After waiting in line for a good 15 minutes, anyone would have been relieved to step onto the shuttle. Usually the music in there doesn’t bother me too much, but today, this particular driver’s choice really caught my attention. He was listening to Mandarin Chinese pop music — I knew it was Chinese because I understood some of the words. The first thought in my head was, “How annoying.” The Chinese lyrics mingled with a trite melody, with a few choice English words like “love” and “beauty” thrown in for good measure. I treated the driver’s selection with such disdain probably because I figured that he wasn’t American-born, like I was. He was different, and, for that moment at least, that kind of difference irritated me.
It’s not that I have a vehement dislike for Chinese immigrants, or for those who aren’t readily “American,” whatever that means. My parents weren’t born here. I live with three foreign-born friends. Meta was born in Indonesia, and Rosa and Angel were born in Taiwan. I love them all. However, the group in which I categorize them is susceptible to prejudice on my part. The popular term for those born and raised in Asia who immigrated to America is “F.O.B.” — Fresh Off the Boat. This term seems to hinge on being derogatory, but not to an overly serious extent. I have many friends who fit neatly into this category and are proud of it. The most stereotypical elements of “fobbiness” include: owning cutesy cartoon stationary, streaks of blond or red in naturally black or brown hair, a stash of 99 Ranch snacks, an insatiable appetite for boba, fruity car air freshener and designer-label clothes from the markets of Hong Kong. It’s a running joke, especially among Asian-American crowds.
Blatantly unfair generalizations aside, the fact is that foreign-born students, from Asia or from anywhere else, make up a large portion of the campus population. Not to be confused with international exchange students, foreign-born students constituted more than one-fifth of the 2003 UCSD freshman class, according to a recent student survey, and 30.5 percent of freshmen cited another language besides English as their native tongue — a 15 percent increase since 1986. “F.O.B.s” and their other foreign-born brethren are certainly no marginal minority at UCSD. And as these statistics depict, the definition and makeup of the stereotypical “American” student is still changing, and is more diverse than in past years.
I can relate to the classification in that I can speak another language, albeit poorly. One of my greatest qualifications, though, is an inability to immediately understand and relate to American history and culture before our time. I am taking two classes this quarter that cover major historical events of the past century. As much as I enjoy them, it is interesting to me how the professors consistently encourage us to ask our parents about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the Vietnam War and President Richard Nixon. “Your mom or dad will know where they were the exact minute Walter Cronkite announced JFK’s death,” they say. I look around the room, and many, I assume, probably face the same situation as I do. My parents weren’t here at the time of those landmark American moments; they were in Taiwan and probably didn’t really think about or experience those times.
This isn’t to say that memorable American events didn’t affect those not in America, but rather that their foreign background yields far different narratives, which are becoming more commonplace. Fifty-three percent of freshmen cited their parents as foreign-born. I knew I wasn’t alone.
As someone who was born in California and not across the Pacific, I must have had it far easier than any of my “F.O.B.” friends. If I think I have trouble relating to entrenched pop culture or historical references of yesteryear, then foreign-born students must try even harder to grasp and understand concepts within the American discourse.
Arriving in a new country with sometimes only a rudimentary knowledge of English requires an uphill battle. As my friends explained to me, they had to work extra hard to learn the language while still doing the rest of their coursework in grade school and high school, while sometimes being subject to extra scrutiny or were sometimes ostracized for their apparent foreign demeanor.
American culture, to many, is something to be learned, assimilated into and understood. “F.O.B.s” may testify that references to “Sesame Street” and Mr. Rogers evoke feelings of puzzlement rather than nostalgia. Superficially, cultural icons and memory may seem somewhat trivial. We don’t talk too much about our childhoods, do we? But really, flip open a magazine, watch a movie or listen in class, and the references and assumed knowledge of an American cultural regimen permeate almost everything.
In high school, I used to grow resentful listening to my friends chatter away in Chinese. “Why don’t they save it for Chinatown?” I thought. “We’re in America. Be American,” I would say dryly. Something I’ve realized nowadays is that I actually admire them. How cool is it to fluently speak two languages? Forget high school French, this is the real deal. How unique is it to have a past richly endowed with Chinese, Korean, Indian, Dutch, Mexican or any other culture’s traditions but also rooted in American upbringings?
It’s easy to forget that many foreign-born people came to America to find a better life and to enjoy the same political and material privileges that we do. Our all-American hubris is sometimes not just apparent in foreign policy but also in the homeland. A “F.O.B.” friend, Eric, laments that his appearance offsets interactions with others. As my friend Cindy put it, “People shouldn’t think they’re superior to “F.O.B.s” because they think English is the superior language.”
I will admit distaste for loud Chinese conversations by students and, yes, foreign pop music in shuttles. I still readily correct my parents when they forget to use plurals in their sentences. And I snicker with some friends who hold a higher (not-so-serious, I hope) dislike for “F.O.B.s.” But I also admire them for having the best of two worlds and for working so hard in what was, at one time, a strange country. If America is a symphony of many cultures, and if America is as unique and colorful as the “fobby” stationary even I own, then “F.O.B.s” are as American as Coca-Cola. With tapioca pearls.
