It hates my clumsy, oversized North American feet and the way I mash the pedals.
It hates my erratic, jerky way of steering.
It hates that I always refer to it as my “small, Japanese” car or my “rice rocket.”
It hates how I call the horn noise “cute” instead of “strong” or “muscular”.
It hates how much more intelligent I assume it is than an American car.
It hates that my last three cars were also Japanese.
And that I give a nod of solidarity to everyone else who drives Japanese.
It hates that whenever I talk to friends, I extoll the wonders of Japanese culture and yet learned the difference between sushi and sashimi just two weeks ago.
It hates how I’ll point out that most Japanese cars actually have better sight lines than their American counterparts.
It hates how I sometimes gawk at German cars.
It hates how whenever we’re having engine trouble, I mention World War II.
It hates that I’m Jewish and that together we’re such a trope.
It hates that I can’t tell the difference between Japanese and Korean cars at first glance.
It hates how I don’t ever say anything when my mom gives that condescending look as we pull up for Thanksgiving.
It hates how a few hours later I stay silent when my mom says, “we just never thought you’d buy a Japanese car” over dinner. She buys American.
And finally, it hates how much I rely on hackneyed, culturally insensitive stereotypes for my comedy.