On Whiteness

A few weeks ago, we went to see a concert given by my friends' choir. (Well, they sing in the choir; the choir does not belong to them.) Anyway, it involved meeting at a restaurant, cabbing to the venue, and then cabbing back for some late-night snacks and drinks.

Somehow, I ended up being one of the people who knew where we were going, so I was the "leader" of my cab (we had to break into two groups). I sat in the front and told the driver where to go. He asked, in halting English, if I was going to the subway. (I had given the name of the subway stop.) I said not really, but he should go there anyway. I could tell him where to turn.

We did a little back and forth. He definitely spoke better English than I speak Chinese — but not by much. He kept on looking over at me. The folks in the back seat were chatting quietly among themselves. And that's when it went sideways.

"You are very white," he said.

Um, OK. I've been called white before, but usually not in a good way. It's usually because it's the beginning of summer, and my legs are so glaringly pale that anyone in the area needs to put on sunglasses before they can look at me. Of course, "white" can also be a euphemism for "racist" or "boring" or "imperialist". None of which I much relish as adjectives to describe my personality.

While all this was going through my head, he was still thinking. "Your skin looks like... um... the word is... porcelain."

Yup. He was totally hitting on me. (And somehow, "porcelain" does sound nicer than "white".) He went on to ask if I was married and inquire about my age. But then I told him to turn onto another street and drop us off at the restaurant.

And yes, I let him drive off into the "foggy" Beijing evening.