the man insists spending hundreds of dollars of dollars on doonas make from dead animals; the man then insists on buying really cheap sheets made out of what i can only resume to be cardboard - i guess i'm just too bourgeois, maybe i should star in one of those 'it's and outrage, i'm a stereotypical wealthy person, i'm calling my lawyer... something about furniture' etc.

anyway, crux of the story, we were at harris scrafe, they had two people on the register and three people arranging cups, there was a fucking que of at least fifty people. so, some old italian guy with bad breath started talking to kiong halfway through the conversation he asked, 'is this your daughter?' (he of course, answered yes) 'can she speak english?' - he was no shit, serious. he could actually believe that i couldn't speak english. maybe he thought i was half russian or something. he also asked me why i couldn't speak chinese or malaysian. how about, for a start, because i'm not in any way malay, my mother can't speak chinese, my father can't speak chinese. where the fuck was i meant to learn chinese.

i mean, sure, i went to chinese culture school when i was little, i wouldn't be very azn if i didn't. and i was the only slightly white person in a school of 600. i never got past the second grade. i was there, on and off, for at least five years, probably more. there's a reason 'halfies' (their words, not mine) don't go to chinese culture school. the system presumes you are chinese, you can speak chinese, both your parents speak chinese, you speak chinese and home, your chinese is better than your english, all they really need to do is teach you to read and write.
and when i was little i was actually pretty good at it, i could read, i could write, but i could never pass the end of year exam, because nobody every told me what any of the characters meant.