, leaving behind nothing but deafening silence and cold, sharp clarity. As she calmed her racing thoughts, she reached for her phone on the side of her nightstand and unlocked the homescreen. That was Summer. That dream, those memories, those experiences — those were Summer Ching's, the girl whose comment Sarah had deleted. With shaking fingers, Sarah began to type, each letter taking longer to press than usual with her trembling hands.

White people can't experience racism.

Finished. Proofread. Posted.