Epic on Fridays and Chrome on Saturdays

I have had many friends over the years tell me of their experiences with nightlife racism, hearsay claims that this bar is racist or that club hates Asians. I never took them to heart, mostly because I rarely fell victim to such crimes of ignorance on my nights out. I figured most of it likely stemmed from our own heightened sensitivity to being rejected as Asian men. I certainly agree that racism lives on, but to me, it was the subtle kind of racism, longer waits at the bar or slower service at a restaurant. Surely, it could not be so blatant as what some of my friends had claimed to encounter. This was, after all, America, home of the civil rights movement, where all men are created equal regardless of the color of their skin or the preference of their brew.

It was not until senior year of college that I saw with my own eyes, the intense gut-wrenching ugliness with which some establishments overtly practiced this type of racial discrimination. I remember that first moment clearly, as I do every such incident thenceforth. The words reverberate in my skull for a few minutes in a constant state of anger, sadness, and confusion. Eventually, they are removed from my conscious thought, only to be kept away in some overstuffed chest in back storage, filled with all the things I wish to forget but cannot.

The business in question was the former Bar Austin on 6th street, a favorite hangout amongst the University of Texas Asian crowd. The bar had switched management a few months before and word had gotten around that the new guys in the office wanted to rid their venue of Asians. Again, I did not believe this, thinking it to be nothing more than a few half-told isolated incidents involving drunken college students.

One night, as a friend and I walked out of The Library, another popular 6th street bar, and got ready to make our way to the Bestwurst cart for a late night snack, I decided that I would test the rumors out for myself. Setting my sights on the entrance to Bar Austin, I could see already that the doors were being guarded by two males of Caucasian descent, one of which, as is usual with bouncers, was bald with a goatee. As I made my way up the sidewalk towards the two hardened looking guardmen, I saw that many others less fashionably dressed than I was were being let in seemingly without harassment. Therefore, fearless that I would be rejected on account of my dress, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet in gesture of confidence. But just as I was about to prove to them the authenticity of my age as a legal consumer of alcoholic beverages, I met the hand.

"Sorry, private party tonight."

Oh.

"But I just saw some other people get in."

"They were with the party."

Bullshit alert.

At this point, an acquaintance of mine emerges from the door with his girlfriend.

"Hey Jake! How's it goin' dude?"

"Hey man, what's up!"

"Say, is there a private party up there or somethin'? This guy won't let me in."

"What? No, I don't think so. They let us in."

"How come you let them in?" I protested to the bald guy.

"I didn't let them in, must have been someone else."

"Did he let you in?" I asked Jake.

"I think so."

"It was definitely him." said Jake's girlfriend.

"Wow, I had heard this place was racist but this is ridiculous!"

"Sorry man, that fuckin' sucks."

I remember every syllable that was exchanged in that brief ten minute ordeal. It was haunting.

Is this why every Asian person in Houston goes to Epic on Fridays and Chrome on Saturdays?

Tonight, as I stood in line at Pub Fiction, at the mercy of its bouncers, I felt once again that boiling sense of anger bubbling inside me. I had foolishly ignored the warning of a friend who had told me earlier tonight that Pub Fiction was a reputedly racism establishment. Without fail, my friends and I were rejected outright. What made it most infuriating was that they made no effort in hiding it. Whatever excuses they felt like spouting, expired license, improper dress, it was clear to all what was really being said beneath the thin veil of political correctness and feigned civility. We were not wanted here.

There were no protests on our behalf, not one person appalled by the gross injustice that had just taken place. Heels clicked past us and were waved through with thoughtless approval.

Living in the South, I have encountered innumerable incidents of racism. I have been called a "chink" by bands of drunken men as they roar by on the bed of their pickup trucks. I have been accosted in curious wonderment as to determine whether or not I really knew kung-fu. And I have suffered, though not so silently, through ignorance enough to suck men dry of their belief in mankind. Yet still, I refuse to accept such as my fate, for doing so would be to die a slow and purposeless death.

Racism cannot be eradicated overnight, for that, having much to do with the rearing of individuals, is done on the time scale of generations. Anything short of an educational overhaul and a rapid increase in minority reproductive efforts will not do the trick. So what are we to do in the mean time? Machiavelli once offered the advice below:

Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.

I am not suggesting here that we strike fear into the hearts of racists through violent or otherwise illegal scare tactics. What I am suggesting is that we exert what power we have over these people. By power, I mean of course, the power of money. Vote with your dollar. Boycott racist establishments and make an issue of it. Demand public apologies. Do not passively let the offense slide by while you retreat to your neighborhood ethnic-friendly bar. Silence is acceptance in the most helpless sense. Racists everywhere need not like us for who we are, but they must respect us for fear of punishment, for fear of public scrutiny, for fear of going under.

Spread the word.