This is a true story.

A few days ago, we had some guests over at our house.

First impression: as they pulled up to the front of our house in their gigantic SUV, they ran over my dog’s food bowl. Now she eats off the floor.

Second impression: my host ma comes running out helping them open the door while simultaneously mouthing to me, “Christine! They’re from A-MER-I-CA.”

Third impression: other people get out of the vehicle, but I only notice this colossal white guy with a bald head and a biker ‘stache wearing a wifebeater and shower shoes with tattoos up and down his arms.

For the fourth impression, I don’t so much have a scene to describe, as I do a conversation:

Wifebeater: Where you from?
Me: California.
Wifebeater: We’re from Vegas.
Me: What brings you to this part of Cambodia?
Wifebeater: Well my buddy was making the trip down and asked if I wanted to come along, and I thought, ‘When’s the next time I’ll get to go to Cambodia?’ and got my passport done and here I am. What brings you here?
Me: I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer.
Wifebeater: What do you do here?
Me: I work at the health center.
Wifebeater: No, but what do you do here?
Me (slightly baffled): I help. At the health center.
Wifebeater: But what is your actual goal?
Me (IQ decreasing): Health education.
Wifebeater: What did you get your degree in?
Me: Chemistry.
Wifebeater: What are your plans after this?
Me: I’m applying to medical school.
Wifebeater: Why did you choose to do this instead of just going to medical school?
Me: I wanted to see the world and learn a new language, and also take a break between undergrad and—
Wifebeater: And like the 8, 12 years of school it involves to be a doctor. Ha!

At this point I’m wondering why I’m even having this conversation with this oversized sack of retardation, but before I could politely excuse myself, this happens:

Wifebeater: What’s your nationality?
Me: American. (Duh.)
Wifebeater: Well, yeah, I’m American too, but we’re clearly different. What’s your bloodline?

This just in: people like this actually exist.

Me (and I just couldn’t bring myself to be even remotely polite anymore): You mean my ethnicity? I’m Chinese.

As you can see, this visit was getting off to a great start. The other people in the vehicle included my dad’s older cousin, his wife, his daughter, his grandkid, his son-in-law, and his son-in-law’s brother. From talking to my grandma and my host ma, I was able to piece together just exactly who these people were and why they’re here.

Some information on the son-in-law:

The son-in-law was the Einstein who brought along his delicately aware species of friend. Born in Cambodia but raised in America, he decided that he wanted a Cambodian wife. And so he came to Cambodia with some money, and through some friends of friends, stumbled upon my host dad’s niece, paid a dowry, married her, impregnated her, and went back to America. About a year or so later, he’s back, and ready to take his mail-order bride back to Vegas, the land of hopes and dreams.

Some more information on why Wifebeater is here:

Who doesn’t like the idea of a completely subservient Cambodian wife? He came to scout out my oldest host sister in the hopes that she’ll also be a lean, mean, subservient baby-making machine. My host ma expressed her doubts to me and I vehemently agreed with her. That troll can’t even dream about being good enough for my host sister.

After my enlightening conversation with Wifebeater, I hid myself in the kitchen, helping my mother cook out dish after dish to serve these men who were sitting down to a long night of drinking. My evening class was cancelled because the entire house was a in a ruckus, and that night I ate dinner in the back with the rest of the women (and my host brother, who’s not old enough to drink).

I excused myself to bed after dinner, and was delighted when I discovered my bedroom rests exactly above the dining area of the increasingly drunker men, separated by a few sturdy planks of Cambodian wood. Well into the wee hours in the morning, I was privy to the drunken slurs of Wifebeater, and I mourned the loss of yet another couple dozen IQ points.

A note on my host dad, the frequent drunk:

My host dad is the kind of drunk I would prefer my loved ones to be if they ever had to be drunks. Even while completely sloshed, he remains relatively quiet and considerate, and after all the drinking is done he passes out in sleep and is only occasionally revisited the next morning by bouts of vomiting.

A note on Wifebeater, the belligerent drunk:

Wifebeater is exactly the kind of drunk I actively spend my time avoiding. I felt ashamed when he, white as the underbelly of a killer whale, started actively using the n-word, and this shame quickly turned into anger when I realized he was using this word to refer to my host dad, in the midst of calling him weak and not being able to drink as much as the noteworthy 13 cans Wifebeater himself had guzzled.

What Wifebeater didn’t know:

My dad had been drinking all day. He drinks whenever he has to work the fields, and he was working the fields all day in between shots of rice wine.

This anger—both out of defense for my 50+ host father (who pressures a 50+ man into drinking like that?! This isn’t community college!) and out of unadulterated hatred for this intruder—nearly bubbled over but for once my self-restraint did not fail me and I did not voice my opinions.  Nevermind that my host dad cleared his house and made everyone sleep in the living room so Wifebeater could have the bedroom. Nevermind that the women of the family spent all night cooking for him and making sure all his gastronomical needs were met. Nevermind that, after all the men had passed out in their drunken stupors, my host mother stayed up until 2 in the morning cleaning up after them.

It’s the sense of self-entitlement—“yes, I deserve this kind of treatment”—without the slightest sign of humility that makes my blood boil.

Needless to say, I was glad to see them leave the next morning.

Afterward, I spoke to my host mother.

Host mother: “Are all people in America like that?”
Me: “No. Just like Cambodia has crazy people, America has crazy people too.”