I took another ride on the valarian train.

This time, my preschool-aged son inherited my wife’s hair color and we became second-class citizens at the sandwich shop.

(walking inside)

Me: Lunchtime, son.
Boy: Baaaaaanh miiiiiiii!

The lady behind the counter, who already detests me for speaking English and never having exact change, fixed a cold glare upon my chestnut-topped boy as he poked around the rice desserts. Her eyes met mine, and her furrowed squint said what her mouth wanted to: “You sellout. How dare you contaminate this establishment with that spawn. I hope all the bad things in life happen to you and only you. You are a disgrace to your people, your family and yourself. Your son doesn’t ‘pass,’ He belongs to the Americans now. Go buy a hamburger.”

I paid and she handed my son a plastic bag of sandwiches.“Baaaaanh miiiiiii!” he exclaimed while reaching up for the grub with the kind of glee reserved for devout Catholics receiving the body of Christ. He tottered around the parking lot, hugging the bag like it contained plutonium, periodically dunking his head inside to get a whiff of pork belly goodness.

It was a long walk to the car, and the sun exaggerated the lightness of his follicles. The Jennys, Christines and Kellys shook their heads in disapproval. A grandma wearing a coolie hat scoffed at the boy and nudged him aside with a shopping cart from the Golden Kim Lan Thanh Huong Dragon 99 Market.

Son: (stops walking, puts down bag and looks down) They’re mean to me because of my hair.
Me: Your hair is very nice, just like your mom’s. Sometimes people are mean to others who are different. That is not ok. There is nothing wrong with you. Even if everybody is mean to you, be happy with who you are.
Son: (nodding) Ok.
Me: Imagine if the zoo only had elephants. Boring zoo, huh? The zoo is better with elephants, monkeys, turtles, and other animals.
Son: And crrrrrocodiles!
Me: That’s right. They are all different, but they are all good. (crouches) It’s okay to be different. Whenever people make you feel bad for being different, you talk to me, ok?
Son: Ok daddy.
Me: This world will be your friend, son. Come on, pick up the bag, you can do it. Now let’s find the car so we can go home and eat.
Son: Baaaaanh miiiiiii!

We turned a corner and saw a visored Asian lady in an old-school Dodge Caravan backing into our car. Repeatedly.

Me: What the…

Son: Learn to drive, twat! (throws sandwiches)

That’s my boy.

How deep is my Asian pride? Last night I found out.

With an off day ahead of me, last night I ingested 1.5 grams of Nature’s Way brand valerian root, which “has a relaxing effect on the nervous system, promotes relaxation in individuals leading a hectic lifestyle, and helps support restful sleep.”

Dinner of champions.

I expected a deep slumber and vivid fantasies of a genre called superhero action porn sports noir.

Instead, the ghost of fatherhood future took over:

My son scootered home from his first semester at Chico, and I sensed douchebaggery along with the Axe Effect.

He called me by my first name, claimed to be ethnically “American” then removed his Ed Hardy hoodie to reveal a light pink tank top with “YOLO” printed in baby blue block lettering.

I jolted awake and started laughing.

“That can’t happen,” I thought.

“Right?”

“RIGHT?”

That can’t be MY son. I’m all about the Asian pride. I eat everything with Sriracha. I rock the Asian fro at home and slick it back for work. I wear Bruce Lee and Manny Pacquiao t-shirts to the gym. My next car is a Toyota. I take clients to Vietnamese coffee shops. Whenever a cashier asks who helped me, I point to an Asian guy. Mellow yellow all the way.

Then again, I went to the old boys’ club prep school, then a Jesuit university, then law school. My favorite bands are European. I don’t speak any Asian languages and barely passed Calculus. That Toyota I’m eyeing…is a Prius. I don’t like rice. I ditched an “Occupy” protest to eat foie gras. I’m the Jane Goodall of white people.

Will my nightmare become reality if I focus too much on my career and my son turns to TV for a male role model? I didn’t spend the past 15 years prioritizing my studies, deferring gratification and becoming a professional to have my son succumb to American bro culture.

If I nail this parenting thing, 40 years from now I’ll have the downstairs bedroom at his house and go fishing with my grandkids. If I screw up and he goes to the dark side, I’m at a care home listening to Filipino nurses verbally bash their children as they steal my stuff.

I can’t fully tiger parent my son with academics or musical instruments (can’t replicate the pressure of Indian and Korean households), but can ensure that he’s a raging Asian supremacist.

It begins with language. From now on in this house, the white laundry goes in the left basket, to prevent him from thinking “white is right.” As a bonus, whenever he uses the wrong basket, I can say, “No, son. white is NOT right.”

Furthermore, white isn’t pure, it’s plain. White isn’t clean, it’s sterile. Color is beautiful. Color adds depth. Color adds character.

What’s the best color? Yellow. Just like the sun, the giver of light and life.

“You’d rather be alive in the light than dead in the dark, wouldn’t you my boy?”

While I’m at it, I might as well rub in the concept of black=no light=darkness=death. Thus, black isn’t a color. It’s a state of emptiness and despair…a color to be feared and reviled.

I’ll make my case with bananas:

Me: Which is the ripe, nutritious, good banana?
Son: The yellow one!
Me: Gooood! Which is the rotten, dirty, evil, welfare banana?
Son: The black one!
Me: Mmmm-hmmmm.

What a convenient way to confer the obligatory Asian hostility towards black people! To cement my point, I’ll turn off the lights and ambush my son during a midnight snack. He’ll fear both black people and nocturnal eating, and I will have made him racist while fighting childhood obesity. Two birds with one stone.

Son: But dad, why is the yellow banana white on the inside?
Me: It started off yellow on the inside, but then it majored in anthropology and got banished from the tree (throws banana in blender). The ones that stayed yellow are still enjoying the sun.

Perhaps I should add a third laundry basket. A shiny, elevated one with a skylight above it. It will be scented like Sophie the Giraffe and have a sign saying “YELLOWS ONLY.” Handel’s “Messiah” will play every time my son places an item inside.

One can never be too safe.