Whenever I visit my Mexican side of the family, I have to remind my cousins that my name is not Chino.
We’ll be sitting at the dinner table when one of them will try to get my attention.
Chinito! they’ll yell in my direction. Primito Chinito! (“Chinito” is the diminutive form of Chino, which means “Chinese.”)
“That’s not my name,” I’ll tell them. Whenever I hear them say it, I get an uncomfortable pins-and-needles sensation up and down my spine. I used to pretend to be unbothered by it, but I can no longer shrug it off. The truth is that I hate it. These days, I make sure to tell them I hate it.