Hi There! I’m An Articulate White Man…
More cultural observation…
One of the funky things about Singapore (Which you folks back home will never relate to) is just how special it is to be white here. Keep in mind, the population is pre-dominantly Chinese with Malay and Indian components, and up until WWII, it was a proud jewel of the English Colonial Crown. As a result of that, and the massive foreign investment that goes on here, the white person (Of whom, with the exception of and tourists back packers, are usually highly paid expatriate workers) enjoys an unheard amount of Automatic Respect And Deference. I personally refer to this as The Great White God Complex, in that it is amazing what you can do and get away with if you happen to be white.
Please note for the records, I am not. White, that is.
HOWEVER, on the phone, I sound TOTALLY white, and thus as long as no one can see me, I too enjoy the same benefits and deference as a Real Actual Honest To Gosh White Person (!)
Now being a hermit, I usually don’t get to enjoy the fringe benefits of Phone Caucasian, but on those occasions when I do have to use the phone to interact with someone other than my friends, I am always constantly startled by the results.
Here’s the contrast:
In reality, since my lineage is actually Filipino, my DNA bubbled through the pool in such a particular way that I ended up with can only be described as Generic Asian features. In Thailand, I have been mistaken for Thai. In Japan, I have been mistaken for Japanese, in Hong Kong, I have been mistaken for Chinese and Bali, I have been mistaken for Indonesian. I assume that if were ever to go Vietnam and say “Hey, G.I. Joe, we love USA!” I would also be mistaken for the endearing side kick to an American soldier hero, and in Cambodia, I would probably also pass for local, provided I can lose a limb to blend in with the other land mine victims.
Usually when I walk down the street, I am largely ignored, and–probably due to the length of my hair–it is assumed (Especially in hotel/shopping belt Orchard Road) that I am probably just another fun lovin’, rock n’ rollin’ member of a band, most likely the bass player. It’s the hair, I tell ya’.
If I should actually have to speak, a 100% home grown Canadian mid-western accent pops out that causes the unprepared to temporarily short circuit their neural processors. I can practically see a big sign light up on a local’s forhead when they hear me speak, and that sign reads “DOES NOT COMPUTE”. The normal question I get asked after that is “Where did you study?” Since the only logical explanation for the accent is that I am NOT a band member, but instead one of those crazy local kids who went off to college abroad and picked up the accent inside of the first two weeks of staying there, mysteriously losing an accent that was ingrained over decades of use.
The usual dialogue then goes something like this.
Me: Canada.
Them: Ah, Canada. Where in Canada?
Me: Edmonton, Alberta.
Them: Ah… Dunno that, lah.
Me: (Rolling eyes) It’s east of Vancouver.
Them: (Light of recognition passes across their face) Ah! Vancouver, yeah, many Chinese there!
Me: I’ll take your word for it.
Them: You study there how long?
Me: Thirty three years.
Them: Wah! How old are you?
Me: Thirty Three years.
Them: [Sign appears on forehead, "DOES NOT COMPUTE"]
Ah, but thanks to the magic of the telephone, it’s an ENTIRELY different story…
Today I had to call up a local teahouse in the ongoing research for a script I’m writing (Which I should submit tomorrow and should be furiously writing away on right NOW, but I’m doing this instead…) so I needed to call them up to probe about the possibility of shooting there.
Them: Ni Hao (Which I presume is Chinese for “Hello”)
Me: Hi, is there someone I could talk to there about a possible interview and shoot at your location?
Them: Uh… One moment… SIR… [Phone is badly muffled and voices go on saying "Something-something-Chinese-Something-Something-ANG MOH! (Chinese word for White Man)] Hold on, sir, I’ll pass you to my manager.
New Them: Yes sir! How can I help you?
[At this point I'm staring at the phone thinking to myself, "Being a white guy is The Greatest Thing Ever..."]
Me: Yes, I’m with [Insert television show here] and I’d like to discuss with someone the possibility of a location shoot at your shop and possible interview between our host and someone knoweldgeable about your products. Can that be arranged?
New Them: I’ll see what I can do sir… Yes, I think I have someone you can talk to. I’ll give you the number and you can speak to them yourself, will that be all right, sir?
Me: [Really diggin' this White Guy Thing] Yes, that’ll be fine, thank you.
New Them: I’m glad I could help sir. If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call back and ask!
Me: Thank you very much for you help.
New Them: Thank YOU very much for calli
ng! Glad I could help!
It’s moments like this that make me think that somewhere, out there in all the infinite parallel universes of the quantum stream, there is probably another Shoeless Wayne Santos, and he is a famous published novelist adored by millions, and he is white and damn happy about it.
I hate him…