Hyphen Nation

I always have been and always will be Irish-American. My friends growing up on Long Island were all hyphenated-something or other; all second- or third-generation Americans of European or Asian descent but we were never, nor have we become since, “European-American” or “Asian-American” or any other hyphenated version of ourselves. I was “Irish”. Around the corner, the kids were “Chinese”. The kids a few doors down were “Italian”. Across the street, left to right; Italian, Irish, German, Irish, Polish, Irish, German. Yeah, we were all American, but we referred to ourselves by our heritage. We just did. We were the Long Island Little Rascals. We were friends first. Our heritages came last, yet that’s what we called ourselves.

Somewhere, though, far along the line since our youth, someone insisted we hyphenate. And the Chinese kids would now be Asian. Not Chinese-American. Asian-American. It seems ok now to drop the hyphen and the American and call them just Asian. How’d that happen? I’ll tell you how. Miserable white majorities, deathly afraid of getting something wrong in their self-imposed social equity silos, outed themselves as bigots unable to distinguish between common immigrant groups. Ergo, all Chinese, Japanese, Korean (North and South, I assume), Vietnamese (North and South, I assume), Taiwanese, Cambodian, and maybe Thai neighbors became the Asian bloc. That’s what they mean when they say, “Asian”. They mean they can’t tell those people apart. It’s a judgement and a label based on appearance — some would call that bigotry — but using a geographic word so it seems rooted in something smart. Because it’s easy. Of course, anyone with an inkling of curiosity and a map knows that the good people of India, Kazakhstan, Russia, Mongolia, Sri Lanka, Saudi Arabia, Brunei, Maldives and over a dozen additional nations are also Asian. But that would mean more, not fewer, minority groups to identify and contend with. Can’t have that. It would also mean having to make the effort to distinguish among the Asian continent’s six different regions — Southeast, East, South, West, Central, and North — making the hyphenated descriptors quite unwieldy. But maybe the rule is if you look different enough, you get to escape the bloc descriptor? I dunno. I didn't make the idiotic, hypocritical decree. I only point at it. And snicker. Jackasses.

It was 1985-86 (I think) in college where I first heard the odd term, “African-American.” Odd in that it was different than what we were used to. You know, the definition of the word “Odd”. Odd in that it was unusual and new to me. Nothing odd about the people. Don’t you dare.

It was in, oddly, a Quantitative Methods (a.k.a. business statistics) class where the precocious, barely adult me simply asked the professor — one could argue from a position of actual inclusivity, acceptance, and diversity — why we would group people like that; by continent. Maybe I knew what I was doing and fixing for a debate, maybe not. I was barely out of high school. I was still into challenging authority. And the professor wasn’t a douchey modern-day professor from whom you’d expect all things social justice to be scripted for him by his administrators — it was just an average elbow-patcher I was sitting before to fulfill a course requirement for my useless Marketing degree. I was simply asking him about his use of the term “African-American” in place of “Black”. Maybe it was being used already in some places, but it was new to me. “So, that makes me, ‘European-American,’” I concluded. It was a sincere statement, but I realized in that moment from his prepared reaction that it was a deliberate, department chair-endorsed bit of language manipulation, and he was startled that I would be so disrespectful. Sorry, teach. You started it.

Even stranger, now over 30 years since, we see the re-emergence of color codes to group us. It’s a jumble of contradictory protocols amongst our divide-and-conquer rule-writers. From TV talking heads to job applications and beyond, it seems now to be an even split between “African-American” and “Black” and even “Black and Brown” for us to choose from. And it gets worse. In the first half of the twentieth century, it was horrible to be called “colored” yet today, we’re taught to group anyone with elevated melanin as “of color” and it’s somehow…better? It means literally the same thing. Again, I don’t make the rules. I just live in fear of breaking them. So, I’ve never said either. Because I'm not playing those games.

I’ll stick with my Irish hyphenation, thank you very much. Ancestral nation and American. Not necessarily in that order. Call it a fierce loyalty or whatever you like but being raised by first-generation parents born to hardscrabble immigrant parents, my upbringing was solidly rooted in, well, their roots. It follows that my Mom and Dad listening to the Irish tunes (a.k.a. the diddily-diddilies) every Sunday on WFUV and taking us visiting their Bronx cousins where the tales and tunes lived even larger would have an effect. It made me Irish. Just as the other kids were made Italian and Chinese and whatever else came before their hyphen by their folks and families. It’s a specific heritage. “African” and “Asian” and “European” miss the mark while trying to make a point. Ironic.

See, as kids, we knew what we were first and foremost. It was our Pledge every morning at school. It was the Anthem before every ballgame. We were fully American, and we were also fully aware of — and immersed in — our heritage. They were two separate identities but one in the same.

When the hyphens came along, we were being tribalized. Deliberately. We were becoming less American than we knew ourselves to be. At the same time, we were having our heritage diminished. The modifier preceding the hyphen imbues the American with determinate levels of clout. Today our betters call such division “privilege” and ignore what it creates: division and entitlement.

I’ve been hearing for over a decade in the unforgiving NYC advertising industry that I have privilege, and something called fragility and that “whiteness” is “problematic” and that to atone — for something I didn’t do or have any ability to change — I need to become an ally. See how that works? Accusation-solution. How convenient. Call me cynical but if you are not an ally, you are what? You are an enemy to be outed — and destroyed.

“Ally” was chosen because it leaves no room for any degrees of support. You can endorse, say, gay marriage and not give a flying fuck about what 2 dudes or 2 chicks do when they’re feeling frisky, but if you do not declare your allyship with the broader alphabet movement’s cause du jour, you will be told you indeed do not support those things that you do, and you are outcast. You are a bigot. It’s all or nothing. Like how the USA and England were allies in the Great Wars. 

When the cause is race, a dutiful ally must cede advantages to other folks based on “color”. The C-level ad folks remove all humanity and individuality from people and replace them with adjectives. Sorry, I can’t be that guy. I won’t infantilize folks who in many cases and many ways are much better than I am. Same as sexual orientation, skin tone has nothing to do with it. Look, I cannot help it that I am “European-American” — just as other folks had no say in being “Asian-” or “African-American” — it’s just who and how we all are. And it doesn’t matter what your meaning of the word are is. But there are more enlightened souls who say I need to bow my head in shame for the happenstance of being part of a majority? Nope. Apologies but them’s the odds we’re all born into.

Looking back, the collegiate continental hyphenation, for me, was probably the grammatical catalyst for my madness. Frankly, I’ve been thinking about it forever since and it’s just come into stark relief of late where everything that has followed socially, politically, and logically is derived from working the language. Like oiling and breaking in a new baseball glove. And it is deliberate. And it is malicious. Because if you change meaning, you can control the narrative. And if you own the narrative, you control the people. It’s not complicated. Bastards.

The Long Island Little Rascals had it right. In our literal sandbox there was no majority. There was no hierarchy. We didn’t give a crap that we may have been “different” from one another. We had baseball to play. We had stuff to do. Each day started predictably innocently with, “Can Brian come out to play?”

Countless times I asked whoever answered the door at Brian’s house that simple, rhetorical question. Innocent. Sincere. Full of excited promise of another day just like the one before. Or one completely different. No matter.

“Play” was a blanket term. I was serving notice that he would be with me, and we’d likely collect a half dozen other local ragamuffins for the day. We’d be nearby and we’d be home for dinner with the 6 o’clock siren. We’d see each other after we’d eaten. It was all unspoken and it was clearly understood. No drama. Pure.

When it got dark, we played Ghost in the Graveyard. We played Manhunt. And the girls never demanded we change the name. They were cool. It never crossed our minds to divide ourselves up into factions. That was the grown-ups’ idea. Morons.

Imagine the horror of raising such self-sufficient kids today. Helicopter parents since Y2K have choreographed every move. Kids don’t play. They have play dates. See, their parents need to pick and choose who their perfect little bundles of burden associate with based on stealth research. If young Cole wants a play date with the weird kid in his PE class — it was “gym” until someone decided on the hilariously urinary shorthand — Cole’s mom will interrogate him. “What’s his lassssst name?” “Where do they…live?” Heaven forbid mom’s research reveals Weird Kid’s parents are not up to her standards.

Of course, there will be a drop-off and pickup and the obligatory, “Hiiiii-eeeee. You’re [awkward pause…scrambling] Cole’s mom! Come on in [awkward chuckle…shuffling], they’re around here somewhere.” This is the determining moment in whether Cole and Weird Kid will ever see one another outside of PE again.

Once inside, mom’s eyes dart side to side and up and down, checking out Weird Kid’s mom’s height, weight, hair, walk, and brands. She’ll know faster than you can say, “Is that Old Navy?” if Weird Kid’s weird mom is worthy. The home’s size, block, and curb appeal have already influenced the jury. A quick scan of furniture and fixtures give her all she needs — except Cole. He’s still in the unfinished basement having a blast of a last play date with his new best temporary friend. “Where are those boys…” she mumbles, she thought, under her breath.

Like a bad blind date, it’s over. Cole cries all the way home.