“Konichiwa! ” he snickers.
I turn to them with a raised eyebrow. They look at me with those smug grins still plastered onto their faces. I’m not even Japanese. If they’re going to make fun of me, they should at least get the right ethnicity.
“Ich komme aus Amerika,” I sneer, and I walk into a different car.
I’m Asian and nobody wants me to forget it. If the wannabe-gangster walking past me down the street doesn’t mutter “ching chong” under his breath when he walks by me, if some drunk doesn’t shout “hey, Chiney” as I walk home at 3 AM, if my friends don’t tell me that I’m a bad driver for a reason, I might not remember what I am.