A Brief Introduction to Ethnic Passing
Mar 8, 2020 18:24:28 GMT -5
Adam Dante, BonnieBlue, and 2 more like this
Post by Amirah Al-Amin on Mar 8, 2020 18:24:28 GMT -5
"So, where are you from?" the mousy brown-haired toothpick playing the role of my date for the evening mumbles; I presume this to be his fallback plan for small talk once his attempt at lecturing me about Game of Thrones fell flatter than my head almost hitting the table once he started talking.
"I was born here in San Diego, actually," I tell the charming blonde girl from La Jolla whose mineral water I'm ringing up when she reads my nametag and tells me how pretty my first name is.
"No, I mean, where are you from?" a professor further interrogates, thinking my answer to his first-day-of-class ice-breaker is insufficient.
"My parents are from Syria," I tell my date.
"Lebanon," I tell the blonde.
"Egypt," I tell the professor.
They all smile and nod, moving quickly to the next topic. This is a dance I know all too well, one I've been mastering since I learned to speak. We waltz around the idea of cultural heritage and ethnic identity, blending distinct nationalities into a puréed mass helpfully labeled "Arab" on the census. To them, this is all I am, and all I'll ever be.
"Palestine," I remind myself.
The prospect of flying anywhere was never a source of comfort for Amirah. In the best case scenario she'd arrive four hours before her flight was scheduled for the privilege of getting molested by a mean-mugging TSA agent during a 'random' screening. However, the idea of an almost 3000 mile drive seemed just as daunting, and so she bit the bullet.
The flight into T.F. Green Airport itself had been dreadfully long, and not even the opportunity to flip through a few pages of The Chapo Guide to Revolution was enough to combat the constant seesawing of stupor-inducing tedium and bone-deep panic when the plane hit turbulence. Seated in the backseat of her uber driver's car, head resting against the window, Amirah allowed her eyes to slide shut, hoping for sleep.
"So what brings you to town?" the driver — a wire-thin black man named Malcolm — asked, kiboshing that dream. Amirah shook her head and looked his way, rubbing her eyes.
"Work," she responded, fishing around in her pocket for her phone. Pulling it out, she fired off a quick text message.
"You one of them Textron types, huh? What'd they buy out this time?"
Amirah chuckled, shaking her head. "Nah, it's not like that."
"Oh, so you one of them corporate vampires from Wilmington then?"
She looked down at herself and cursed her prior decision to opt for a business casual look. Straightening her blazer, she mumbled under her breath.
"I'm not nearly as unbearable as I look."
"What was that? I'm kinda deaf."
Amirah scoffed, looking down at the phone vibrating in her hand.
Jeez mom, easy on the dogwhistle, she thought to herself as she cleared her throat. "I'm not in that line of work at all, actually. I'm a pro-wrestler."
And just like that, silence engulfed the car. Malcolm's eyes darted upwards, inspecting her through the rearview mirror. After an awkward, unbearable beat, he broke the silence with bemused laughter.
"Hey, if you don't wanna talk about it we don't gotta, it won't hurt my feelings. You don't have to lie to me or nothin'."
"No, I'm serious! I'm a professional wrestler." Now that's a sentence I totally expected to be saying at age 26. "I'm with Alpha Pro; they're doing a show on the ninth at the, uh—"
"Man, I ain't watch any of that shit. Action Wrestling, Alpha Pro, shit it's like, uh, pretzels is the same, ya know? No offense."
"None taken," Amirah said with a slight grin. "So, what's your niche? Broadway musicals? MMA?"
"Boxing."
"No shit?"
Once again, her phone flashed. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of another message, this time from a completely different source.
"Yeah, I used to do it back when I was a kid," he began, though Amirah could almost literally hear his voice trailing off as she looked out the window as he darted through Providence traffic.
Almost immediately, her charmer of a tag partner, Andre Aquarius, responded.
If this was how the rest of the day was going to go, Amirah regretted not ordering an overpriced drink on the flight.
Amirah rolled her eyes.
Returning her gaze out the window, Amirah couldn't help but feel a sense of grave melancholy. Compared to home, the northeast always seemed dreary and dark, a whole region perpetually caked in a seasonal depression. Experiencing it firsthand however, was a different experience entirely. How do these people live here? she thought to herself. The mid-morning drive to her hotel felt like a funeral march, with the always eloquent Andre Aquarius acting as a light at the end of the tunnel.
"Andre Aquarius," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. They'd never met, but his reputation preceded him. Sickwaves Blackamura. Prince Lightskin. Mr. Kunta. Take your pick of the nickname. Oft derided by white bigots for being too stereotypical while they secretly thanked the lord for the opportunity to indulge in the worst of their base impulses when encountering a black man with impunity. Surely, the NAACP wouldn't come to the defense of a man whose very existence undermines their cause, right? The more she pondered it, the more the pairing made sense.
Perhaps, she began, to no one, as her eyes began to slide shut once more, we're more alike than we'd care to admit.
Tell me Danica, Ms. Riot: is it a nice day for a 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰? That's what you're hoping for, isn't it? That your cutesily-titled little tag team experiment doesn't crash and burn harder than the source material for that name did.
Oh, right. Here I am, just barreling into the thick of it. How inconsiderate of me. Ahem, hello, dolls. My name is Amirah Isma'il Al-Amin. And before you ask, yes, I was born in San Diego. And I suppose now is the part where I tell you who I am, what this business means to me, why I'm even here in the first place, right? Where I snatch that blade you edgy fucking rejects were gonna use on your wrists and spill my guts for the lovely audience at home.
What does the wrestling business mean to me? What do I see when I look out from gorilla and see the crowd waiting on bated breath for their next thrill? I see the essence of America distilled into every grown man who can't afford a belt but will throw down thirty dollars on the newest indy-darling's oversized t-shirt that they'll soon grow into, I see it on the face of every child just getting introduced to the magic of the business, on the face of every beleaguered friend/acquaintance who just doesn't 'get it'.
I see the country that is so confident that it knows me. A country, a culture, that has never once spoken to me, that has never asked me who I am, and yet they know me so well, don't they? A culture that has spent a century creating and perpetuating stereotypical misrepresentations of people who look like me. People who look like my parents. I see a culture so uncurious and uncaring of how we feel about their shameful portrayals that they've never once stopped to ask if what they're doing is okay.
I see a country whose culture shapes policy, and whose policy shapes culture. I see the identity box I was shoved into, the one I tried for so long to lampoon and poke fun at, only for the people who needed to hear the message most take me at face value. In this business, I see the sins of an entire culture, as well as those of myself.
And I'm ready to change the fucking narrative. So tell me again, you two delightfully devilish destroyers, is it a nice day for a 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰? Because from where I'm sitting, that couldn't be any further from the truth. I'm not here to sit back and play the stepping stone for a team so obviously hollow that their own snappy ring name is the greatest fucking indictment of their abilities that one can see. I hope you liked me differentiating between you two at the start of this little rant; I promise that'll be the last time. Let's see how you take it when the shoe's on the other foot for once.
The 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰, the peak. The high point. The moment before the seasonal rot started to creep in and infect every frame of that godforsaken series. The shocking swerve. Is that what you gleaned from that? Is that what inspired you to take this name, to drape yourself in this aesthetic? A bunch of pomp and circumstance that in the end meant nothing, that led to no payoff, no catharsis. A moment that, in hindsight simply existed for its own sake. Is that what you're trying to say?
Tsk, tsk. How horribly insecure.
It's a good thing that you drew Andre and I this week, though. Because in this case, the narrative surrounding this match won't be about the self-fulfilling prophecy that is the 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰, it'll be about us. Two people who have embraced the bullshit thrown our way, who figured if we can't change the hearts and minds of bigots, we might as well throw their bullshit back in their faces. Who've taken the hatred and scorn and mistrust and worn it like a badge of fucking honor. It's about changing a culture. It's about holding a mirror up to people's faces and pointing out the ugly parts they want to overlook.
This is about so much more than a tag title tournament. This is about so much more than championship gold, or the validation of winning, or the thrill of competition. This is a fucking movement, hons. The train ain't stopping for anyone, let alone you two.
Two options: step aside or get run over.
"I was born here in San Diego, actually," I tell the charming blonde girl from La Jolla whose mineral water I'm ringing up when she reads my nametag and tells me how pretty my first name is.
"No, I mean, where are you from?" a professor further interrogates, thinking my answer to his first-day-of-class ice-breaker is insufficient.
"My parents are from Syria," I tell my date.
"Lebanon," I tell the blonde.
"Egypt," I tell the professor.
They all smile and nod, moving quickly to the next topic. This is a dance I know all too well, one I've been mastering since I learned to speak. We waltz around the idea of cultural heritage and ethnic identity, blending distinct nationalities into a puréed mass helpfully labeled "Arab" on the census. To them, this is all I am, and all I'll ever be.
"Palestine," I remind myself.
The prospect of flying anywhere was never a source of comfort for Amirah. In the best case scenario she'd arrive four hours before her flight was scheduled for the privilege of getting molested by a mean-mugging TSA agent during a 'random' screening. However, the idea of an almost 3000 mile drive seemed just as daunting, and so she bit the bullet.
The flight into T.F. Green Airport itself had been dreadfully long, and not even the opportunity to flip through a few pages of The Chapo Guide to Revolution was enough to combat the constant seesawing of stupor-inducing tedium and bone-deep panic when the plane hit turbulence. Seated in the backseat of her uber driver's car, head resting against the window, Amirah allowed her eyes to slide shut, hoping for sleep.
"So what brings you to town?" the driver — a wire-thin black man named Malcolm — asked, kiboshing that dream. Amirah shook her head and looked his way, rubbing her eyes.
"Work," she responded, fishing around in her pocket for her phone. Pulling it out, she fired off a quick text message.
Made it in safe ma stop worrying <3
"You one of them Textron types, huh? What'd they buy out this time?"
Amirah chuckled, shaking her head. "Nah, it's not like that."
"Oh, so you one of them corporate vampires from Wilmington then?"
She looked down at herself and cursed her prior decision to opt for a business casual look. Straightening her blazer, she mumbled under her breath.
"I'm not nearly as unbearable as I look."
"What was that? I'm kinda deaf."
Amirah scoffed, looking down at the phone vibrating in her hand.
Keep an eye on that boy you're partnering with!!!
Jeez mom, easy on the dogwhistle, she thought to herself as she cleared her throat. "I'm not in that line of work at all, actually. I'm a pro-wrestler."
And just like that, silence engulfed the car. Malcolm's eyes darted upwards, inspecting her through the rearview mirror. After an awkward, unbearable beat, he broke the silence with bemused laughter.
"Hey, if you don't wanna talk about it we don't gotta, it won't hurt my feelings. You don't have to lie to me or nothin'."
"No, I'm serious! I'm a professional wrestler." Now that's a sentence I totally expected to be saying at age 26. "I'm with Alpha Pro; they're doing a show on the ninth at the, uh—"
"Man, I ain't watch any of that shit. Action Wrestling, Alpha Pro, shit it's like, uh, pretzels is the same, ya know? No offense."
"None taken," Amirah said with a slight grin. "So, what's your niche? Broadway musicals? MMA?"
"Boxing."
"No shit?"
Once again, her phone flashed. Looking down, she caught a glimpse of another message, this time from a completely different source.
bish where the fuck u at?? ya boi aint gonna wait here forever
"Yeah, I used to do it back when I was a kid," he began, though Amirah could almost literally hear his voice trailing off as she looked out the window as he darted through Providence traffic.
On my way. Don't worry.
Almost immediately, her charmer of a tag partner, Andre Aquarius, responded.
bish i aint fucken "worried" im runnin out of goddamn patience
10 minutes. 20 tops.
aight but if you aint here in 20 im fuckin gone
Amirah rolled her eyes.
Whatever.
Returning her gaze out the window, Amirah couldn't help but feel a sense of grave melancholy. Compared to home, the northeast always seemed dreary and dark, a whole region perpetually caked in a seasonal depression. Experiencing it firsthand however, was a different experience entirely. How do these people live here? she thought to herself. The mid-morning drive to her hotel felt like a funeral march, with the always eloquent Andre Aquarius acting as a light at the end of the tunnel.
"Andre Aquarius," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. They'd never met, but his reputation preceded him. Sickwaves Blackamura. Prince Lightskin. Mr. Kunta. Take your pick of the nickname. Oft derided by white bigots for being too stereotypical while they secretly thanked the lord for the opportunity to indulge in the worst of their base impulses when encountering a black man with impunity. Surely, the NAACP wouldn't come to the defense of a man whose very existence undermines their cause, right? The more she pondered it, the more the pairing made sense.
Perhaps, she began, to no one, as her eyes began to slide shut once more, we're more alike than we'd care to admit.
Tell me Danica, Ms. Riot: is it a nice day for a 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰? That's what you're hoping for, isn't it? That your cutesily-titled little tag team experiment doesn't crash and burn harder than the source material for that name did.
Oh, right. Here I am, just barreling into the thick of it. How inconsiderate of me. Ahem, hello, dolls. My name is Amirah Isma'il Al-Amin. And before you ask, yes, I was born in San Diego. And I suppose now is the part where I tell you who I am, what this business means to me, why I'm even here in the first place, right? Where I snatch that blade you edgy fucking rejects were gonna use on your wrists and spill my guts for the lovely audience at home.
What does the wrestling business mean to me? What do I see when I look out from gorilla and see the crowd waiting on bated breath for their next thrill? I see the essence of America distilled into every grown man who can't afford a belt but will throw down thirty dollars on the newest indy-darling's oversized t-shirt that they'll soon grow into, I see it on the face of every child just getting introduced to the magic of the business, on the face of every beleaguered friend/acquaintance who just doesn't 'get it'.
I see the country that is so confident that it knows me. A country, a culture, that has never once spoken to me, that has never asked me who I am, and yet they know me so well, don't they? A culture that has spent a century creating and perpetuating stereotypical misrepresentations of people who look like me. People who look like my parents. I see a culture so uncurious and uncaring of how we feel about their shameful portrayals that they've never once stopped to ask if what they're doing is okay.
I see a country whose culture shapes policy, and whose policy shapes culture. I see the identity box I was shoved into, the one I tried for so long to lampoon and poke fun at, only for the people who needed to hear the message most take me at face value. In this business, I see the sins of an entire culture, as well as those of myself.
And I'm ready to change the fucking narrative. So tell me again, you two delightfully devilish destroyers, is it a nice day for a 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰? Because from where I'm sitting, that couldn't be any further from the truth. I'm not here to sit back and play the stepping stone for a team so obviously hollow that their own snappy ring name is the greatest fucking indictment of their abilities that one can see. I hope you liked me differentiating between you two at the start of this little rant; I promise that'll be the last time. Let's see how you take it when the shoe's on the other foot for once.
The 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰, the peak. The high point. The moment before the seasonal rot started to creep in and infect every frame of that godforsaken series. The shocking swerve. Is that what you gleaned from that? Is that what inspired you to take this name, to drape yourself in this aesthetic? A bunch of pomp and circumstance that in the end meant nothing, that led to no payoff, no catharsis. A moment that, in hindsight simply existed for its own sake. Is that what you're trying to say?
Tsk, tsk. How horribly insecure.
It's a good thing that you drew Andre and I this week, though. Because in this case, the narrative surrounding this match won't be about the self-fulfilling prophecy that is the 𝓡𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓮𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰, it'll be about us. Two people who have embraced the bullshit thrown our way, who figured if we can't change the hearts and minds of bigots, we might as well throw their bullshit back in their faces. Who've taken the hatred and scorn and mistrust and worn it like a badge of fucking honor. It's about changing a culture. It's about holding a mirror up to people's faces and pointing out the ugly parts they want to overlook.
This is about so much more than a tag title tournament. This is about so much more than championship gold, or the validation of winning, or the thrill of competition. This is a fucking movement, hons. The train ain't stopping for anyone, let alone you two.
Two options: step aside or get run over.
