Before I explain my rather complicated relationship with Daniel’s friend, protector, and mentor, a little bit of background: I am the son of a 1st generation Chinese-American man and a white American woman. I grew up in the suburbs of Detroit in the ‘90s. I was originally, like any kid, a HUGE fan of The Karate Kid. Despite being born and raised in my small town, I related to Daniel’s outsider status in Reseda. I loved when Mr. Miyagi kicked the shit out of the Cobra Kai kids. My parents even bought me the exact same bandanna that Mr. Miyagi gave Daniel. The movie spurred a conversation with my parents about the Japanese Internment Camps during WWII. All in all, I guess you could say I was a fan.
I can remember the exact moment I started to despise Pat Morita’s character. My family, like all American families would frequent the local ice cream stand during the summer. Called Bobjoes, this particular stand sold soft serve custards and even had the very dope, very delicious chocolate dipped shells. I was fascinated how ice cream could be dipped into what seemed to be hot chocolate but instead of melting came out with a tasty, crispy chocolate shell. I can remember every detail of Bobjoes, the faded facade, the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, the mismatched picnic tables out front. The first few trips to Bobjoes were relatively uneventful, save for the chocolate shell revelation. My sister and I loved Bobjoes. It was a special treat. One which we begged our parents for at every opportunity.
One summer night, my family piled into our forest green Aerostar van and headed to Bobjoes. There was a particularly long line. I remember we queued up and within five minutes I sensed my parents grow physically tense. I followed my mother’s gaze as she stared at a group of teenagers pantomiming the “wax on, wax off” technique from The Karate Kid as they snickered and nodded towards my dad. Before I could register what was happening, a man walked over to us and without introduction or explanation simply shoved his finger into my dad’s face and bluntly asked, “You know who you look like?” I looked up at my dad and I could see the blood rush to his face. He forced a smile and said, “No, who?” while my mother looked on in what I can only describe as a combination of pure horror, embarrassment, and helplessness. The man, undaunted, repeated his question, this time with incredulity, “You mean to tell me no one has told you who you look like? You look exactly like him.” My dad refused to play, he simply shrugged his shoulders as everyone in line started to notice this exchange. Finally, frustrated, the man blurted it out, “You look exactly like Mr. Miyagi! Teach me karate, you know wax on wax off, Daniel-san,” as he said this he affected the accent every Asian and Hapa kid has had to endure from mocking racists while he moved his fingers like chopsticks, catching imaginary flies. I thought someone would say something. My dad doesn’t look anything like Mr. Miyagi. I mean, they’re both Asian, my dad did have similar facial hair, but at the time he couldn't have been older than his early thirties. In my head, Mister Miyagi was like, 80 years old. Instead of objecting or simply looking away, several more adults chimed in, echoing how uncanny the resemblance was. To his credit my dad stayed cool and said he’d never heard that before. Thankfully before anything more could happen it was our turn to order. It was the first time we ate our giant chocolate shelled ice creams in the car. The ride home was silent save for the occasional crack of a cone.
Growing up in the town I did, I was used to women almost constantly asking my anglo mother where she got my browner sister and I. She’d always say, “I gave birth to them, same as your kids.” I remember asking my mom what these women meant and she’d tersely respond, “They think you and your sister are adopted.” Often times the women would follow up with, “Oh…where did you meet your husband?” To which my mom would retort, “At law school.” I was used to kids and teachers asking where I was “from from.” Repeating, “Trenton, just like you.” Until I finally realized they wanted to know I was Chinese. I was used to the local bully calling me a chink and my teachers confusing me with the only other Asian boy in the entire elementary school despite him being a year older than me. But for some reason I didn't put it together that my dad would experience the same shit. Until that night.
When we got home, my dad and I had the talk. Not about sex, but about how it feels when someone calls you a chink. Or makes fun of the way my grandma speaks English. Or why people think all Asians look alike. He told me that my anger and frustration was natural but to always stand up for myself. He told me if we didn't do something about it, they’d just do it again to someone else.
After that incident it seemed liked everyone in the Metro Detroit area wanted to tell my family how much my dad looked like Mr. Miyagi. And it seemed to happen with the most frequency while waiting in line for our favorite ice cream. I started to loathe groups of white teenage boys because I knew it was only a matter of time before they would say just loudly enough for my dad to hear, “Wax on Daniel-san,” or simply mocked our language by repeating “ching chang bing bang” in the painfully too familiar sing-song cadence. My dad never ignored them. He would confront them and if nearby, their parents, challenging them to say it louder, to say it to his face. Almost always the teenagers would recoil and protest that he should be able to take a joke. The confrontations in public would leave everyone around uncomfortably silent, staring as my dad demanded an apology.
This routine became so common that I began to weigh the pros and cons of even going to Bobjoes. The ice cream was fucking delicious but it was beginning to feel like some soft serve really wasn't worth all this bullshit. I stopped asking if we could go, professing that I preferred the ice cream we could buy at the grocery store. But much to my chagrin my parents would all but insist that we go to Bobjoes. I couldn't understand why my dad was such a glutton for punishment.
I hated the confrontations, I hated the teenagers, I hated the men who would try and force my dad to admit he looked like Mr. Miyagi. I hated the bystanders who looked on and never said anything. I grew to hate Bobjoes and I grew to hate Mr. Miyagi and the man who played him, Pat Morita.
The Mr. Miyagi comparisons never stopped. To this day it happens. And to this day I seethe with an anger that I can barely control. I hated that people would remark with surprise that my dad didn't have an accent despite their knowledge that he was born on the east side of Detroit. My dad told me that Pat Morita didn't really have an accent either, that he was simply playing a character in the movie. Which incensed me. Why didn't he just speak the way he normally spoke? Why did he take this role? How could he not realize that white america would just see other Asian men and conflate the character with them? Was he aware that he’s the reason people felt comfortable adopting racist accents in order to mock us? I stopped watching The Karate Kid. I shoved the bandanna deep into a drawer and loudly proclaimed that I hated that movie. In high school and college I would talk about how it was the equivalent of yellow face. That he set back Asian Americans by taking that role. That I understood why he took the role (money) but that I wished he hadn't.
It took several years, maybe even a decade before I revisited The Karate Kid. I watched it as an adult and I realized that it’s a pretty decent movie. The relationship between Daniel and Miyagi seems unique and genuine. The story, while a bit trite, holds up with any contemporary high school underdog sports movie. Roger Ebert named it one of the best films of the year when it was released. I realized my anger was misplaced.
Mr. Miyagi might be problematic, but he wasn't Long Duk Dong. His appearances in scenes weren't paired inexplicably with a non-diegetic gong like the racist character John Hughes created. I realized that neither Morita nor The Karate Kid were the source of the stares and mocking and racism my family experienced. I had lived and learned enough to know that these were and are systemic problems. Problems that existed long before Daniel moved to Reseda and will stay long after Pat Morita’s character is forgotten.
I don’t hate Mr. Miyagi anymore. I like the movie. I realize now that by insisting that we still went to Bobjoes my dad was helping us fight the racism. It was his way of not allowing them to win. That waiting in line for a mountain of chocolate and vanilla twist ice cream was our karate tournament and those ignorant motherfuckers in line were our Cobra Kai. Fuck them. We wanted our ice cream and we weren't going to let them keep us from enjoying it. We never ate our ice cream in the car again.
On reflex I still often cringe inwardly whenever I hear an Asian accent in a movie or television show. I pause when comedians who are the children of immigrants use an accent when telling jokes that involve their parents or relatives. I fear that it makes non-Asians feel comfortable in adopting the same caricaturish accents. I dread the “but you laugh when Margaret Cho does it,” conversations that inevitably ensue when I correct them. But just like my family gathered around the TV to watch every single episode of All American Girl, my family will watch Fresh Off the Boat, an ABC sitcom based on Eddie Huang’s memoir. I love how Huang has cut off criticism of the show’s title. Pushing back against an Entertainment Tonight reporter who questioned whether the use of the title on such a prominent network show may lead to non-immigrants using the term more freely, Huang asserted that non-Asians and non-immigrants should not and can not use the term and further,
“ I refuse to allow the dominant culture to limit the words that I can use just because I’m afraid of them using it…”
FUCK YEAH. Nobody’s going to stop me from enjoying the ice cream I want. Nobody’s going to stop me from loving the movies I do. Shout out to Eddie Huang and shout out to all my Asian and Hapa fam. We’re here and if you ever tell me my dad looks like Mr. Miyagi I’ll slap you so fucking hard you’ll wish all I did was sweep the leg.
