Mia Mercado - Shes Nice Though: Essays on Being Bad at Being Good

I ve never needed to be reminded to play nice. It is at the core of who I am and who I think Im expected to be. I keep extra gum in my coat pockets. Ive loaned out more hair ties than Id ever be able to count. Ive always assumed kindness, generosity, politeness, and goodness are one and the same, but now, Im not so sure. Ive been trying to figure out why I think my niceness is presumeddoes it have to do with the fact that Im Asian? A woman? The fact Im an Asian woman and, in turn, so demure, so gentle, very porcelain doll? Is it because Im from the Midwest and, were I to be mugged, Id probably apologize for not having enough cash on hand? Does it have to do with how quiet I am, how small a space I feel I should take up, my instinct to fold inward and make myself the tiniest, innermost Russian nesting doll? What is it about my vibe that makes strangers trust me to watch their stuff while they go pee?? And, at the center of it all, am I actually nice or am I just performing a role I think Im expected to play? Who is benefiting from my niceness?

Its hard not to be jaded by the fact that I often feel like my kindness is expected where others is lauded. No one is shocked that Im comfortable holding their baby. No one is surprised when I wait my turn, hold the door, remember to say thank you and sorry and no, no, please, you should have the last piece.

Most people describe my husband, Riley, as a nice person. He is tall, a man, white, handsome in a way that is approachable, funny in a way that makes you want to listen, and he has whatever Myers-Briggs type is most like a golden retriever. He makes friends easily, often, and in pretty much any environment. Once, a work acquaintance thought I didnt like them because I didnt laugh hard enough at a joke they made. I only know this because they confided this to Riley, a person they had known for one (1) hour.

Im sure it sounds like Im resentful of the way people celebrate my husband for, say, picking up a piece of trash on the sidewalk or standing next to a toddler particularly well. Thats only because... I am. Im mad that his Nice Points go further than mine. I also know that maybe genuinely nice people dont keep track of their good deeds with, say, Nice Points.

I used to worry the only discernible thing about me was my agreeability. In lieu of developing a personality, I established myself as someone who wouldnt challenge, question, or nudge even in the slightest. What are my thoughts on Walden or transcendentalism as a whole? Whatever yours are, Mrs. Teacher! Do I like Good Charlottes music? Sure, she sounds nice! In hindsight, I think Ive had entire friendships where I just nodded a lot and gave them someone to walk with around Kohls department store.

Ive spent so long with a label that reads NICE plastered across my forehead, occasionally pressing down at the corners to make sure it sticks, that Ive rarely stopped to wonder who put the label there in the first place. Only recently have I started to pick at the edges or think about what Id look like with a label that says BOLD or FUN or DOUBLE-JOINTED . Only now, after having been alive for three decades, am I asking questions like, Is it unkind to disagree with someone? Can I be angry and nice at the same time?

Im not known for my anger. If anything, I default to annoyed. When people cut me off in traffic, I get nervous before I get mad. Would a mouse give the finger to a rattrap on wheels?

I did get a taste of rage when I started taking Wellbutrinsometimes known as the hot, horny antidepressant. Though its unsettling to know that a couple hundred milligrams of something can ignite the part of my brain that decides, ME WANT FIGHT, it was admittedly fun to feel angry.

Anger made me present. It was so much more visceral than the damp malaise of depression. I contemplated picking a fight with an editor over email. Throwing eggs sounded fun. I didnt do either of those things, but the rush! How cathartic to put your whole self into a feeling and, then, push that feeling out into the world through a screech, a stomp, a knife through unspoken tension. Anyway, Im no longer taking Wellbutrin on its own.

Recently, however, I felt something akin to my Wellbutrin rage when the collective public started going on their Asian Apology Tour. Amid the growing number of hate crimes against Asians and Asian Americans, in correlation with the pandemic, I got a handful of messages from friends, acquaintances, and virtual strangers alike to check in. This trend, Im assuming, was born out of non-Asian (often white, usually liberal) people wanting to do something actionable in response to these attacks. They wanted to speak out against the way Asian people, Chinese people in particular, were being vilified in conversations led by some (often white, usually conservative) people. They were looking for ways to step forward and be a barrier, shielding Asians from those white people. This also became a waywhether intentional or notto step forward and distinguish themselves as doing the work, as one of the good ones.

Online, I saw Asian people offering these kinds of check-ins as a way for non-Asian people to engage in an immediate, intimate capacity. And who wouldnt want to be offered solace? To feel seen in some small part? To have people acknowledge pain youve often felt you should keep private? I also saw Asian people who balked at the idea of a bunch of white strangers DMing them to say, Thinking of you <3 Stop Asian hate!!

Iand, Im assuming, many othersfell somewhere in the middle. I wanted there to be recognition for the collective mourning that happens when you see people who look like you killed because of the way they look. I wanted people to feel bad for every joke they made about an Asian massage parlor and every time they laughed when they heard the words me so horny. I also wanted to be left alone by people I knew hadnt experienced this strange and specific kind of grief.

Fortunatelyluckily?I didnt have to confront any pointed violence in person. Though I had moments where I worried strangers would approach me in anger or avoid me out of fearseeing my eyes above my mask and thinking, Hmm, looks Asian enough to me!it was never something I experienced personally. No one yelled at me or steered clear of me. No one really brought up my race in connection to COVID at all aside from these apology messages I got.

Some messages were welcomed and within the context of an actual mutual relationship. They were from people Id previously had conversations with about race and whiteness among many, many other conversations about life, work, my family, my dog, depression, wide-legged overalls, and the best kinds of soup. They were from people Id be mad ator, more likely, annoyed withif they didnt text me on my birthday, people who know with certainty that I am talking about them right now. Other messages were... a surprise? Well-meaning and earnest, sure. But definitely a surprise.

Were these gestures nice? Were these people nice? Was the random stranger who slipped into my DMs to say, Thinking of you, nice? If so, nice for what? Nice to what end? Nice for who? Why did niceness feel so much like a bribe? It made me wonder if niceness isnt a personality trait but a trading card.

In case you need it, here is a list of things I would actually like you to apologize to me, specifically, for:

1. A particular interaction between the two of us (e.g., you cut me off in a meeting, you ignored my email, you said a mean thing to me, you farted on me and walked away)