Why do Asians really get straight A's? - Project Gutenberg Consortia ...

is quite discourteous. I almost got into a scuffle with an old man earlier so I'm not about to
make my day worse by messing with an old lady.
“ My nationality is American, ” I reply correctly.
“ No, no. What is your nationality? ” the old lady repeats, mistaken with her terminology.
I feel bad for correcting her, but she needs to learn not to be so impolite.
“ My nationality is American. Nationality means your national status, as in the nation of
your citizenship. Perhaps you mean ethnicity or racial heritage, ” I correct her, with luminous
clarity.
She looks at me with a confused gaze. “ So what are you? ” she asks for a third time.
Luckily, it's my turn to go up to the teller window so I leave her standing there, already
answering her question twice. I wish people would understand the difference between
something as simple as nationality and ethnicity. If she looks at her U.S. passport, it clearly
states: Nationality - United States of America. It doesn't state: Nationality - Old White Lady—
for crying out loud!
I don't know why I'm having to deal with old people today. This is the exact reason why
Americans put them in nursing homes. Too bad Asians don't put their parents and
grandparents in nursing homes, due to their austere obedience to culture and custom— or so
they would have you believe. In reality, they don't want their friends and relatives to talk bad
about them for putting their parents and grandparents in a nursing home, in order to save
face. Many Americans can't stand taking care of their parents and grandparents when they
get old. For the younger Asian generation, we don't have a choice in the matter, since our
parents and grandparents live with us when they're old. But on the bright side, when they start
living with us, it'll be our turn to spank and discipline them, like what they did to us when we
were kids! We'll get to tell them what to eat, what to wear, when to go to bed—I can't wait!
Payback's a b*tch. Now that I'm done running my—I mean, my parents'—errands, I have to
get home and start doing my homework. Abject slavery never ends!
I enter my house, enjoying the silence, and walk into the kitchen for some organic
orange juice. As I pass by the kitchen table, I notice a pile of letters, most of them opened,
sitting on top of some junk mail. What catches my attention is the fact that several of those
opened letters are addressed to me. This really gets me angry. I hate it when my parents read
my mail. Asian parents think they have carte blanche to go through your mail, read your
personal diary, wiretap your phone using electronic eavesdropping and surveillance devices—