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JULY 26 – Racism is like vampirism. It stalks you. Hunts you. And when it has you cornered, it takes a bite and sucks you dry of your soul. Like movie vampires, victims of racism become just as their attackers. Lurking and lusting for their next morsel. And like vampires, racism lives forever.

In case it’s not yet clear from the ugly mug next to this column, I’m Chinese. Not just any Chinese, mind you, I’m your stereotypical Chinese. Replete with slits for eyes, a predilection for pork, and an infatuation with all things dog. To get any more Chinese than this, you’d need to go to, well, China. Or Balakong.

But I was not always like this. When I was about five of six, I actually wanted to be Malay. Maybe I just wanted to see better, I don’t know. But in my mind and to my mother, I said “I wish I were Malay.” If it hadn’t been for that sunat thing...

Back then, most of my friends were Malay. My parents used to dump me at a babysitter in the Pekeliling flats. The people who stayed there were mainly Malay, a smattering of Chinese, and the odd Indian.

I was too young to realise it was a glimpse into the socio-economic structure of our nation. All I knew then was that they had better food.

I even spoke Malay with their accent. I cannot recall how many times people have hung up on me because they thought they got the wrong number.

My teachers thought I was mixed as I spoke Malay so fluently. I thought they were retarded.

All the way up to early secondary school, the bedrock of my social circle was Malay. When I got into first form, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Malays galore!

Because I was socially inept, my “best friend” was always whichever poor schmuck that got seated next to me. Serendipity and sly positioning always made sure he was Malay.

I remember the last one very well, a lanky lad called Iskandar. I remember because he was my vampire.

But I don’t blame him. He was not always one. In the early days, we were close. We hung out together. Played together. Cut classes together. I thought we were like brothers. Like me, he was also bitten by another.

As time passed, we began spending less and less time together. He had discovered the “big boys” – the upper secondary crowd. Like many young, impressionable kids, he looked up to them. Thought they were the bee’s knees. The shiznit.

Not me. I was a rebel. I just thought they were bigger and harder to beat up.

Whatever insidious indoctrination they performed on Iskandar and other boys like him should be patented. Or maybe they did. I think they call it Biro Tatanegara (BTN) nowadays. The boy turned racist so fast and so much, it left my head spinning.

The culmination of it was during a football game. I should’ve realised it then, the way the teams were split along racial lines. It was a football game, for crying out loud. How was I supposed to know it was actually “wail on the Chinese while pretending to chase a ball around”?

But they made it clear as day when they sent Iskandar to square up to me after I made a meaty challenge on one of theirs. I will never forget the words he said. Never. It broke my heart more than anything I’ve ever heard before or since.

There were many colourful terms that came raining down. I shan’t list any of them down. Not that I need to. It’s not like they’re coy about using them.

After that day, I became Chinese so hard I thought if I stared at my navel long enough, I’d see Beijing staring back.

I started to shun Malays and all things related. I picked roti canai instead of nasi lemak during recess. Never mind they were both sold by Malays. It was a matter of principle. When I ate out, I always made sure I had pork. It was almost as though I saw pork as a sacrament of my non-Malay affiliations. Life was better with bacon.

Looking back now, I realise that I wasn’t becoming Chinese. I was just being the antithesis of Malay. I mean, I can’t speak Chinese very well. Candice Chan makes as much sense to me as Utada Hikaru.

I can’t read it at all so Sin Chew may as well be Der Spiegel. In fact, I laugh so much at the Chinese that I’m probably as racist to them as I am to the Malays.

But I’m tired. I’m tired of all the fighting. At this point, I’m statistically halfway through my life.

And I’ve already spent two-thirds of that being a vampire. Even one day is one too many. What more two decades?

I no longer want to be Malay. But I also no longer want to be Chinese.

All I want is to be Malaysian.

Is that really so much to ask?