Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about this little thing called yellow fever. It might be referred to as “Asian lover” in other geographical locations, but my friends (yellow and otherwise) and I use the term in fun and jest. It’s a derogatory term everyone who’s been to UNSW would be familiar with.
I don’t know who it was that coined the term “yellow fever” or when we started using it at uni, but we all left the place with an awareness of its magnitude in influence. Practically every male Caucasian Bachelor of Commerce at my university suffered from it. Most aren’t cured of it yet; thus demonstrating the sheer force of the epidemic.
Yellow fever n. A condition inflicting mainly Caucasian males, with common symptoms including a pathological obsession with Oriental females and consistent admiration for t-shirts and/or bed spreads sprayed with Oriental flavouring.
But a recent drama with a yellow fever sufferer got me thinking about the condition with a little more maturity and clarity.
“Now, how would you say making out in Mandarin?” he would ask.
“Fucked if I know,” I would reply. I really didn’t know.
“What’s your Chinese name? I’m going to store it on my phone.” He said one night when we were together in a restaurant.
“It’s too fucking long.”
While walking along the Yarra River at three o’clock one morning, he asked, “Am I the first guelow you’ve been with?”
“What?” I was puzzled.
“GUELOW. You know, like white man,” he said.
“Oh. You mean gui-lao. That term actually covers all non-Asian people. So, technically no,” I explained.
At times even his compliments irritated me. I could have managed to stomach “you’re so cute” if he didn’t add that my hair was “all gorgeous and sleek and long like all Asian girls”.
Damn it. My hair is not sleek. Gorgeous, yes. Long, yes. But sleek, no! It frizzes after a long day.
I didn’t make much of an effort in that very short relationship (if one can even call it that). To be fair, he was nice; he laughed at all my witty banter and made me feel like I deserve a Perrier award (the Oscar equivalent for stand-up comedians). And we didn't work out for more reasons than just his yellow feverish ways. But there were many instances where I wished he could see that there was more to me than just being Chinese.
I don’t deny my heritage. Being Chinese is a part of me, but it represents just a fraction of who I am as a person.
I think it is a very superficial kind of attraction, this crazy little thing called yellow fever. It makes me feel like we’re the flavour of the month, much like Latin music circa 1998.
I don’t know who it was that coined the term “yellow fever” or when we started using it at uni, but we all left the place with an awareness of its magnitude in influence. Practically every male Caucasian Bachelor of Commerce at my university suffered from it. Most aren’t cured of it yet; thus demonstrating the sheer force of the epidemic.
Yellow fever n. A condition inflicting mainly Caucasian males, with common symptoms including a pathological obsession with Oriental females and consistent admiration for t-shirts and/or bed spreads sprayed with Oriental flavouring.
But a recent drama with a yellow fever sufferer got me thinking about the condition with a little more maturity and clarity.
“Now, how would you say making out in Mandarin?” he would ask.
“Fucked if I know,” I would reply. I really didn’t know.
“What’s your Chinese name? I’m going to store it on my phone.” He said one night when we were together in a restaurant.
“It’s too fucking long.”
While walking along the Yarra River at three o’clock one morning, he asked, “Am I the first guelow you’ve been with?”
“What?” I was puzzled.
“GUELOW. You know, like white man,” he said.
“Oh. You mean gui-lao. That term actually covers all non-Asian people. So, technically no,” I explained.
At times even his compliments irritated me. I could have managed to stomach “you’re so cute” if he didn’t add that my hair was “all gorgeous and sleek and long like all Asian girls”.
Damn it. My hair is not sleek. Gorgeous, yes. Long, yes. But sleek, no! It frizzes after a long day.
I didn’t make much of an effort in that very short relationship (if one can even call it that). To be fair, he was nice; he laughed at all my witty banter and made me feel like I deserve a Perrier award (the Oscar equivalent for stand-up comedians). And we didn't work out for more reasons than just his yellow feverish ways. But there were many instances where I wished he could see that there was more to me than just being Chinese.
I don’t deny my heritage. Being Chinese is a part of me, but it represents just a fraction of who I am as a person.
I think it is a very superficial kind of attraction, this crazy little thing called yellow fever. It makes me feel like we’re the flavour of the month, much like Latin music circa 1998.
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