People in Boxes: Someone said I wasn't Malay-Malay and Esquire called Jay-Z "Black Black". So what race-race are we?

“Hi there, my friends and I, over at that table, you see that table over there? Yes, we have a bet going on...........We were wondering whether you could help us out. Actually, I think you certainly can......”

Oh great. No. Whatever it is you have to say. No. It was a little after lunchtime on a Saturday and I was in Mont Kiara, having pasta and coffee with an old friend. We were talking about the very interesting subject of my bladder. Yes. Something about it being either the size of Texas or made out of double reinforced steel or both. And how my friend’s bladder is the size of a pea and made out of tissue paper. Yes, zexxxy. My friend needed to run off to the ladies and pee again. The woman needs to wear a diaper, I tell you.

And the moment my friend left, Mr. Bet #1 came over. His face was flushed red and greasy from the afternoon’s heat. His belly wobbled like 100 pounds of pure gelatine placed on top of an old washing machine. He was old too. “So, we’ve been looking at you, right... and one friend of mine bet a 100 ringgit that you’re Japanese, I’m pretty sure that you’re Chinese and another friend claims that you’re of uncertain mixed parentage. Help us out, here. What are you?”

What am I? What I am is annoyed. If you want to place bets and gamble, ask someone to point you to the nearest authorized 4D counter. Or what about Genting Highlands? Do I look like a Vegas crap table to you? A deck of cards? Woohoo black jack!

My friend returned with a relieved bladder and a dude-who-the-fuck-is-this-guy look on her face.

“And what about you?” Mr Bet #1 asked my friend, “Are you Chinese? Pilipino?”

“Malaysian,” my friend answered with one raised eyebrow.

“Do you girls want to join us for a drink?” he asked.

“No thanks,” I said, “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Are you sure? Let us buy you a drink.....”

This is a decent restaurant. It ain’t no sleazy pick-up joint, asshole. Wrong place. Turn left at the exit straight down to fuck off.

“We’re sure.”

Mr Bet #1 left with his giant belly wobbling meters ahead of him. “Geez, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds.....” my friend said to me, laughing. Ugh. I always get the gross ones. I feel like those garbage filters they stick in rivers. My friend and I tried to resume with regular programming but 5 minutes had not passed before friend of Mr Bet #1 approached us. Let’s call him Mr. Bet #2.

“Hi, so my friend established that you’re Malaysian but what kind of Malaysian?” he asked me.

What kind of Malaysian?! What kind of Malaysian?! “Malay.” There. Are you happy? Can you buzz off now?

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure?! Am I sure?! What is this? Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Oh, this is a tough one. Hold on, let me ask the audience. Maybe they’ll give me the right answer. Wait, wait, let me use my “talian hayat”. What? Mom? I’m Malay? Oh, ok, “Yes.”

“Well, maybe you two can join us for a drink?”

“No, thanks. We really don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, okay then,” said Mr. Bet #2 scampered off. Another 5 minutes went by and a third friend of Mr. Bet #1 came along. Please welcome Mr. Bet #3.

“Hi, I’m really sorry for bothering you......My name’s Ian. How are you two doing? So you’re... Chinese,” Mr. Bet #3 said to my friend and to me he said, “You’re probably Malay but you’re not fully Malay, are you?”

Ugh. Not fully Malay? Oh yes, my right arm and my left big toe isn’t Malay. I got it off some white guy called Ian whom I chopped up because he was getting on my nerves. “I am.”

“Really? That’s funny.....” ‘Ian’ said.

Yes, so funny that I apparently laugh on the inside everyday over the fact. There’s a drum roll and a ba-da-bing sound everytime I look at my I/C and fill up the “race” section of inane forms. Do you hear it? Do you hear it? What if I slap you across your ear, real hard? Would you hear it then?

And then Ian said, “You don’t look Malay Malay. You don’t seem Malay Malay.”

Oh, if I had a dollar for everytime someone said this to me..........I would shoot them in the face and use the money to bribe my way out of a murder charge. Or maybe I should just quit my job and make a living out of making people bet over my racial heritage. I feel like a carnival game sometimes – you know how they have the Guess the Weight of the Cake and Win a Prize or Guess How Many Sweets in a Jar and Win a Prize? Yes, I feel like one of those. Woo hoo! Ever since I was little, whether I’m at home in Malaysia or abroad, the “hey,what are you?” question follows me around like toilet paper stuck at the bottom of my shoe. Actually, it’s even worse at home because an answer of “I’m Malay” is usually followed by “I don’t believe you,” or “Are you sure?” or “But you’re not Malay Malay.”

I remembered when I was really little, before I even went to school, my brother said that I was adopted from an Indian family because I was apparently, “dark-skinned”. But that’s only because the rest of my family are of a rather vampiric shade. The colour of white ceiling plaster. Albinos. Pigmentally-challenged. Clorox-bleached. Sorry, but you lot really do need a touch of Mystic Tan. Anyway, the fool said I was Indian as if it was supposed to be insulting. But really, I’m just insulted that you would actually think I would be insulted. What’s so wrong about being Indian, if you are Indian? But I’m not adopted. And not all Indians are dark skinned. Anyway, dark, light, who cares? I still got the better looking genes! Ok, no. The better looking bit as compared to my sisters is highly debatable. But you get what I’m trying to say.

And then I went to school. And I remembered my first day in school, I got in line to go for Pendidikan Islam class and the other Malay kids screamed for me to get out of the line, “Cikgu! Dia Cina!” Uhm, I could be Chinese and Muslim, you know. There are tons of Chinese Muslims. But I’m not. I’m Malay. “Mata dia sepet, kulit dia putih.” Oh, so now, I’m fair skinned. I never knew. I had a music teacher in Std. 4 who said, “You Malay, ah? Cannot be. Too fair to be Malay” and do I really have to mention the tools who say, “You cannot be Malay, you speak too good English to be Malay....” Repeat all of this. Repeat everyday and fast forward my first week of work. I introduce myself to my colleagues and they ask me why I have a Malay name. A very Malay-malay name. Ingatkan you Mat Saleh. You speaking dalam English tadi.... Oh, you don’t wear the tudung-thing so I thought you’re Chinese leh, I think better you don’t wear if not look very typical Malay, not pretty, look Chinese better........ Oh ingatkan you Serani....Oh...... you ni macam tak begitu Melayu. Oh, you tahu kuih Melayu ni nama apa? Tak sangka, ingatkan you Mat Saleh....Oh, you makan ulam dengan budu? Surprising, ingatkan you Mat Saleh... You ni kasar sangat lah, bukan macam Perempuan Melayu..... Eh, you eh, eh, eh, diam kau. Bak kata pepatah Mat Saleh............shut the fuck up.  Who are you to grade me on my Malay-ness from the way I look, talk, walk, from what I watch, read, listen to, eat? Is there a Chartered Malay exam I forgot to sit for?

   

What do I have to do to qualify as this kata-ganda Malay-Malay person? I didn’t know there was such a category as Malay-Malay. (Ya, berganda kali kemelayuannya! Bukan kemaluan tetapi kemelayuan!). I’m suddenly reminded of Esquire’s ridiculous recent article on Jay Z, where the writer referred to Jay-Z as “black-black” Here’s an excerpt:

“Jay-Z is black black. He is old-school double-dark-chocolate-chunk black. He is black the way Labatt is blue. He is not white black, Barack black, like our president. Or the kind of black that doesn’t curse and deplores the n-word, the genteel black, like Oprah.”

Ok. So Jay-Z is a hip hop super mogul who used to deal dope on the streets and according to the writer, once shot his brother for stealing his ring. I see. So according to the writer, this makes him black-black. So that’s how you people, play it these days, eh? I see. I can just imagine kids in the future. Pretty soon, they won't just have to identify what race they are - Malay/Chinese/Indian/Dan lain lain bangsa - on all sorts of shitty irrelevant forms, they will have to go on to define and prove how Malay-Malay/Chinese-Chinese/Indian-Indian/Dan lain-lain bangsa-dan lain-lain bangsa they are. Well, I better get to work on this machine then: