the worst asian: part 1

I’ve had an awful lot of time on my hands lately, which has led me to do a lot of thinking. On most people that’s nothing to be concerned about, but when I have a lot of thinking time I tend to go in one of two directions: extreme flights of fancy that I itch to make reality (“I want a bacon maple bar. You know, I’ve never actually hitchhiked before in my life – how long do you think it would take to get to Portland?”), or extreme depression (“I’m never going to get a job, no one loves me, I hate my haircut, I am a worthless puddle of goo …… hey, I want a donut”). My fits of fancy and sad come and go in waves, and right now I’m at a seriously low point – but I keep soldering on (all our forks are now spoons!).

One of the things I’ve been thinking on a lot lately has to do with heritage – who I am as a Canadian, and how I fit into the ever-changing category of “Asian-Canadian”. After a lot of soul searching, I’ve come to the conclusion that I really don’t fit in at all – and in fact, I may just be the Worst Asian Around.

I’ve decided to stretch this topic out over several blog posts for a number of reasons, most of which have to do with keeping me from whining about my unemployment. Thus begins a startling (likely in my mind only) exposé on what it means to be a halfbreed (I’m allowed to say it) struggling (not really) to fit in (again, not really) across two very different cultures, neither of which come in half sizes.

The Worst Asian: Part One

Truthfully, this is more to do with my being a terrible Vancouverite as opposed to a bad Asian, but I still feel the shock and alienation every time I confess to it: I hate sushi.

I can’t do it. I tried, too – sushi is awesome, everyone who isn’t me says. Try it! You’ll love it! I tried sushi so many times that I actually managed to fool myself into thinking that I liked it – sure, I’d never be tucking in to a huge plate of sashimi, but I could fake sushi love with dynamite rolls and things with crab in them. I also filled up on things like gyoza, tempura prawns, and other non-sushi things that are usually served at restaurants to appease those who hang out with sushi lovers on a regular basis. It wasn’t my favourite, but I could make it work.

After a particularly disastrous night out, I realized I hit the wall: not only did I not like sushi, I was pretty damn sick of the genre as a whole. I was tired of faking it; tired of thinking “well, maybe this time will be different”. It’s never different. I don’t like ice cold food. I don’t like gobs of mayonaise. I don’t like the texture of raw fish, and I LOATHE wasabi. I’m not even a big fan of soy sauce, so dipping the sushi in something doesn’t work. I can’t eat sushi gracefully – I have a small mouth, and shoving the whole piece in there is fantastically unappealing to me (and also makes me choke). Biting through seaweed is not an option. Taking it apart and eating it piece by piece gets you horrified looks. There is not a damn redeeming quality in sushi for me, and there’s a thousand things wrong with most of the non-sushi options presented to me that I just can’t get over. I don’t even like sushi for hipsters – the last three times I’ve gone to the Eatery, I’ve felt moderately to drastically horrible afterward.

Sushi killed my mother favourite restaurant.

I’m tired of pretending. It’s time to make a stand: I don’t like sushi, and you can’t make me change my mind. I don’t begrudge you your own squishy cold fish love, but I’ll be over here while you gorge yourself – text me when you’re done, and we’ll go get some frozen yogurt.

I am Kimli, the Worst Asian Around!

4 thoughts on “the worst asian: part 1

  1. More for me, darlin’. :) We like what we like. I am one quarter Scottish, and oatmeal makes me gag and choke. Don’t tell my mom.

  2. I’ve hit up Vodoo Donughts and that bacon maple donut wasn’t all that sadly and was a waste of an 8 hour train ride. If a bacon maple-y dessert is what flights your fancy – try the bacon maple ice cream sandwich at Meat and Bread. Also, I am Scottish and haggis makes me want to barf – all kinds of wrong. Scotch, on the other hand….

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