"Hooping while Asian"

Last night, for the first time in a LONG WHILE, I got got. The atrocious offense: Hooping while Asian. (If the term hasn't been coined yet, I got dibs.) What that means in a nutshell: getting discriminant treatment on the basketball court, simply and only because I'm Asian. And don't say that shit is just in our heads. "Hooping while Asian" is real as Darwinian evolution. (Which reminds me: my next post is going to be the implacable slaughter on organized religion. But anyway...) Every single Asian who somewhat hoops knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about. 

Now, to be fair, until last night I hadn't blatantly got got in some time. Sure, every now and then when I play at LA Fitness someone who's never played against me won't think I'm about to hoop on him, then he gets real surprised when I can actually play. But that's about it. 

I get enough basketball reps in at the gyms I play at to be a recognizable figure in a sea of unrestrained ego and testosterone. Point blank, they know I can hoop. If it sounds like I'm being cocky, well, I probably am being cocky. But it wasn't until second or third year of college that I started to get this way about basketball. And you know what? My play elevated tenfold as a result. Believing you are the best guy on that court--not wanting to believe, but in-your-blood-in-your-soul truly BELIEVING--that changes the game up forever. It's the point of no return. I started to do things I could never EVER, not in a million lifetimes, do in high school. Things like splitting the defense off a pick-and-roll, making off balance flip-in layups consistently, hitting threes in people's faces. Euro stepping! Euro stepping like a fucking G! All because I know like the earth is round that I'm the best player on the court (even when it's clear I'm not).  

Of course, it's not always like that. When I'm playing against really good guys I often relinquish that swagger. Not because I'm not just as good as they are, but because I let the mote of self-doubt in even just a tiny bit. A tangible drop in emotion follows, and doubtless my play begins to suffer. All of a sudden the ceiling is feet lower from before; the opportunity to now explode for a breakout game is almost nigh. This was the plague that haunted me in my formative years. Not once in my seven years of playing organized ball did I ever say to myself, "I'm easily the best guy in this gym." Not once did I have that thought. Not once did I even think to think that thought. Instead it was always "When I get in there I just want to play great defense and not mess up on offense." What predictably followed: I became a fantastic defender, one of the best in the league, but offensively I was miserable. 

I've done the complete one-eighty. Nowadays I think I'm the best guy in the gym probably nine times out of ten. Last night was one of those nine times.

NYC Urban is supposedly the best intramural basketball league in the city. There are thirty-plus different divisions, based on and separated by sex and skill level. I found the league online; there was to be a tryout for people who weren't already on a team. When I showed up to the gym at 7:00 p.m. there were about fifty other guys there. 

The night was supposed to proceed like this:  

1) We get split up into random teams of five. That means about ten different groups.

2) The guys in charge announce that WE--not they--are responsible for forming our own teams. (The teams we're on now won't be our intramural teams; they're just for this particular scrimmage.) 

3) Two groups play half-court against each other for a couple minutes, while the sidelined groups watch. The idea is that you get to assess the other players, and start "recruiting" for your own team, based on skill level, hustle, demeanor, etc. 

4) When you've formed your team, you go to the signup table to finalize registration. 

From the moment the tryout started it was awkward. Super awkward. It felt like we were speed dating with shorts and sneakers; after alliances began forming, those still without a team would linger near, hoping to be recruited. It got especially awkward when guys who really sucked asked to join your team. ("Uh... ask that guy.") During the scrimmages, everyone was out to prove he was the fucking shit. This meant no passing whatsoever; just one bad shot after the other. When it was my turn to play I decided on a different route to "wow": don't even look to shoot. Just pass, screen, rebound, and be moving at all times. But when you do get the ball, showcase one or two fancy moves so everyone watching will immediately understand that you can handle the ball.  

Boom. Perfect execution. 

Afterward I was immediately approached by this guy I had been talking to earlier, who played in college. He asked if I had a team, and if not, did I want to join his team. It seems that busting out that one fancy dribble, for no utilitarian purpose at all, was the way to go. 

Within minutes we had a core five guys on our squad. We all agreed in wanting to play in the highest division. Now it was only a matter of finding three or so other players.

"How about that tall ass dude?" One of our core five pointed to a six-sevenish guy standing idle at half court, chatting with Rick, one of the Urban guys in charge of the tryout. 

"Yeah," I said. "He played just a second ago. He's good."

"Why don't you ask him if he's got a team?" 

"Sure," I said, expelling a small chuckle. "I'll do it but I think you're probably better suited to recruit, you know, appearance-wise." 

The unfortunate truth is that my new teammate's a six-three well-built black guy, and I'm five-ten Asian, skinny as shit. But I walked the sidelines to half-court anyway, and went right up to our six-seven prospect, interrupting the conversation he was having with Rick, the Urban guy in charge. 

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm wondering if you've got a team already."

"Yeah," said the prospect. 

Okay, fair enough. 

Rick then interjected, pointing to another big guy currently engaged in the scrimmage. "He [the prospect] is playing with the guy in maroon." 

"Okay," I said. "I was gonna see if he wanted to get on our team." 

"He's playing in the highest division though," said the assuming Rick, speaking for the prospect like an overprotective agent. 

I nodded my head in obvious understanding. "I figured." 

"That's where the guys who are most skilled usually play at."

VRRRPPPP. Wait a minute. Wait just one second. Hold the fucking phone. 

There was a split-second silence, in which time I let my appall grow and fester to the size of a hot air balloon. I knew exactly what Rick was saying subtextually. His every word in that last bit oozed of condescension. No way I'm letting that shit slide. Rick had seen me play for maybe three minutes--the overwhelming majority of that time in which I was without the ball. In other words, there was no way he could've really assessed my play. Nah. I was getting got, and getting got good. Asian while hooping. 

"You don't think I can play, do you?" 

The confrontational tone caught Rick off guard. "Oh," he said, an enormous pause ensuing after the word. "No, it's not that. It's just, you know, the best players play in the best division." 

I laughed aloud this time. "Yes, you said that already. I understand the concept. What makes you think I'm not gonna play in the best division?"

His face betrayed that unquestionable "give me a break" look.

I repeated myself: "You don't think I can hoop."  

He laughed in awkward admission. 

"My team's over there," I said, pointing to my four guys standing on the other side of the court. "We'll be playing in the highest division." 

"But you have to be really good--"

"I want you to watch for me this season, okay? I'm gonna fucking hoop. Look for me." 

And I left.

By the night's end my team hadn't found any other quality players, so we disbanded and agreed to finish recruiting next week, when the second round of tryouts are to transpire. We talked for a tiny bit, about this, about that, about the other. But I wasn't paying much attention. My mind was still with Rick; I was obsessed with our earlier exchange. That smug, superior, condescending way he said, "That's where the guys who are most skilled usually play at."

The gym started to clear out. I changed into my street clothes, then, on my way out I passed Rick, who was now in conversation with a couple other Urban guys. I took a few more strides--then suddenly, another VRRPPPP. I put the breaks on, and without thinking I marched right up to Rick at center court. 

"My name," I said to him, extending my hand forward, interrupting him in mid-speech, "is Steven. Steven Lo." 

We shook hands. He began to laugh. 

"Remember this face." 

Another laugh. 

"STEVEN-LO," I spelled out a final time, slow and intentional, so that the name would be seered like a TV jingle into his skull. Turning my back, I began to exit, the tune of my every step accompanied by a very real, very honest swagger. 

###

In the grand scheme of things Hooping while Asian isn't by itself worth much. "Driving while black" is a hundred times more grave, as it speaks directly to the three-branched oppression African-Americans have to endure daily: political, economical, and social. For Asian-Americans, the plight is almost exclusively social, though you could make the argument that it's political too, being that we have very little representation in U.S. government. But, as we are statistically the most successful minority group in the U.S. (link: Rise of the Tiger Nation), the viewpoint goes that we should have very little to complain about.

Still, oppression is oppression no matter how you slice it. There's a reason behind Jackie Chan's "Rush Hour" character never getting the girl at the end. 

Behind a predominantly white cast in "Avatar: The Last Airbender," when clearly the main characters are supposed to be Asian. 

Behind the choice to cast the white Jim Sturgess as the star of "21," a movie based on real life, on an Asian MIT student who made hundreds of thousands counting cards in Vegas. 

Behind the caricaturized effiminate Asian gangster in "The Hangover." 

Behind the unspeakable success of PSY's "Gagnam Style." (Read this article and it will blow your mind: PSY and the Acceptable Asian Man.)

Behind Jeremy Lin's getting passed under the radar at every level of basketball, till the stars aligned and he shone like the fucking sun. 

Behind this slap-in-the-face ridiculous picture: 

Meet the asexual nerd whose style is so torturously misinformed that he's still rocking his grandpa's glasses from the '80s. What the fuck? We're in the age of the bold hipster frames, and the people in charge of this ad made him wear these? I thought they're promoting Windows 8, not the throwback Windows '95. 

My point to all of the above is this: the social oppression is readily apparent. You have to be blind, deaf and living in a cave not to see it. Media shapes society's perception, and in turn society shapes that same media. It is a vicious circle, perpetual and ceaseless up till now. A couple years ago I was talking with a white friend and the question came up, "If you could be any other race, which would you pick?" I asked him facetiously, full well knowing how he would respond, if he would choose Asian. His instantaneous, automatic response: "Fuck no!" And then, realizing I myself am Asian, he tried to cushion the blow: "Sorry, dude. No offense." This is society shaping his perception, shaping his society, shaping his perception again, and so on and so forth. 

The key, then, to beat the zone: first, understand that the defense is playing a zone. In another word: AWARENESS. In this case, understand that your beliefs about Asian-Americans didn't spring from a vacuum; they've been informed and sculpted over and over and over again by media affecting society affecting media affecting society affecting media affecting society, ad infinitum. 

Second key to beat the zone: deconstruct that motherfucker. Attack the gaps that the zone invariably produces. Which means change your strategy to fit what the defense gives you. Now that you know the other team is playing zone, stop exchanging spots with your teammates for the sake of movement. No doubt that can be effective in man-to-man, but you're best option now is to attack the gaps. Swing the ball quickly, and get it into the high post. Pull back from your stereotyping people. Think intelligently about what it means to live in a consumerist society. Deconstruct the motives that limited Jackie Chan's on-screen sexual involvement to a peck more innocent than you would give to your mother. Change your strategy, your behavior based on your newfound awareness. 

That's it. That's the whole game plan. 

Now go forth, ye human kinfolk, into the world. (I feel like I'm standing at the pulpit right now, preaching to the congregation.) And the next time you're guarding an Asian on the basketball court, I strongly recommend that you get in that proper defensive stance ASAP. 

After all, you don't want to be the guy who gets got by an Asian, do you? 

Didn't think so. 

P.S. Holla at me, Rick. 

Chris Rock: "I have very low self-esteem"

Watch this 36 second clip:

Amazing that one of the most successful standup comics ever is saying such things about himself. I'm perpetually confounded by Chris Rock's admitting this. I think for every artist trying to do her/his thing in the game, this small clip should be reassuring. Even the best, most successful of us suffer from self-doubt. You are not alone.

One on five: the fallacy of "Kill or be killed"

I think "pick-up basketball" is the technical term for a group of people (guys mostly) who get together to play free-for-all hoops, but I've found another term that I think works just as well, and may fit the bill even better: I call it "social experiment." That's essentially what the activity is, though none of the people under study ever participate knowingly. When we take to the court we're doing so for any number of reasons: to exercise; socialize; enact Jordan's "For the Love of the Game" clause; and among many others, my personal favorite: to compare, inch-to-inch, who's got the biggest dick. Such reasons are all scattered across the concrete and hardwood surfaces, visible to everyone running from this basket to that basket. But something else lies much deeper, woven invisibly into the fabric connecting all  participating players: a metaphor informing the learned nature of the human race. It's no doubt a social experiment, and an extraordinary one at that.

I've been playing basketball for sixteen years now, but it wasn't until this last year, while playing pick-up at a gym in New Jersey, that I became cognizant of the phenomenon. It had been present the whole time, to my mind's neglect, but I finally saw the pattern that emerged each time I laced up the sneaks. I'll explain through a brief situational narrative:

Game 1: It's my turn to partake in the five-on-five pick-up bout; I'm playing with four guys I don't really know that well. The game starts and I'm immediately glad to be on a team comprised of such willing passers, who know how to screen away and move effectively without the ball. If you didn't know any better you'd think we were out there playing in front of a coach who holds the key to each of our minutes. There is no place for Carmelo Anthony on this team: our united fluidity erases any chance for black-holing or ball-deading. The ball is moving constantly, always finding the open man. When one of us scores, we all score. Defensively we are tethered to one another, moving properly depending on where the ball shifts. Our defense feeds on our offense, and vice versa. To nobody's surprise we win that game easily.

Game 2: It's more of the same. The fluidity, the unison, the unselfishness. Oh, maybe once or twice someone will hoist up an ill-advised shot, or dribble for longer than is necessary, but it's nothing we can't handle as a fortified team. And so we win this game too, though by less than the game previously.

Game 3: You're waiting for the turn and here it is. During the third game something palpable shifts in our team chemistry. The seal of unity has been exposed, and unleashed from the envelope are all the things we silently swore against earlier: black-holing, ball-deading, putting up bad shot after bad shot. Suddenly someone's trying to dribble out of a double team rather than pass to the open teammate. When we don't have the ball in our hands we become listless spectators, refusing to move to the open spaces on the floor. Defensively we've really started slacking, taking plays off, not boxing out, not helping when help is required. The invisible tether is languishing. Miraculously we scrape by the other team and live to play another game.

Game 4: "Unity what? How do you spell it?" "U-N-I--" "Sorry, the only letters I'm familiar with are M-E," say each of the five Carmelos battling with one another for rights to whack off with the basketball in hand. It's a solo mission at this point, pathetically disguised as five-on-five basketball. Whoever gets the ball in the backcourt is going to throw it up on the offensive end, no matter if s/he's double or triple-teamed. A pass will occur if and only if it's in the form of a dazzling assist, and insofar as the credit falls upon the passer and not the scorer. We've all taken permanent leave from defense; the other team is scoring at will now. The outcome is predictable: our reign is through; we've been supplanted by a team that looks awfully similar to how we looked three games prior. It's kill or be killed and the basketball gods have seen enough to smite us from their court.

###

We're all familiar with "Kill or be killed." It's the maxim that's said to govern the animal kingdom with grim immutability: "If you ain't first you're last"--or worse, a bloody carcass, that which we humans might call "dinner." If the lion doesn't strike against the tiger, well then the tiger will happily do the honors. We've humanized the literal, turning it into a metaphorical guideline by which to live: strike at or be struck at; screw or be screwed. But in many cases we're actually fine with the literal, and we pop someone's head off or bomb an entire village to ode nature's most ruthless maxim.

Well I'll say it flat-out: it is the most outrageously stupid maxim we've come up with in however many thousands of years human beings have been coming up with rules for self-governance. (The 10 Commandments are in close contention for the top spot.) Let me clarify: for the animal kingdom I think "Kill or be killed" is okay. I've got no qualms with animals adhering to this principle. But as much as homo sapien falls under the primate umbrella, which falls under the mammal umbrella, which falls under the animal umbrella, you and I both know we're a different class of animal altogether. We are the pinnacle of evolution, its redoubtable acme, what with our superior bipedalism (the ability to move by means of our two rear legs), opposable thumbs, and most importantly, our ability to conceptualize our own existence. I think there are other animals who possess the latter, but not to the level human beings have attained. We know consciously that we are alive. And we know consciously that we know consciously that we are alive. And we know consciously that we know consciously that we know consciously that we are alive. And... I think you get the picture. (And if you don't, then I'm suspecting whether or not you really or one of us...) In a single word: reason. It is our exquisite ability to reason that separates us from every other organism on the planet. And it is specifically this distinctive, one-of-a-kind ability that should expunge any need to abide by "Kill or be killed." Why? Because we are now past the survival checkpoint in our evolutionary timetable. Reason and rational thinking have delivered us there. The rest of the animal kingdom, however, is still stuck in the mire. They max out at "Live another day." Not us. We have the remarkable capability--OPPORTUNITY--to choose the quality of our lives. Mind you, this is an extraordinary power that we take for granted, without a moment's thought about the uniqueness of it all. The phrase "quality of life" presupposes that we've got (for the most part) survival taken care of. Animals subscribe to "Kill or be killed" because they have no choice. We do! And we exercise this built-in machination of choice all the time: we can eat half our burger and request the other half in a to-go box (not saying that it's easy); we can skip out on parties and bars in favor of studying or saving money; we can hold in our pee and our poop! In short, we can actively go against our own instinct, especially to benefit us in the long run. For this reason we are not eternally subjected to "Kill or be killed." Or, as would be put in Conversations with God, we are until we're not. In other words, until we decide it's time to choose something else. Something that serves us better, like "No more killing," or "Unconditional peace and love," or how about "We are all one"?

Of course, most everyone has consciously or subconsciously already tried chucking "Kill or be killed" out the window. There's just one problem: it's a feisty little shit and boomerangs back into our cell structure no matter how often we try chucking it, no matter how far we try chucking it. The sad reality is that, up until now, the maxim has not left us fully. I think this is why we battle internally with issues like homelessness: helping or neglecting those begging for money on the streets, because they arouse both our natural love (the desire to help) and our learned fear (the safe bet to neglect). I once learned a fantastic acronym for the word "fear": False Evidence Appearing Real. When we shrink into survival mode, it's always fear-based, and nine times out of ten unjustified. It's that false evidence appearing real, so we revert back to instinct: "Me-first"; "Everyone for him/herself"; "Kill or be killed." It's like we're out there on the basketball court with eyes that elect only to see the opponent. We're out there playing one on five.

###

All this loops us back to the social experiment of pick-up basketball. What catalyzes the Hyde and Jekel transformation between Game 1 and Game 4? And how do evolution and "Kill or be killed" feature into the experiment? Well, let's have a closer look, shall we?

When five people who don't know each other, or know each other just barely, play on the same team, trust is usually no more trust than it is an exacto knife, or the symbol for Boron. Which makes it all the more remarkable that they'll usually come out of the gates playing like quintuplets in a womb, sharing unselfishly, laving in the glory of the united team. My theory is this: natural law dictates that human beings are unconditionally loving and trusting, when they are ranks above survival mode. When the pick-up game starts, these five individuals are creating from a blank canvas. There is nothing yet to survive; no false evidence appearing real, so they act in accordance with natural law. But this usually doesn't last for very long. At some point one of the five players begins to diminish "us" in favor of "me"--and almost always it's F.E.A.R. fomenting this change in paradigm: someone else taking a bad shot, keeping the ball in his/her possession for too long, erring too much, etc. The descension from "us" to "me" is the descension from boundless living to mere surviving. This person feels endangered, which is, of course, an absurd and fallacious notion. Nevertheless he has achieved metamorphosis from Lebron James (or my main man J-Lin, holla!) to Carmelo Anthony. He has already predetermined to shoot the ball the next time he gets it, no matter what. He does this a couple of times, and how do you think his teammates respond? Voila. Their F.E.A.R. bursts into being. "This guy is being a ball hog," say the other four players. "If he's gonna keep shooting every time he gets the ball, I will too." It's usually a subconscious declaration, and as simple as that the crumbling domino effect has spawned, to the inevitable and ultimate demise of the team. 

It always happens like this. If one teammate is ball-deading every time he touches the ball, the other players rarely will continue their marked distributing. Instead they follow suit; the cancer spreads and paralyzes the unselfish movement that had benefitted the team as a whole earlier. "We are all one" is now "Kill or be killed," "Get mine before he gets his." 

This is the metaphor I spoke of earlier, informing humanity of its learned nature. F.E.A.R. assails our best intentions, our natural proclivity to love and to share and to live together like muhfuckin' gangstaz. It activates survival mode, causing me-first hatred, jealousy, greed, etc. It makes insects out of natural giants, mortals out of gods and goddesses, and I guarantee you this: it is the single biggest fallacy we continue to believe in on planet Earth. There is no promise in "Kill or be killed" but what we've already got on the table today: war, starvation, poverty, genocide, rape--all stemmed from F.E.A.R. If you play one on five what do you think is going to happen? 

It's hard to see in the short term but giving to others from your own stash of possessions is the best thing you can do for yourself. The haves should be giving to the have-nots enough so that everybody has. Hatred is not borne from nothing; I think it's the bitter response from the Self feeling incomplete. If everybody in this world had a home and had enough to eat and could live day-to-day decently (which is entirely possible), don't you think a vast majority of the violence and hatred would cease? If we really got that we are all one, wouldn't the bombs stop dropping in the Middle East? On a smaller scale, wouldn't your own daily problems start to dissipate? I'll quote from Conversations with God directly this time: "Live simply, so that others may simply live."

I think it's possible. Inexorably improbable, no doubt; but humanity has moved mountains before. This one here is the Everest of them all. So what would it take? First is recognition. That is always the first step to ameliorating any problem. If you can't see it, how do you expect to change it? Understand deeply when you're on survival mode, rather than live-like-a-muhfuckin'-g mode; when your mind is being about "Kill or be killed" and not "We are all one"; when you're playing one on five with four teammates listlessly watching while you screw up. Once you can recognize these distinctions you get to do something profound: make a clear and conscious choice at the fork. Do I want to keep living in my narrow shell to just get by, or do I want that planetary experience with all my human kin? Then you act accordingly. Rinse, lather, and repeat. Recognize, choose, act, and repeat. For there to be world peace, the whole world's got to get on the "We are all one" frequency.

It's just like in basketball: it only takes one person playing for him/herself to ruin the team. A virus doesn't need to be significant to spread and infect. All five players have to agree that "We are all one" is the most conducive paradigm to team success to hold court. Only one question remains: can we get everybody to agree? That glass-half-empty voice in my head tells me no. But then another voice says, "Fuck that," and gives me the realness in compelling fashion: "What is there not to agree upon? Who the fuck doesn't want world peace? Who the fuck doesn't want that planetary party where the whole world is poppin' bottles, makin' sweet love and dancin' away the night like there was no tomorrow?"

Who the fuck is right.