"We all could use a change of scene..."
-- Pippin
In Washington DC I am pretty much your typical run-of-the-mill guy-- white, average height and build, decently groomed and modestly dressed.
But in exotic ports of call like Ho Chi Minh City, this average daisy morphs into a budding bird of paradise. Suddenly I am a towering, pale, hairy beast that inspires either fear or fascination in children and adults alike. Blue eyed, a little on the chunky side, and hilariously flamboyant all reconfigure themselves in my chrysalis of transformation. A change of "seen" influences self-appraisal ... and worth ...
And my chin-strap beard is the stuff of legends ...
My face became like a pregnant woman's belly -- magnetizing people's attention, prompting profuse compliments and celebratory gestures, and the conversion of private to public property while grown men casually caressed my face like languidly stroking an idle cat.
Oh- and arm hair. Like a barbarian emerging from an isolated swampland, children stood transfixed and adults politely darted their gaze to and fro. While eating dinner one night, an unabashed little girl turned my left arm into her personal unconventional doll, tousling my hair and giving a good yank to ensure the stitching was intact.
Despite the initial awkwardness of unraveling this cocoon, I slowly began to flap my compressed wings and engage the "new" me. Unsettled, foreign, still a little on the chunky side- and downright PASTY white.
Pale skin is prized by some women in Vietnam. It is not uncommon to see a woman riding a motorbike in full-blown winter-time regalia, seemingly an ice princess escaping some brutal blizzard of the Arctic. Gloves, long-sleeved hoodies, scarves and face masks (not to mention stylish shades) could easily be mistaken for Muslim garb. Still, this does not seem to distract their epic pursuit of fair skin while being chased by 95 degree temperatures and 80% humidity.
In Cambodia, my height, weight, and skin tone are readily equated with wealth and lavish spending habits. As I flutter-by the shops and market stalls, my appearance elicits tirelessly rehearsed promises of amazing quality and great deals. I generously pollinate my American dollars from bud to bud, indulging in inflated prices and drinking the sweet nectar of a country so different from my own.
And indulging in a persona that is so different from my own ...
One evening at the Cambodian market (a late-night parade of carnival games and food carts - and unfrequented by tourists), my unusual presence drew a small crowd. I was attempting to unsettle a small stack of tin cans with a lightweight baseball ... and to the disappointment of the Cambodian public, this butterfly is ironically inept at handling balls. Appearances can be deceiving.
Being irrefutably unable to "fit in" is a mixed bag ... entangled in historically-woven stereotypes, uninhibited by the expectations and responsibilities of "normal" society, and exuding an air of mystery despite my admitted ordinariness. Nothing could be so wonderfully confusing and paradoxically coherent.
And so, just like the life cycle of a literal butterfly, this proverbial flight of fancy came to an end after 14 days of flitting, floating, and fleeing the gravity of every day life. It was, truly, a vacation from myself into myself.
And I had such a damn good time ... :-)
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mal di S(ch)iena
"Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano"
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The mean of averages ...
Mean people exist - it's a cultural universal. Where 2 or more are gathered, there is a high probability that one of these persons will be a nasty bitch at some point.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
We expect this level of animosity among the rich and famous; that is, after all, what we are exposed to on TV everyday. Lou Dobbs, Judge Judy, Rosie O'Donnell when dieting ... the inner bitch becomes a media stunt to draw in viewers who are captivated by the cantankerous and cranky.
But what about the average Joe & Jane? Are we crabby with each other simply to appease our own personal audience? What benefit do we receive by being ill-tempered?
DC has its fair share of quarrels and spats, as was demonstrated to me in the past couple of weeks:
-CVS-PMS: One evening at a CVS a very disgruntled woman was anxiously waiting in line to check out. Due to some confusion by the manager and other store clerks, some customers were waiting longer than usual. Livid beyond imagination, she began chucking her items this way and that, kicking things across the floor, and stomped out. Wow- no need to get that upset about over-priced gum and Aleve!
-Giant bitch: While waiting in line to check out at a Giant food store, my cashier began speaking to another customer in line using her native language (not English). A short, grisly old white lady looked at both of them and indignantly asked in condescending tones -- "What country am I in???" Shocking ...
-Metro blockade: A man with 3 extra-large suitcases held a train at Union Station an extra minute during rush hour while propping the car doors open and laboriously hauling his stuff on to the train. He pushed his suitcases to the back of the train, cornering me and my friend in our seats so that we couldn't get up. My friend, in a fit of laughter at the audacity of this man's inconsiderateness, began to draw the attention of several people on the train. Suitcase man looked at one of the male passengers and growled "Stop looking at me, or I'll claw your fucking eyes out". Whoa.
.... So what fuels this phenomenon?
Maybe it's fear. Fear of feeling inferior and unappreciated, fear of diversity and sacrificing privilege, and fear of embarrassment and the opinions of others. We are mean to others because we feel ... and we feel because we are mean ...
... average or otherwise.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Rain, man!
Washington DC can be characterized by the following pissy items: a piss-poor political administration, the mysterious odor of piss on the Metro and in public buildings (most notably the White House), and the contemptuous pissing down of rain. From misty to torrential downpour DC has got you covered, quite literally-- covered head to toe with water, despite your vain attempts to direct your petty umbrella in the direction where the most rain is coming from.
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
The umbrella is almost pointless in DC's malevolent wind and rainy season. The rain, guided swiftly by DC's obnoxiously unpredictable gusts of wind, sends cascades of moisture scurrying this way and that like a herd of antelope evading a predator. No matter which direction you point your umbrella to combat this precipitating attack by mother nature, the wind somehow manages to circumvent every inch of polyester and soak your legs, torso, and aspirations of arriving to work without your clothes cementing to your body.
I have to wonder ... what's the point? I may as well just wear a plastic grocery bag over my face and call it a day.
And what is the deal with the extra-large umbrellas??? I am for serious-- umbrellas should be regulated so that they are a size proportional to the carrier's body!!! I saw a 90 pound 5'3" lady walking around today with an umbrella that looked like China on a stick. As she was cruising down the street, her dark dome eclipsing almost all of the natural light beneath itself, she continuously rammed every other regular-sized brolly like bumper boats in the air.
Water flying, people whipping around angrily to see who was piloting the polyester vessel, short utterances of surprise and consternation ... unfortunately this woman couldn't hear a blessed thing as her umbrella acoustics only allowed for the reverberation of her own ignorance to the world beyond her 10-food diameter dry zone.
It all ties into the American value of "happy me, screw you hippies". Dry, content, and oblivious to anything other than what is dry and content, we are pleased ... and anyone in the way can take a supersoaker up their arse (why did the song "Superman" just pop into my head). The greater good, i.e. civility and courteousness, can drown itself in its own tears of impertinence; my rights come before yours.
So as I steer my umbrella in the DC breeze, more like a kite than anything else, and enjoy a good lashing of a rain that travels sideways and on occasion from the ground up, I begin to wonder if that lady is also the line-cutter at the grocery store, the intersection-blocker at a stop light, the person who boards a Metro car before others have exited, or the cell phone talker at the movies ... Could they all be the same person???
Not to rain on anyone's parade, but unfortunately there is more than just one umbrella lady out there ...
Thursday, March 6, 2008
No Cussing??? What the #&%#?!?!?
The pursuit for an adequate definition of "cuss":
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
cuss: to curse or curse at
curse: to swear
swear: to use profane oaths
profane: to treat with irreverence
irreverence: lack of reverence or due respect
respect: willingness to show consideration or appreciation
OK -- putting this all together, I would propose that "cussing" could be tediously defined as "a lack of due consideration and appreciation in the form of an oath".
Jimminy-Christmas, it is so difficult to get a friggin' handle on what in the tarnation they are talking about! Golly gee!
Well Christmas on a cracker, leave it to the nation's friggin' youth to try and save this gosh darn planet from the viles of freaking cuss words. It means these kids actually give a poopoo about how others are treated! Holy shishkebab!
The No Cussing Club was founded by a 14-year-old son of a biscuit eater in California. The "No Cuss Challenge", necessary to obtain membership in this dang group, states::: "I won't cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!"
The Internet is full of suggestions on how to clean up our foul potty mouths. My personal favorite: "Instead of ahhh, ****, use "ahhh shuggy duggy quack quack." -- Aside from being hilarious, this quote comes from an ex-military person, which made me think for a minute ... As conservative as the military is (don't ask, don't tell, and burn at the stake), isn't it interesting that expressions like "curse like a sailor" exist? And probably for a good reason?
Research indicates that swear words are "special" in the brain; they are not processed like other words in our vocabulary. Swear words are strongly associated with the limbic system and basal ganglia, which regulate emotions, impulse control, basic behavior, plus a whole lot of other shizzle. They are "lower" brain functions.
As a result, some people who suffer from aphasia (the inability to speak or pronounce words due to brain damage) are still fully able to cuss it up till the cows come home ("Yes, Priscilla, your son is such a handsome young man- such a shame that he is mute." -- "Fucking bitch!!!" -- "Oh dear...").
It's almost like cussing fulfills a basic and instinctual need in the brain. It arouses emotions, effects behavior- and it is almost always the first thing you want to learn about another language. Asking for cuss words in French or Italian isn't offensive to the language- we're trying to build our vocabulary from the bottom up!
Weird- I never speak Italian anymore on a regular basis, but if I'm driving in traffic and some A-hole pulls a crappy maneuver in front of me ... Italian cuss words fly out of my mouth like a bat out of Hades.
So cuss words pack quite an emotional punch! Because they are so powerful, should their use be encouraged because swearing can successfully articulate the depth of emotion in our language? Or should they be saved, used sparingly and held only for the times we really mean what we are saying?
Eh ... I don't really give a shit.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
A Japanese Christmas
They say that to really appreciate your own culture and customs, you must first step out of your box (ladies please don't be concerned - I mean your "comfort zone") and see the world from a different perspective -- like standing on a desk in Dead Poets Society ... and being able to stare down at crotches in the classroom from an aerial view instead of sideways glances in the shower. AHEM - woah, derailed there for a second.
Another way to shake up your paradigm (ladies, keep calm) is to have someone else come into your box and take a look around (OBGYNs are cultural pros!). In the metaphorical sense, having my Japanese friend in Lakeland, Florida, for 2 days during the Christmas holidays was a unique opportunity to take a good, hard look at my own box.
Here are Makoto's observations of an America VERY different from the Washington, DC he has become accustomed to:
-We put trees in houses and decorate them. It's like a bonsai that has decided to take over the house.
-There is an over-abundance of religious institutes, particularly those with schools conjoined.
-There is a shocking over-abundance of old people clogging traffic as they purposefully try to lower the nation's speed limit to approximately 25 mph.
-We spend a surprisingly large amount of money on gifts and exchange them, and then hug! Why do we hug each other?!? What's the point???
-Lights on houses are simply spellbinding. It's like a small scale Tokyo.
-Every meal is to be photographed from multiple angles.
-Gay bars must be photographed inside and out (lots of flashing *wink*)
I think my favorite part of the evening was when Makoto was completely surrounded by Americans hanging on his every word (sign), asking all kinds of questions about his home and heritage. And when asked by a little child "Do you like girls???", he turned the darkest red I've ever seen.
Gay, deaf, and Japanese? He's a one-stop shop, filling the diversity quota for any American gathering.
And in case you're wondering- no, he did not have any business to do in any literal boxes.
Another way to shake up your paradigm (ladies, keep calm) is to have someone else come into your box and take a look around (OBGYNs are cultural pros!). In the metaphorical sense, having my Japanese friend in Lakeland, Florida, for 2 days during the Christmas holidays was a unique opportunity to take a good, hard look at my own box.
Here are Makoto's observations of an America VERY different from the Washington, DC he has become accustomed to:
-We put trees in houses and decorate them. It's like a bonsai that has decided to take over the house.
-There is an over-abundance of religious institutes, particularly those with schools conjoined.
-There is a shocking over-abundance of old people clogging traffic as they purposefully try to lower the nation's speed limit to approximately 25 mph.
-We spend a surprisingly large amount of money on gifts and exchange them, and then hug! Why do we hug each other?!? What's the point???
-Lights on houses are simply spellbinding. It's like a small scale Tokyo.
-Every meal is to be photographed from multiple angles.
-Gay bars must be photographed inside and out (lots of flashing *wink*)
I think my favorite part of the evening was when Makoto was completely surrounded by Americans hanging on his every word (sign), asking all kinds of questions about his home and heritage. And when asked by a little child "Do you like girls???", he turned the darkest red I've ever seen.
Gay, deaf, and Japanese? He's a one-stop shop, filling the diversity quota for any American gathering.
And in case you're wondering- no, he did not have any business to do in any literal boxes.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Don't touch me there!!! ... Touch me here!
A few months ago I attended a birthday celebration extravaganza at a rollerskating rink where most of the people were black (aside from me, there was only one other white guy- he was very old, skated alone, and may have been entirely insane).
After taking to the rink and forgetting that my ankles are actually made of jelly, I took a breather on the side to enviously watch little 9-year-old shits who acted like they had skated out of their mothers' wombs (I did the Slip 'n Slide method, old school).
Now ... I am quite used to being around straight people and seeing couples engage in slightly disturbing behaviors such as hugging, hand holding, and kissing (the older I get the more puzzled I become at how straight people are attracted to another human being whose anatomy is so entirely different ... how are you supposed to know what to do with that thing?!? Very odd, I must say).
What is not often observed, particularly outside of Dupont Circle and Minnesotan airports, is the PDA of gay couples. There are few places where you can get away with it- New York, San Francisco, DC - and only in certain sections of town. Wait ... I take all that back. In the world of sports you can hug, embrace, ass slap-- lord, anything short of actual penetration -- and that's acceptable. Anyway, non-athletic displays of affection are rarely tolerated.
So imagine my surprise when I see two guys skating around the rink holding hands! (obviously they forgot that we were in Virginia) My jaw dropped, and I violently shook my head back-and-forth in a very cartoon-like manner ... oh my heck, there are 2 guys holding hands and they have not yet been lynched by the breeder mob!
But wait a minute ... there goes another pair of guys holding hands! Oh my sweet lord in heaven, there's another! What is going on here? Why are all the gay boys congregating at this rink? Did Sarah Jessica Parker promise to swing by or something?
Apparently in black rollerskating culture it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to hold hands to aid them in performing skating "tricks" across the rink. I saw a number of male and female pairs spinning around the rink uninhibited by their casual retaliation against society's rigid roles and definitions of appropriate same-sex behaviors. Suddenly the rink became very peaceful, and this sense of community and friendship gently embraced the rink like a child squeezing a stuffed teddy bear.
I must say, I have never seen anything like that. And I think it's absolutely brilliant.
After taking to the rink and forgetting that my ankles are actually made of jelly, I took a breather on the side to enviously watch little 9-year-old shits who acted like they had skated out of their mothers' wombs (I did the Slip 'n Slide method, old school).
Now ... I am quite used to being around straight people and seeing couples engage in slightly disturbing behaviors such as hugging, hand holding, and kissing (the older I get the more puzzled I become at how straight people are attracted to another human being whose anatomy is so entirely different ... how are you supposed to know what to do with that thing?!? Very odd, I must say).
What is not often observed, particularly outside of Dupont Circle and Minnesotan airports, is the PDA of gay couples. There are few places where you can get away with it- New York, San Francisco, DC - and only in certain sections of town. Wait ... I take all that back. In the world of sports you can hug, embrace, ass slap-- lord, anything short of actual penetration -- and that's acceptable. Anyway, non-athletic displays of affection are rarely tolerated.
So imagine my surprise when I see two guys skating around the rink holding hands! (obviously they forgot that we were in Virginia) My jaw dropped, and I violently shook my head back-and-forth in a very cartoon-like manner ... oh my heck, there are 2 guys holding hands and they have not yet been lynched by the breeder mob!
But wait a minute ... there goes another pair of guys holding hands! Oh my sweet lord in heaven, there's another! What is going on here? Why are all the gay boys congregating at this rink? Did Sarah Jessica Parker promise to swing by or something?
Apparently in black rollerskating culture it is perfectly acceptable for grown men to hold hands to aid them in performing skating "tricks" across the rink. I saw a number of male and female pairs spinning around the rink uninhibited by their casual retaliation against society's rigid roles and definitions of appropriate same-sex behaviors. Suddenly the rink became very peaceful, and this sense of community and friendship gently embraced the rink like a child squeezing a stuffed teddy bear.
I must say, I have never seen anything like that. And I think it's absolutely brilliant.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
War on Christmas
Ah, the Lakeland Ledger. A local newspaper where a liberal can collect enough mud to sling for a good month or so while on break for the holidays … er, or for Christmas, depending on your political affiliation (or religious ties? Is there a difference anymore?).
Yesterday morning I was reading about the "War on Christmas"; a conservative Christian movement to get the Christ back in Christmas. The American Family Association (which by name would lead one to think that this organization is made up of all the different kinds of families America has to offer- this proves to be otherwise) publishes a list of "naughty" and "nice" commercial stores. "Nice" means a store that refers specifically to Christmas, and "naughty" means using a "multicultural mush of 'winter parties, 'seasonal sales' and 'Happy Holidays'".
A multicultural mush … have we backslid that far?
Jennifer Giroux of Cincinnati feels that people who do not worry about the political-correctness of "happy holidays" can then focus more on the "whole peace-on-earth and goodwill-toward-man thing". I suppose Jennifer assumes that peace and goodwill can only be narrowly defined by the constructs of her own religion and culture- yikes.
What's so terrible about being inclusive? Christmas is a time of sharing and caring. "Happy Holidays" keeps the door open for dialogue about differences- which generally leads to conversations on commonalities.
A recent poll suggests that 46% of Americans are offended when a store clerk greets them with "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" (no specific data on whether this poll was carried out in South Dakota or NYC; I reckon it would make a difference). I wonder if a Jewish family is likewise offended when Christmas is rammed down their holiday throats? Does anyone care?
It's this simple: not all Americans celebrate Christmas. Happy Holidays is not anti-Christmas; it is an inclusive greeting that respects every individual's choice to celebrate, or not celebrate, according to his or her values and beliefs.
What could be more anti-Christmas than separatism? Peace on earth does not translate to a manger with angels; it's about love, compassion, and unity.
Now … which sounds naughty or nice?
Yesterday morning I was reading about the "War on Christmas"; a conservative Christian movement to get the Christ back in Christmas. The American Family Association (which by name would lead one to think that this organization is made up of all the different kinds of families America has to offer- this proves to be otherwise) publishes a list of "naughty" and "nice" commercial stores. "Nice" means a store that refers specifically to Christmas, and "naughty" means using a "multicultural mush of 'winter parties, 'seasonal sales' and 'Happy Holidays'".
A multicultural mush … have we backslid that far?
Jennifer Giroux of Cincinnati feels that people who do not worry about the political-correctness of "happy holidays" can then focus more on the "whole peace-on-earth and goodwill-toward-man thing". I suppose Jennifer assumes that peace and goodwill can only be narrowly defined by the constructs of her own religion and culture- yikes.
What's so terrible about being inclusive? Christmas is a time of sharing and caring. "Happy Holidays" keeps the door open for dialogue about differences- which generally leads to conversations on commonalities.
A recent poll suggests that 46% of Americans are offended when a store clerk greets them with "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" (no specific data on whether this poll was carried out in South Dakota or NYC; I reckon it would make a difference). I wonder if a Jewish family is likewise offended when Christmas is rammed down their holiday throats? Does anyone care?
It's this simple: not all Americans celebrate Christmas. Happy Holidays is not anti-Christmas; it is an inclusive greeting that respects every individual's choice to celebrate, or not celebrate, according to his or her values and beliefs.
What could be more anti-Christmas than separatism? Peace on earth does not translate to a manger with angels; it's about love, compassion, and unity.
Now … which sounds naughty or nice?
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Post: American values
The United States commemorative stamps have been announced for the year 2007. I would imagine that the items important enough to make the brand of the very stamps that litter our daily postage are significant indicators as to what American society values in our country. Let's see what makes America American:
-Hershey kisses: Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. Fine, America likes to eat. Perhaps we should have a stamp commemorating insulin, as well.
-Ella Fizgerald: Excellent! Music and diversity; I approve.
-International Polar Year: Well, some astronomer has taken a break from his MySpace or Dudetube (WARNING: do not Google Dudetube unless you are prepared for dilated pupils) to give a timid "woohoo" that a stamp with his interests has been issued.
-24 animal and plant species of the Rocky Mountains: The US postal service is yet to comment on whether these stamps will show the animals being hunted, skinned, and roasted, or if there will be before-and-after shots of the plant species being replaced by oil rigs and day spas.
-vintage mahogany speedboats: Discrimination in this country has gone far enough! Where are the stamps for birch or pinewood speedboats?!? This must stop, people, really!
-Mendez vs. Westminster, challenging segregation in California in 1947: Can I get a "whoop-whoop" from the Supreme Court and government officials? Oh wait, they're almost all White and have no rhythm.
-silhouettes of jury duty members, with the emblem "Serve with pride": If you use a blacklight, you can reveal the hidden script "Serve because you have to, bitches".
-inspired by traditional Norwegian sweaters and Christmas stockings: zzzz …. Huh? What? Oh!!!! Sorry, nodded off there a minute. I guess we can all sit around and wait for Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or other religious iconographies and memorabilia. After all, Americans only celebrate Christmas.
-settlement of Jamestown: Of course! What could be more American than taking over countries or land that don't belong to us? No comment on present military activities …
-Marvel superheroes: Well, I would rather have stamps of the police officers, firefighters, and ambulance workers that actually save the world, but imaginary characters in skin-tight and revealing costumes draws a close second.
So there we have it. America values its food, music, poles (or polls?), wildlife, speedboats, legal action, sweaters and stockings, foreign invasion, and fantasy. We are promoting life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!
Life: assuming we control the food we eat and don't develop cancers from obesity and a sedentary lifestyle.
Liberty: yes, if you discard oppression and the intolerance of anything "different"
Pursuit of happiness: ideally you should have a mahogany speedboat to catch up to happiness; however my personal choice of transport would be riding Superman.
-Hershey kisses: Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. Fine, America likes to eat. Perhaps we should have a stamp commemorating insulin, as well.
-Ella Fizgerald: Excellent! Music and diversity; I approve.
-International Polar Year: Well, some astronomer has taken a break from his MySpace or Dudetube (WARNING: do not Google Dudetube unless you are prepared for dilated pupils) to give a timid "woohoo" that a stamp with his interests has been issued.
-24 animal and plant species of the Rocky Mountains: The US postal service is yet to comment on whether these stamps will show the animals being hunted, skinned, and roasted, or if there will be before-and-after shots of the plant species being replaced by oil rigs and day spas.
-vintage mahogany speedboats: Discrimination in this country has gone far enough! Where are the stamps for birch or pinewood speedboats?!? This must stop, people, really!
-Mendez vs. Westminster, challenging segregation in California in 1947: Can I get a "whoop-whoop" from the Supreme Court and government officials? Oh wait, they're almost all White and have no rhythm.
-silhouettes of jury duty members, with the emblem "Serve with pride": If you use a blacklight, you can reveal the hidden script "Serve because you have to, bitches".
-inspired by traditional Norwegian sweaters and Christmas stockings: zzzz …. Huh? What? Oh!!!! Sorry, nodded off there a minute. I guess we can all sit around and wait for Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or other religious iconographies and memorabilia. After all, Americans only celebrate Christmas.
-settlement of Jamestown: Of course! What could be more American than taking over countries or land that don't belong to us? No comment on present military activities …
-Marvel superheroes: Well, I would rather have stamps of the police officers, firefighters, and ambulance workers that actually save the world, but imaginary characters in skin-tight and revealing costumes draws a close second.
So there we have it. America values its food, music, poles (or polls?), wildlife, speedboats, legal action, sweaters and stockings, foreign invasion, and fantasy. We are promoting life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!
Life: assuming we control the food we eat and don't develop cancers from obesity and a sedentary lifestyle.
Liberty: yes, if you discard oppression and the intolerance of anything "different"
Pursuit of happiness: ideally you should have a mahogany speedboat to catch up to happiness; however my personal choice of transport would be riding Superman.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Suburbian Thanksgiving
I had to do some internet exploration (thank you, little blue "e") to find the right word for the concept I wanted to get across- mainly, my distaste for suburbs and all that they stand for (i.e. driving everywhere and wasting gas, not encouraging the general public to get up and walk, oh … and aluminum siding with florescent lighting).
Having said this, I acknowledge that suburbs do serve mankind; they get some people out of my way (haha). Wikipedia wasn't very much help, but the closest definition I could find was "xenocentrism": the preference for the products, styles, or ideas of someone else's culture rather than of one's own. Sadly, this was the exact opposite of what I was looking for, so perhaps I am an anti-xenocentrist (sounds like a comic book character – I am my own hero!). As people from the suburbs are of a completely different culture, I feel fully justified in applying this definition (for a full list of "isms" please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Isms). For those of you who say "no, you're simply an ethnocentrist", obviously you do not believe in hyphens and rarely-used letters of the alphabet.
My Thanksgiving Day took me deep into the heart of southern Maryland (a.k.a. Whites-ville … no kidding, there was an aerobics complex named "Big Vanilla", good lord …) to a friend's house where an enormous gut-blasting belt-popping tummy-rumbling feast of 2 turkeys and sides galore reeked havoc on my thighs and reservations. I still haven't recovered my appetite.
I looked around the neighborhood there and my anti-xenocentric self was immediately challenged: Wait! I kinda like the idea of a house and a yard and a fence with a dog and neighbors to smile at and quiet streets to stroll along. Dammit!!! My entire construct-of-self is being put to the test!
What was particularly interesting was that in stepping outside of my comfort zone I was more aware of who I am and how I behave. I am used to a college-aged environment in a highly liberal town; I don't give a moment's pause to bashing the President, openly discussing race and immigration, or disclosing my sexuality. Even the word "disclosing" seems oppressive to me.
And suddenly, there I was- careful with what I said, how I said it, and in what context. I was monitoring, calculating, evaluating; simply, I couldn't be myself. But in not being myself I was more mindful, more aware, and experiencing more presence than I usually do.
Anti-xenocentrism comes with its own challenges. It allows you to think you're always right, and rarely forces you to be accountable for your opinions, lifestyle, and worldview.
Damn you, suburbs … *wink*
Having said this, I acknowledge that suburbs do serve mankind; they get some people out of my way (haha). Wikipedia wasn't very much help, but the closest definition I could find was "xenocentrism": the preference for the products, styles, or ideas of someone else's culture rather than of one's own. Sadly, this was the exact opposite of what I was looking for, so perhaps I am an anti-xenocentrist (sounds like a comic book character – I am my own hero!). As people from the suburbs are of a completely different culture, I feel fully justified in applying this definition (for a full list of "isms" please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Isms). For those of you who say "no, you're simply an ethnocentrist", obviously you do not believe in hyphens and rarely-used letters of the alphabet.
My Thanksgiving Day took me deep into the heart of southern Maryland (a.k.a. Whites-ville … no kidding, there was an aerobics complex named "Big Vanilla", good lord …) to a friend's house where an enormous gut-blasting belt-popping tummy-rumbling feast of 2 turkeys and sides galore reeked havoc on my thighs and reservations. I still haven't recovered my appetite.
I looked around the neighborhood there and my anti-xenocentric self was immediately challenged: Wait! I kinda like the idea of a house and a yard and a fence with a dog and neighbors to smile at and quiet streets to stroll along. Dammit!!! My entire construct-of-self is being put to the test!
What was particularly interesting was that in stepping outside of my comfort zone I was more aware of who I am and how I behave. I am used to a college-aged environment in a highly liberal town; I don't give a moment's pause to bashing the President, openly discussing race and immigration, or disclosing my sexuality. Even the word "disclosing" seems oppressive to me.
And suddenly, there I was- careful with what I said, how I said it, and in what context. I was monitoring, calculating, evaluating; simply, I couldn't be myself. But in not being myself I was more mindful, more aware, and experiencing more presence than I usually do.
Anti-xenocentrism comes with its own challenges. It allows you to think you're always right, and rarely forces you to be accountable for your opinions, lifestyle, and worldview.
Damn you, suburbs … *wink*
Thursday, November 23, 2006
have your cake and eat it too much
We are a fat country that likes to avoid responsibility. For example, we don't mind that we are physically unappealing as sexual partners to other human beings, but god forbid if this morbid obesity would negatively impact our health! All this was made very clear to me in a recent CNN report on "resveratrol".
The report was as such: "Are you fat? Are you concerned that your clogged arteries will eventually cease their unheard plea for relief and finally collapse under the pressure of a cardiovascular system that's working so exorbitantly hard it's a wonder that the heart hasn't burst through your rib cage from mere expenditure of energy? Well good news, America! There's a substance called resveratrol. But don't worry! You can still be fat, gross, and completely repulsive even in dim lighting! Resveratrol will keep you healthy, despite your obnoxiously obese state of being!" (please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resveratrol for more information)
This news brief inspired me to consume an immense amount of cake in the past few weeks (along with the psychological trauma of being kicked in the face by my faculty at school). Here is my account of my caloric rampage:
Chicken Out – chocolate cake, fudge frosting
I know, I know. No place that's named Chicken Out should actually be frequented by people who aren't from Alabama, but hold on friends- this chocolate rocked my friggin' world. For locations near you please visit: http://www.chickenout.com
Cheesecake Factory – Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake
From the menu: "Layers of Moist Chocolate Cake, Chewy Brownie, Toasted Coconut Pecan Filling and Creamy Chocolate Chip Coconut Cheesecake". Well … just reading that makes me moist, toasted, and creamy all at once. This Chris fellow can chew, layer, and fill my coconut cake anytime (good lord, does that even make sense? This is where attempts at seductive dirty talk fall flat like a frat boy after homecoming)
Starbucks – Carrot Cake and Cranberry Bliss Bar
I root for carrot cake above all other cakes (if you get the pun I'll give you $100), especially when it is given to you for free along with a cranberry bliss bar (slightly disappointed, to be honest). I think the barista was hoping for some carrot bliss action in exchange for the free cake …
Soho – Chocolate Cake
Orgasmic, if you can tolerate the barista who looks like he accidentally mistook a porcupine for a suppository.
Kramer's – Death by Chocolate
Again, orgasmic (note: the French word for orgasm is "la petite mort", or "the little death")
Bread and Chocolate – The Oprah
God only knows why they named a piece of cake "Oprah", but I have to chuckle every time I think about saying "I wanna piece-a Oprah!!!"
Buca di Beppo – Chocolate Vesuvio
It's a humungous slice of chocolate-caramel cake stood up on its end, with one scoop of vanilla ice cream on each side. If your imagination cooks at high enough a temperature, you may even melt the ice cream…
The report was as such: "Are you fat? Are you concerned that your clogged arteries will eventually cease their unheard plea for relief and finally collapse under the pressure of a cardiovascular system that's working so exorbitantly hard it's a wonder that the heart hasn't burst through your rib cage from mere expenditure of energy? Well good news, America! There's a substance called resveratrol. But don't worry! You can still be fat, gross, and completely repulsive even in dim lighting! Resveratrol will keep you healthy, despite your obnoxiously obese state of being!" (please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resveratrol for more information)
This news brief inspired me to consume an immense amount of cake in the past few weeks (along with the psychological trauma of being kicked in the face by my faculty at school). Here is my account of my caloric rampage:
Chicken Out – chocolate cake, fudge frosting
I know, I know. No place that's named Chicken Out should actually be frequented by people who aren't from Alabama, but hold on friends- this chocolate rocked my friggin' world. For locations near you please visit: http://www.chickenout.com
Cheesecake Factory – Chris' Outrageous Chocolate Cake
From the menu: "Layers of Moist Chocolate Cake, Chewy Brownie, Toasted Coconut Pecan Filling and Creamy Chocolate Chip Coconut Cheesecake". Well … just reading that makes me moist, toasted, and creamy all at once. This Chris fellow can chew, layer, and fill my coconut cake anytime (good lord, does that even make sense? This is where attempts at seductive dirty talk fall flat like a frat boy after homecoming)
Starbucks – Carrot Cake and Cranberry Bliss Bar
I root for carrot cake above all other cakes (if you get the pun I'll give you $100), especially when it is given to you for free along with a cranberry bliss bar (slightly disappointed, to be honest). I think the barista was hoping for some carrot bliss action in exchange for the free cake …
Soho – Chocolate Cake
Orgasmic, if you can tolerate the barista who looks like he accidentally mistook a porcupine for a suppository.
Kramer's – Death by Chocolate
Again, orgasmic (note: the French word for orgasm is "la petite mort", or "the little death")
Bread and Chocolate – The Oprah
God only knows why they named a piece of cake "Oprah", but I have to chuckle every time I think about saying "I wanna piece-a Oprah!!!"
Buca di Beppo – Chocolate Vesuvio
It's a humungous slice of chocolate-caramel cake stood up on its end, with one scoop of vanilla ice cream on each side. If your imagination cooks at high enough a temperature, you may even melt the ice cream…
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Japanese Culture
The word cliché is an onomatopoeia which imitates the sound that a printing machine makes when the typeset strikes the molten metal. This word quite literally derives from the idea of making duplicates of an established master copy.
Likewise, the word stereotype was also coined in the world of printing, and was first used in literature in 1922 by a man named Walter Lippmann: "Whether right or wrong, imagination is shaped by the pictures seen ... Consequently, they lead to stereotypes that are hard to shake."
Last week I had the opportunity to discuss, challenge, and oddly affirm some stereotypes of Japanese culture. We were a bizarre group: 3 gay deaf Japanese boys and a white gay hearing American feeling-slightly-chunky-in-comparison me.
In Japanese culture it is entirely appropriate to comment on the body size of your friends. Makoto, a skinny little thing that couldn't metabolize fat if it killed him, noted that people with extra meat on their bones are quite popular in Japan. Then, he added that I would be a big hit in the Pacific.
BITCH.
He later retracted the statement (upon seeing my culture-shocked face) and quickly revised his comment: "No no no, what I mean is that you're chubby."
When the waiter brought empty plates to the table the Japanese boys instinctively whipped out their napkins and began to smooth away the porcelain surfaces. I felt immediately out of place, and in the spirit of true conformity I was half-tempted to begin wiping as well.
More gay Japanese cultural info: threesomes are frowned upon, bath houses are considered normal and are encouraged, disclosure of sexuality could upset the family line and is often hush-hush.
So, if you're ever having a conversation with some Japanese people and they ask you your blood type within 5 minutes of meeting you, please do not be alarmed.
And keep those stereotypes in check: Makoto and his boys talked about falling asleep on the metro, took pictures of all our food, and headed to a strip club after dinner.
Likewise, the word stereotype was also coined in the world of printing, and was first used in literature in 1922 by a man named Walter Lippmann: "Whether right or wrong, imagination is shaped by the pictures seen ... Consequently, they lead to stereotypes that are hard to shake."
Last week I had the opportunity to discuss, challenge, and oddly affirm some stereotypes of Japanese culture. We were a bizarre group: 3 gay deaf Japanese boys and a white gay hearing American feeling-slightly-chunky-in-comparison me.
In Japanese culture it is entirely appropriate to comment on the body size of your friends. Makoto, a skinny little thing that couldn't metabolize fat if it killed him, noted that people with extra meat on their bones are quite popular in Japan. Then, he added that I would be a big hit in the Pacific.
BITCH.
He later retracted the statement (upon seeing my culture-shocked face) and quickly revised his comment: "No no no, what I mean is that you're chubby."
When the waiter brought empty plates to the table the Japanese boys instinctively whipped out their napkins and began to smooth away the porcelain surfaces. I felt immediately out of place, and in the spirit of true conformity I was half-tempted to begin wiping as well.
More gay Japanese cultural info: threesomes are frowned upon, bath houses are considered normal and are encouraged, disclosure of sexuality could upset the family line and is often hush-hush.
So, if you're ever having a conversation with some Japanese people and they ask you your blood type within 5 minutes of meeting you, please do not be alarmed.
And keep those stereotypes in check: Makoto and his boys talked about falling asleep on the metro, took pictures of all our food, and headed to a strip club after dinner.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
different people
I was working in the dorm office the other day when a student's mother decided to horrify me with the most blatantly racist comment I've come across in a while:
"I noticed there are a lot of black people outside. Is my son going to be safe here?"
*sound of my jaw hitting the ground*
That very day I went into a Subway where a woman was having difficulty expressing the precise kind of condiments she wanted on her sub. The Subway sandwich artist's first language was not English. She ended up screaming at the top of her lungs "Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!!" Now, is that necessary?
Is it pessimistic or merely realistic to realize that we as humans seem to be continuously striving to systematically categorize and exclude others that we feel do not fit into our concept of "normal"? He's fat, she's gay, they're foreigners, and you're another race. How many labels can we possibly assume?
A woman was recently fired from her position as a sunday school teacher at a Baptist church simply because she was a woman. In her letter of dismissal a Biblical passage was quoted as the reason for her termination. Can you imagine? Lucky for us the Bible stays quiet about different races, otherwise we might have "justified" genocides.
And nothing fuels the American fire more than the immigration debate. "But they're using our tax dollars!!!" (and "doing the jobs that we won't do" -- good lord!!!). Apparently birth privilege isn't enough for us- we want those other people not to be given the same opportunities we have to make something out of life.
A humble reminder to everyone in America who claims a stake in their homeland and seeks to drive our foreign invaders:
A sign on an office door somewhere in DC: "American Indians -- Fighting illegal immigration since 1492"
"I noticed there are a lot of black people outside. Is my son going to be safe here?"
*sound of my jaw hitting the ground*
That very day I went into a Subway where a woman was having difficulty expressing the precise kind of condiments she wanted on her sub. The Subway sandwich artist's first language was not English. She ended up screaming at the top of her lungs "Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!! Cut it up!!!" Now, is that necessary?
Is it pessimistic or merely realistic to realize that we as humans seem to be continuously striving to systematically categorize and exclude others that we feel do not fit into our concept of "normal"? He's fat, she's gay, they're foreigners, and you're another race. How many labels can we possibly assume?
A woman was recently fired from her position as a sunday school teacher at a Baptist church simply because she was a woman. In her letter of dismissal a Biblical passage was quoted as the reason for her termination. Can you imagine? Lucky for us the Bible stays quiet about different races, otherwise we might have "justified" genocides.
And nothing fuels the American fire more than the immigration debate. "But they're using our tax dollars!!!" (and "doing the jobs that we won't do" -- good lord!!!). Apparently birth privilege isn't enough for us- we want those other people not to be given the same opportunities we have to make something out of life.
A humble reminder to everyone in America who claims a stake in their homeland and seeks to drive our foreign invaders:
A sign on an office door somewhere in DC: "American Indians -- Fighting illegal immigration since 1492"
Sunday, August 20, 2006
hanging out with Deaf people
It is an immense privilege to know sign language. Instantaneously you are transported into a different world of a vibrant, living culture at the crossroads of linguistics and kinestheses. You become more comfortable with your own body and how you express yourself, and you see life through an extraordinarily different set of lenses.
What's particularly interesting is seeing how society reacts to deaf people, and how that reaction changes once they realize you're actually hearing.
It's a fine line to walk as a person who can communicate effortlessly in both languages: Do I tell the waiter I'm hearing? (at the risk of the waiter ignoring everyone else at the table for the remainder of the evening) Do I say nothing and let people assume I'm deaf? Do I volunteer to interpret for friends?
And another thing I've noticed- I get hit on more when I'm signing!!! Is there something different about me when I'm signing, or do men feel more comfortable chatting it up with deaf people? Once I start voicing I can see the intrigue fade from their eyes; I've lost my magic spark.
At some bars in the past few weeks I've been in situations where I was trying to execute a fairly difficult juggling act between being pleasant and conversational with the boys while not excluding deaf friends from the conversation. The result is usually interpreting, which is fine, but like so often in interpreting situations it is that person facilitating communication who ironically is left out of the discussion.
I would like to say that in a perfect world everyone would know sign language and these issues wouldn't present themselves. But then how else could I talk openly about the hottie standing next to be at the bar without him knowing it?!?
What's particularly interesting is seeing how society reacts to deaf people, and how that reaction changes once they realize you're actually hearing.
It's a fine line to walk as a person who can communicate effortlessly in both languages: Do I tell the waiter I'm hearing? (at the risk of the waiter ignoring everyone else at the table for the remainder of the evening) Do I say nothing and let people assume I'm deaf? Do I volunteer to interpret for friends?
And another thing I've noticed- I get hit on more when I'm signing!!! Is there something different about me when I'm signing, or do men feel more comfortable chatting it up with deaf people? Once I start voicing I can see the intrigue fade from their eyes; I've lost my magic spark.
At some bars in the past few weeks I've been in situations where I was trying to execute a fairly difficult juggling act between being pleasant and conversational with the boys while not excluding deaf friends from the conversation. The result is usually interpreting, which is fine, but like so often in interpreting situations it is that person facilitating communication who ironically is left out of the discussion.
I would like to say that in a perfect world everyone would know sign language and these issues wouldn't present themselves. But then how else could I talk openly about the hottie standing next to be at the bar without him knowing it?!?
Sunday, July 30, 2006
what have we become?
Surprising things that have reduced my faith in the human race as of yet:
-Last week I was about to get on the Metro and noticed a blind man having trouble finding the escalators. A tall, white man in a suit walked up to the blind man, waved his hand in front of his face, and then went about his business.
-CNN reporter: "There is concern that Americans could get caught up in the fire". Are we so concerned about Americans that we forget all the Lebanese civilians, and children? Shameful.
-In chatting with some deaf people outside of JRs, a man approaches and flails his arms extravagantly in our faces and laughs himself silly.
-Commercial: A fit, attractive man purchases tofu and health food at the grocery store, and then feels embarrassed when the man behind him is buying ribs and other barbeque goodies. The man immediately runs to the nearest Hummer retailer and purchases the gas-guzzling machine. Hummer catchphrase?: "Restore your manhood". WTF?!?
-A friend saying, "Companies suffer if they hire someone in a wheelchair. The cost of installing an accessibility ramp should come out of that person's salary".
-Hot dog eating contests on ESPN. While many in the world are starving, eating in America is done merely for our entertainment.
-Gallaudet is hosting summer programs for teens, both hearing and deaf. One hearing boy approaches a deaf boy and says repeatedly: "Talk, or I'll choke you".
-The fact that Jerry Springer, the WWF, and Medium are still on TV.
-Last week I was about to get on the Metro and noticed a blind man having trouble finding the escalators. A tall, white man in a suit walked up to the blind man, waved his hand in front of his face, and then went about his business.
-CNN reporter: "There is concern that Americans could get caught up in the fire". Are we so concerned about Americans that we forget all the Lebanese civilians, and children? Shameful.
-In chatting with some deaf people outside of JRs, a man approaches and flails his arms extravagantly in our faces and laughs himself silly.
-Commercial: A fit, attractive man purchases tofu and health food at the grocery store, and then feels embarrassed when the man behind him is buying ribs and other barbeque goodies. The man immediately runs to the nearest Hummer retailer and purchases the gas-guzzling machine. Hummer catchphrase?: "Restore your manhood". WTF?!?
-A friend saying, "Companies suffer if they hire someone in a wheelchair. The cost of installing an accessibility ramp should come out of that person's salary".
-Hot dog eating contests on ESPN. While many in the world are starving, eating in America is done merely for our entertainment.
-Gallaudet is hosting summer programs for teens, both hearing and deaf. One hearing boy approaches a deaf boy and says repeatedly: "Talk, or I'll choke you".
-The fact that Jerry Springer, the WWF, and Medium are still on TV.
Friday, June 9, 2006
Bus therapy
What do you do when life gets you down? Phone a friend? Eat an ice cream? Punch a random tourist?
In the counseling field we are taught to constantly analyze our emotions and how they affect our behavior. It's nauseating; some days you're simply overwhelmed with yourself (and no, not in that extended-shower kind of way...)
The world turns its back on you and you feel rotten ... what options do you have left?
The answer is simple: ride the city bus.
There I was, late on a Thursday evening, fretting about increasing rates on student loans, comprehensive final exams looming, the stress and worry of finishing all my assignments on time, and being pissed off with life in general.
As I boarded the 80 to take me to the Kennedy Center, I paused from my selfish world and looked up at my fellow passengers. Most of them tired, rugged, and worn out from a hard day. Some were going to work, some just getting back- most of them had a very distant look in their eyes.
And then I realized- school is a privilege. I have the privilege to be in a financial position where I can take out massive loans. I have the privilege to have been educated well enough to enter a master's program. I have the luxury of classes and exams and deadlines and stressors, meetings and schedules and frustrations and chaos.
They are all an extravagant indulgence.
Suddenly the world became very big, and very manageable. And that's not bad for a buck-thirty-five.
In the counseling field we are taught to constantly analyze our emotions and how they affect our behavior. It's nauseating; some days you're simply overwhelmed with yourself (and no, not in that extended-shower kind of way...)
The world turns its back on you and you feel rotten ... what options do you have left?
The answer is simple: ride the city bus.
There I was, late on a Thursday evening, fretting about increasing rates on student loans, comprehensive final exams looming, the stress and worry of finishing all my assignments on time, and being pissed off with life in general.
As I boarded the 80 to take me to the Kennedy Center, I paused from my selfish world and looked up at my fellow passengers. Most of them tired, rugged, and worn out from a hard day. Some were going to work, some just getting back- most of them had a very distant look in their eyes.
And then I realized- school is a privilege. I have the privilege to be in a financial position where I can take out massive loans. I have the privilege to have been educated well enough to enter a master's program. I have the luxury of classes and exams and deadlines and stressors, meetings and schedules and frustrations and chaos.
They are all an extravagant indulgence.
Suddenly the world became very big, and very manageable. And that's not bad for a buck-thirty-five.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Got a stick?
I was on the Metro the other day when a girl in her mid-20s pulled out a packet of gum as a post-lunch courtesy to the crammed passengers within garlic-breath range.
I had the impulse to ask her if I might have a piece, but then I reminded myself of cultural norms (and what possible consequences might ensue for one who breaks the don't-talk don't-look don't-acknowledge-life rules of the Metro system) and that this was an inappropriate circumstance to freshen my breath.
Then I thought: Why is it OK to bum a smoke off of a complete stranger, but not a piece of gum?
Gum costs less, makes you more pleasant to be around, and doesn't cause cancer. Why do we hoard it?
Furthermore, linguistic variances of the word "cigarette" in other countries could lead to dangerous cross-cultural miscommunications with strangers (you should just see their faces when you ask for a "fag" in Alabama).
Perhaps it is the guilty conscience that unites smokers and allows them to violate our normal rules of stranger engagement.
I suppose the only cancer-entitlement we gum chewers have is saccharin. I just don't know if that's enough to help us build bridges to mooching.
I had the impulse to ask her if I might have a piece, but then I reminded myself of cultural norms (and what possible consequences might ensue for one who breaks the don't-talk don't-look don't-acknowledge-life rules of the Metro system) and that this was an inappropriate circumstance to freshen my breath.
Then I thought: Why is it OK to bum a smoke off of a complete stranger, but not a piece of gum?
Gum costs less, makes you more pleasant to be around, and doesn't cause cancer. Why do we hoard it?
Furthermore, linguistic variances of the word "cigarette" in other countries could lead to dangerous cross-cultural miscommunications with strangers (you should just see their faces when you ask for a "fag" in Alabama).
Perhaps it is the guilty conscience that unites smokers and allows them to violate our normal rules of stranger engagement.
I suppose the only cancer-entitlement we gum chewers have is saccharin. I just don't know if that's enough to help us build bridges to mooching.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
The Shrine at Catholic University
The Catholic University is a quiet place to reflect on the impact of religion, theology, and gross expenditures of cash in our society.
The Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and Run-On Titles houses the most impressive collection of white-supremacist art that I have ever encountered (trust me – museums in Georgia just aren't that big!)
I don't mean to ruffle feathers or acolyte robes (I'll leave that to the white-collared folk), but honestly; up on the ceiling are Adam and Eve in their pre-apple glory, both a pasty white, with Eve displaying her silky cascades of blonde hair. Blonde?
But wait! There's more!!! Here comes the white man on horseback, bringing the good news to the heathen Indians of the Central Plains! The awed Natives stare up in wonder at their Casper-like deliverers who have traveled so very far to save, rape, and pillage their savage race.
Then the quote that runs above the doorway: "Teach all ye nations" They must have run out of chiselers for the remaining "that the white man cometh to break treaties and build a staggering number of McDonalds and Starbucks."
I guess the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Oops Who's the Father Beats Me was built before political correctness, common decency, or morality in general.
P.S. I'll take one ticket for that handbasket to hell, please.
The Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and Run-On Titles houses the most impressive collection of white-supremacist art that I have ever encountered (trust me – museums in Georgia just aren't that big!)
I don't mean to ruffle feathers or acolyte robes (I'll leave that to the white-collared folk), but honestly; up on the ceiling are Adam and Eve in their pre-apple glory, both a pasty white, with Eve displaying her silky cascades of blonde hair. Blonde?
But wait! There's more!!! Here comes the white man on horseback, bringing the good news to the heathen Indians of the Central Plains! The awed Natives stare up in wonder at their Casper-like deliverers who have traveled so very far to save, rape, and pillage their savage race.
Then the quote that runs above the doorway: "Teach all ye nations" They must have run out of chiselers for the remaining "that the white man cometh to break treaties and build a staggering number of McDonalds and Starbucks."
I guess the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Oops Who's the Father Beats Me was built before political correctness, common decency, or morality in general.
P.S. I'll take one ticket for that handbasket to hell, please.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Kids say the craziest things ...
My practicum for the counseling department is at an elementary school, which means I am privy to the eccentric comments young children are infamous for blabbing (in this case, signing) without provocation.
One child, when asked by her teacher if she had remembered my name, signed that I was "cafeteria". Ironic … though her language was obviously delayed she was still able to hone in on one crucial aspect of my personality.
Later, in the cafeteria (er, in the David), I was having a lovely chat with an exceptionally bright 11-year-old girl. The topic was drugs and alcohol.
"I wish they had never been invented!" she complained.
"Indeed!" I signed back to her, although I was secretly anticipating a shot of Baileys for the upcoming weekend.
"They mess everything up," she continued. "I'm going to tell my brother that if he becomes President he'll have to make them illegal."
And then she added something that caught me off guard: "He's hearing, so…."
I paused and then asked her, "Why couldn't you be President and make it illegal yourself? You could be the first deaf female President."
The look on her face was incredible; she had never considered that she, as a deaf person, could actually be President.
Where do children learn that they are "limited"? Who tells them that they can't do or be something? What impressions does society make on individuals so that they accept without question what they are (in)capable of?
All of a sudden she was a flurry of signs: "You know I could … all I would need is an interpreter for all of the hearing people to understand me! I could make those bad things illegal, and make things better for deaf people..."
It was beautiful.
One child, when asked by her teacher if she had remembered my name, signed that I was "cafeteria". Ironic … though her language was obviously delayed she was still able to hone in on one crucial aspect of my personality.
Later, in the cafeteria (er, in the David), I was having a lovely chat with an exceptionally bright 11-year-old girl. The topic was drugs and alcohol.
"I wish they had never been invented!" she complained.
"Indeed!" I signed back to her, although I was secretly anticipating a shot of Baileys for the upcoming weekend.
"They mess everything up," she continued. "I'm going to tell my brother that if he becomes President he'll have to make them illegal."
And then she added something that caught me off guard: "He's hearing, so…."
I paused and then asked her, "Why couldn't you be President and make it illegal yourself? You could be the first deaf female President."
The look on her face was incredible; she had never considered that she, as a deaf person, could actually be President.
Where do children learn that they are "limited"? Who tells them that they can't do or be something? What impressions does society make on individuals so that they accept without question what they are (in)capable of?
All of a sudden she was a flurry of signs: "You know I could … all I would need is an interpreter for all of the hearing people to understand me! I could make those bad things illegal, and make things better for deaf people..."
It was beautiful.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
The DC Metro
DC is blessed to have a gorgeous underground Metro system; it's clean, it's (relatively) reliable, and it gets you places you could probably reach in 30 minutes by foot if you weren't so damned lazy.
There are some people who think that the Metro is like an amusement park ride. These individuals believe that the Metro is fun and entertaining, and they hoot and holler around every bend, bump, and shuffle along the way (Look ma! No hands! Weeeeeeeeee!!!).
They are usually tourists, who in their spending-$$$-away mentality have trouble decoding the tricky colors of the red, green, blue, yellow, and orange lines, and who make a habit of congregating and blocking the exits of the metro cars like a herd of zebras evading a lion.
What's particularly frustrating about these thrill-seeking tourists is their shock and amazement when the train starts up to pull out of the station. They act like 4th graders watching the monkeys get it on at the zoo ("Woah!!! That is like totally cool!!!").
I have seen full-grown adults squeal like banshees when they witness physics in action for the first time (apparently). The slight force exerted on a passenger when the train begins its departure does not justify the "WOOOOOOAAAAAHHH" that some tourists feel is the only appropriate way to relay their experience of physical euphoria.
It is obnoxious and unnecessary.
There are also those tourist passengers that are not aware of their immediate environment while onboard the Metro. You'll often see them standing there at the doors ready to exit, facing a concrete wall just beyond the window. They seem puzzled that the doors are not opening on their side so that they can run smack into a slab of cement (psst!!! Exit's on the other side!!!).
I have decided that these tourists must learn a lesson about public transport, abominable behavior in public, and the general laws of physics. I plan to lube down the handgrips of all the Metro cars on the red line with Vaseline. The only possible negative outcome of my plot would be trips to the emergency room that are probably not included in their tour package.
Well, at least they can WOOOOAAAAH all they like in the back of the jerky ambulance.
There are some people who think that the Metro is like an amusement park ride. These individuals believe that the Metro is fun and entertaining, and they hoot and holler around every bend, bump, and shuffle along the way (Look ma! No hands! Weeeeeeeeee!!!).
They are usually tourists, who in their spending-$$$-away mentality have trouble decoding the tricky colors of the red, green, blue, yellow, and orange lines, and who make a habit of congregating and blocking the exits of the metro cars like a herd of zebras evading a lion.
What's particularly frustrating about these thrill-seeking tourists is their shock and amazement when the train starts up to pull out of the station. They act like 4th graders watching the monkeys get it on at the zoo ("Woah!!! That is like totally cool!!!").
I have seen full-grown adults squeal like banshees when they witness physics in action for the first time (apparently). The slight force exerted on a passenger when the train begins its departure does not justify the "WOOOOOOAAAAAHHH" that some tourists feel is the only appropriate way to relay their experience of physical euphoria.
It is obnoxious and unnecessary.
There are also those tourist passengers that are not aware of their immediate environment while onboard the Metro. You'll often see them standing there at the doors ready to exit, facing a concrete wall just beyond the window. They seem puzzled that the doors are not opening on their side so that they can run smack into a slab of cement (psst!!! Exit's on the other side!!!).
I have decided that these tourists must learn a lesson about public transport, abominable behavior in public, and the general laws of physics. I plan to lube down the handgrips of all the Metro cars on the red line with Vaseline. The only possible negative outcome of my plot would be trips to the emergency room that are probably not included in their tour package.
Well, at least they can WOOOOAAAAH all they like in the back of the jerky ambulance.
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