Thursday, July 18, 1996, 5:00 PM
Nobody said that racism was the private domain of Americans or, more specifically, Caucasians. Well, not recently, anyway.

After I came in to the 'Pro Lab' shop to get a passport photo scanned onto computer disk (for the second time, having had to go home and get a floppy -- they had none on hand) the woman who had waited on me initially shouted something in Cantonese about SCANNNNINGGG to the guys in the back, and one Chinese guy said, "Oh, gwailo." I heard this, and said, "Yes, I'm a gwailo -- a ghost person." I had just about had my limit of being dismissed as a foreigner.

To be fair, the guy realizes he's offended me, and is quite polite, even respectful thereafter.

Same day, I'm on the phone with the Kelly McKenzie employment agency, and they're very friendly. I explain my situation -- that I've just arrived in town and that I don't speak Cantonese.

"Oh, UBC?"

No.

"From Canada?"

No.

"You're not Chinese?"

No, I'm a U.S. citizen.

"Oh," she says, with an enthusiasm lowered a couple of magnitudes.

We talk for a while. It's a problem. Hard to find a company willing to sponsor a foreigner.

Can I send you my resume?

"Well, you can try," she offers, tentatively.

Later that evening I'm waiting for my spring rolls at a nearby restaurant, after being unable to eat the pizza I ordered at "The Spaghetti House" earlier because of the very fishy taste of the eel in it. The waitress passes by, drops off a standard set of balsa wood chopsticks in a paper sheath, and asks, "Do you know how to use these?"

Yes, I know how to use these.

I'm in the hospital in Singapore. After some difficulty, the attendant who takes my blood says, "You have really small veins for a Caucasian."

Deep into my stay in Chiang-Mai, I learn from Jung that "farang" is not just the name for white foreigners, it's also the name of a Thai guava-like fruit, whose meat is pale white. After that, the word never quite lands peacefully on my ears again.

At Doi Inthanon, Prae's half-sister in her loud voice is chattering away in Thai and punctuating sentences with "Farang." It's clear from the laughter and the little bit of Thai I understand that she's referring to me. Finally I say, in only half-mock indignation, "Mai Pen Farang! Pom cheu David." [I am not 'Farang'! My name is David.] She is surprised, perhaps taken aback to see the Creature can Speak! Everything is all happy and playful, though, and she apologizes and agrees to call me David.

And then there's 'gwailo.' Before I left I was told by an acquaintance at the gay Asian organization I belong to in Washington that 'gwailo' in Cantonese is quite a foul, derogatory term. Literally it means 'ghost person.' But the connotation, in this highly death-fearing culture, is that of a hideous creature back from the grave that stinks because it's rotting and is white because it has no blood.

Nigger. Bitch. Fag. Gook. Kraut. Kike. Wop. Deigho. Yankee. Chink. Limey. Mick. Farang. Gwailo. Rice Queen: flowers I've collected on my stroll around this planet.

— David Saia

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