What Appears to be Dad's First Bar Fight: A Rainy Day Story

            I’m a pretty big Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. This could be due to my years in retail, or my years of just having stressful family Christmases. I don’t care for Christmas decorating; I despise most Christmas music, and don’t even get me started on the sweaters. I’m actually donning one right now, as I participated in my company’s mockery of Christmas disguised as a holiday morale builder. This was funny to me, and I love how we have to refer to it as “Christmas Sweater Day”, not “Wear Your Fucking Most Hideous Ugly Christmas Sweater Day” to protect those poor souls who think a Christmas Sweater can actually be attractive.
            I think most of my animosity toward the holiday is that people don’t appreciate it for what it is supposed to be, a chance for people to get together with the ones they love and care about, to share some laughs, drinks, and of course, food. A lot of people try to do too much, feed into each other’s greed, and then they get stressed out, pissed off, and fight. Also, many people don’t remember those who really need the companionship, and maybe even the presents at this time of year. I’m usually pretty hard to shop for because I’m a confessed greedy bitch all year round, and there’s never anything I really need.
            What I really look forward to at Christmas are the absolute simple things, like going home and seeing friends and family. I would never need another present if I can just do that. I’m really excited to just go to the small town bars back home, buy a whole bunch of cheap beers, and see some old friends. I also like to kill two birds with one stone and make trips to the bar a family affair. This is actually my favorite holiday past time, because a trip to the bar with my parents is always amusing.
            Some time ago, my father, a couple of friends, my husband and I were playing cards at one of the local bars. The bar wasn’t busy; it never really is except on special occasions, as it is pretty much reliant on its regulars. My friends, Dad and I were sitting at a table playing one of Dad’s favorite card games, dubbed “Shit on your Neighbor.” We were getting pretty into our cards and free popcorn when we heard a commotion at the bar.
            “CALL ME ASIAN ONE MORE TIME YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”
            Whoa, what? Now that’s the kind of statement that commands attention. My eyes find a girl at one end of the bar angrily scooting her bar stool behind her. She is so close to us, that her bar stool almost runs into the table next to us. There are about 12 people in this bar, five of which are at my table, so I can easily tell the object of her challenge is a very scared looking guy at the other end of the bar.
            “Whaa..What? I didn’t say anything,” the guy stammers.
            “I’M NOT FUCKING ASIAN, I’M JAPANESE, SO CALL ME FUCKING ASIAN AGAIN!” the girl screams.
            Now, I was an avid fan of “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?” as a child. At this point, it is about my eighth beer of the night, but I recall Japan being an island off the coast of the mainland continent of Asia, and is considered part of said continent. Even if I’m wrong, which I’m pretty sure I’m not but it’s happened before, I don’t understand why this is offensive. But then again, I’m a card-carrying member of the Wonder White Bread race, and I decide not to be a smart-ass, at least not now at least. I turn my attention onto my cards. My father, who was not schooled on “Don’t get involved in a bar fight” protocol, does a full arm extension finger point and loudly says, “Hey, look at that girl!”
            I ignore him, mentally willing him to follow my lead and just look down as his cards, which are in my plain view. I may win this hand.
            He does not notice anything other than the commotion and starts to elbow me. “Look! Look! I think there's going to be a fight.”
            “DAD! Keep your voice down! Stop staring,” I hiss. I reluctantly look up and watch this girl make her way to the other end of the bar. Not a far distance, probably what my 5’8’’ frame can cover in a few steps, but it takes this girl a while. Stereotype Strike One: This girl cannot be over five feet tall.
            As this girl takes her short, shuffling steps (Stereotype Strike Two), the bar is quiet, and you could hear a pin drop. Dad finally breaks his stare and the silence long enough to turn to my friends and asks in his loud bellowing whisper, “Didn’t that girl say Japanese?”

Oh dear God, don’t say it.

“Doesn’t that make her Asian? Isn’t that the same thing?”

I bury my head in my hands and my friend Justin lets out a drunken giggle. A couple of old farmers look in my dad's direction and give a small agreeing nod, But no one has assured my father.

“Seriously, isn’t Japan part of Asia?” Dad continues to ask.

“Dad please stop talking,” I say and lift my head. Luckily, the girl is too busy screaming at her assailant and is not paying attention to my father. I sigh in relief and just enjoy the show. The situation is escalating, and she is threatening to kick this guy’s ass. Please throw out a karate chop. If this girl shows us some martial arts, I am going to lose it.

It doesn’t get that far. The bartender threatens to throw everyone out if they don’t calm down. The girl gets one more “Don’t fucking call me Asian,” in, and shuffles back to her bar stool.

We continue the card game. Crisis averted. At least until the bartender comes to our table to take another beer order. Dad hands her some cash and says, “Good job keeping the peace. But I've got to ask you, isn’t Japanese and Asian the same thing?”

The girl’s slanted eyes (and that’s Stereotype Strike Three, you’re Asian!) glare at my father. I glare back and give a slight shake of my head. She turns angrily away.

The bartender nervously laughs. “I don’t know Mike, I guess not.”

Merry Christmas everyone! See you at the bar.