Bildungsstandards für die fortgeführte Fremdsprache (Englisch

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Bildungsstandards für die fortgeführte Fremdsprache (Englisch / Französisch) für die Allgemeine Hochschulreife
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When I get asked about racism, as I always do in any job interview
when they're checking whether I'm the genuine article (oppressed
Asian woman who has suffered), as opposed to the pretend coconut
(white on the inside, brown on the outside, too well off and well spoken
to be considered truly ethnic), I make up stories about skinheads
and shit through letterboxes, because that's the kind of racism they
want to hear about. It lets my nice interviewer off the hook, it confirms
that the real baddies live far away from him in the SE postcode area,
and he can tut at them from a safe distance.
I never tell them about the stares and whispers and the anonymous
gobs of phlegm at bus stops, the creaking of slowly closing doors and
the limited view from the glass counter (we never get as high as the
ceiling), which all scar as deeply as a well-aimed Doc Marten. Maybe I
would not have learned about them so early on if it hadn't been for
dear Papa. Maybe I should thank him for that.
But funnily enough, it wasn't him I blamed. It was Mum. We were kids;
duffle-coated, clean-nosed, well-drilled children whose dad had big
hands and long strides. Mum was heavier than the rest of the family's
combined weight; I could hear her ten-decibel hacking from the next
street. This was not a small woman. But she shrivelled to the size of a
wrinkled pea around her husband. Every bad idea he came up with
(and there were many) was always hers. She stalked them, pounced
on them and claimed them as soon as they went wrong, allowing him
to shake his head and bellow, 'Your mother has bungled matters
again!' Every good idea was usually hers, and given to him on a warm
plate with a liberal dash of humble dressing. 'You see? How your father
was right? Listen to him next time, all of you. Such a brilliant
move, husband-ji.’ [...]
Training began early in our house, not in the expected areas, cooking,
shopping, cleaning, as Mother insisted I would have all my life to run
after some man and she would rather I enjoyed my carefree virginal
days. (Which I did, by visiting various cafes and sucking the face off
some grateful sixth-former.)
But what she taught me was more of a spatial exercise: how to take up
as little room as possible. How to read the moods of everyone in the
room and flow smoothly about them, adapting to their edges and hollows,
silver and silent as mercury. How to walk in small steps, talk in
sweet tones, pour dainty cupfuls, refill plates in the shake of a dupatta,
smile and smile at visitors (for it would be them rather than my
family who would judge me later on) and, most importantly, save any
rages and rumbles for the privacy of my dark bedroom.
Strange that so many of us become doctors and business people; the
women are so much more suited to the service industries. We aim to
please. Any complaints, please see the manager. No tipping necessary.
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