A Reflection on Reflections

After my last post, I've been wondering: Am I really racist? Do I patronize racist slurs cloaked in the guise of stand-up comedy? Am I so insensitive that I try to find excuses for my own bigotry? I spent a few hours yesterday entertaining myself: I laughed at what Mencia said, about Whites being illogical, Blacks being fun, Asians being clumsy, this group being strange, that group being silly - there were many groups, many labels, and many things to laugh about. But why was I laughing?

There is a quote in Professor Rishel's e-mails that I agree with wholeheartedly (especially as laughing is looked upon with disdain in my profession back home, and I CAN'T HELP LAUGHING SOMETIMES, DARNIT!)

"If you wish to glimpse inside a human soul and get to know a man...just watch him laugh. If he laughs well, he's a good man."

Signore Fyodor got it right, I believe - and as I remembered the quote, I got the EUREKA moment that I had been waiting for.

The good thing about a multicultural education class is that everyone gets to see what hope lies for a burgeoning field - and what advances are being made in understanding and educating more and more children from more and more diverse groups. One trap that some people fall into, however, is self-defense. This can happen when members of the dominant group see the doings of their forebears, and find that their dominance was bought, and is still maintained, at a high price. As a result, and whether they are aware of it or not, some members of the dominant group will be defensive: they will claim to be experienced in working with people of diverse backgrounds; they will claim that they, too were oppressed; they will claim that they, too deserve attention.

This, I believe, would be an understandable gut reaction: no one wants to be blamed for the world's ills, and no one wants to be affiliated with the bad guys in today's supposedly enlightened world. But I believe that we constantly fall into this trap when we get carried away in talking about our experiences. It was this potentially disruptive discourse, this often annoying method of thinking and expressing oneself, that I witnessed many times in class this week. There were times when there was so much tension in class for what someone had said, that some of my classmates had supposedly gone home and let off steam. There were times when exchanges and banter began, appearing innocent, but ending with more tension on both sides. I felt as though I were treading on eggshells when I spoke in class: I could offend someone, I could lose a potential friend, I could strike a nerve even when I did not mean to. I was living in a world of tension.

My solution? I had to come home and vent by making myself laugh - and by doing it through someone who did not care about tension and treading on eggshells. I let go of the tension by sitting in my room, laughing at jokes and labels, and just letting my virtual feet heal from the eggshell-inflicted wounds.

I'm not a racist. But maybe I'm just afraid.


****

On a non-significant note, my boyfriend and I celebrated our 15th month together today. Hurrah for us!

I Know I'm Not Supposed to Laugh...

But I can't help it!



Introducing, Carlos Mencia...



I love to laugh, and I love stand-up comedy. I also come from a family of irreverent people, where we laugh at everything, from bad fashion sense to pizza sauce made from ketchup. In my stay in Purdue, I have come across many different stand up comedians; Carlos Mencia is only one, but I found myself laughing at his spiels. The problem is: nearly every single routine that he has will focus on the misdemeanors of a race, or the stereotypes of it. Perhaps the good thing about Mencia is that he does not single out any one race, and goes from Mexicans, to Whites, to African-Americans, and to Asians, without putting anyone on a pedestal or completely dissing any one race. The Mexicans in his routines are often clumsy and silly, high on testosterone and often coping with their lives as illegal immigrants. The Whites are racist, but do not have a sense of their own culture. African-Americans can do crazy things and can dance well and sing well, but not have a stable job. Asians will be smart, but will often be impractical. Even mentally challenged children find their way into his routines, and surprisingly, he performed these routines at a hospital for mentally challenged or retarded children. In his opinion, Mencia says, if you can't tell a joke in front of the people that the joke pokes fun at, then you don't have the right to tell the joke at all.



It is perhaps this aspect of Mencia that is his saving grace, despite the fact that he focuses on racial stereotypes. He has the courage to speak out about his observations - White people will go after wild animals on TV, but will never go to Oakland because of African Americans? - and to poke fun at people of different ethnicities in front of those people. When I first saw him on TV, it disturbed me that I was laughing so hard. Was I racist? Was I agreeing with his claims? I was even laughing at his jokes about Filipinos. Did that make me unpatriotic? As I kept on listening, however, and watching his show, I realized that he was speaking in front of a diverse audience, and introducing them to the strange things that made up their individual races. He wasn't afraid to make a joke - I wasn't afraid to laugh. It seemed that I wasn't afraid to lighten up.




In a multicultural world, we can do the right thing in accepting differences and celebrating them - but we can also go overboard in thinking that anything that we say can be taken against us, and that we must constantly tread on eggshells every time we open our mouths. Sometimes, we can take things all too seriously and lose the chance to not only have a good laugh, but let go of the tension that we feel inside as well. In watching Mencia, I realized that I was looking at an act: true, he said a lot of things that would appear offensive to some races, and I know that by the power of mass media, he can shut up if told to do so - and people can stop listening to him or watching him if they choose to. I realized that I am not racist - I had the courage to laugh and lighten up, and to know when things were said in jest. In fact, I learned something from watching Mencia: we cannot be race or color blind, and we all have our own idiosyncrasies, as related to race. If we all can learn to laugh at these idiosyncrasies, then perhaps we have yet another commonality to celebrate.



Of course, I don't like all the cursing - but I welcome an hour of lightening up all the same. In fact, Mencia might have taught me one of two things. First, I may be racist, and the laughing is actually a sign that my subconscious is calling out for help. Or second, he might be revealing just how racist America really is - and how people just won't admit it.

Bells, Belles, Chills - Do Wedding Jokes Go a Little Too Far?

There's nothing like a little wedding humor to make a potentially staid and boring wedding more exciting. After all, a wedding is a celebration, not a sacrifice - the hard work and fighting and bickering and snapping will come later. For one day, the husband and wife will celebrate their union with either glorious grandiosity or elegant simplicity. Humor does help: for instance, this wedding dance took the lucky couple all the way to the Ellen DeGeneres Show, and spawned different copycats on YouTube.



Another fun way to add spice to a wedding could include decorations, which may in turn include the wedding cake topper. Humor is harmless, some claim - but what messages do these cake toppers send? (all images courtesy of http://www.weddingaccessories.net/cake_toppers_3.htm)

A woman drags her man to wedded bliss. What a stereotype of women as the instigators of marriage, and men as the poor sheep who must simply follow!


That's right: start the wedding off with a fight. What a stereotype of marriage: all fights and quarrels, even on the wedding day itself?

A woman chains her husband down and keeps the key. Poor man, to be chained down all his life? What a bummer, or what a stereotype?

Here's a stereotype of woman as the shopper who leaves her husband behind. I don't have the shopping gene, and this ticks me off.

Even on their wedding day, our bride and groom are still too busy for each other. What a waste of money if they're just partners in name.

Due to wife being helpless, and apparently clueless as to where the top of the wedding cake is, the dear smart husband has to help her up there.

In another reversal of roles, we have the male on the leash and the woman leading. However, again, we also have a stereotype of the man being helpless in the face of slave-driving woman.

Okay, it's funny. BUT GET A ROOM!

Agreed, we need to have humor at weddings, but what would such cake toppers do in portraying what a wedding is, or in representing it? What would such images, projected online, or placed on a wedding cake for all to see, or shown in wedding pictures - what would such images say about marriage? That it is a burden for men? That men should lead and women should follow? That sex is no longer sacred? That couples fight all the time? That they have no time for each other? That women are inveterate shoppers? One day, I will be married - one day, many women and men all over the world will find their special someone. But will they back away because of a stereotype? Has marriage become so cheap, with cheap thrills and cheap humor? Has even the simplest wedding cake topper become a representation of how marriage is all pain and no happiness? What about the marriages that actually last, that are actually happy? Shouldn't the world get a chance to see them, too?

If You’re Not _____, Don’t Even Bother

Job hunting in the Philippines can be dramatic and frustrating. There are far more fresh graduates than there are available jobs, leading to massive unemployment, as well as its likewise brutal cousin, underemployment. Students with degrees in molecular biology and biotechnology, for instance, will often work at a call center at unholy hours if only to receive high pay on their first job. If the job market fails fresh graduates, they look for ways to go out of the country to work as nurses, domestic helpers, construction workers, or cruise ship staff in countries such as the United States, the United Arab Emirates, the United Kingdom, or Australia. The job market at home, after all, pays little for a lot of work - the job market, moreover, practices a good deal of discrimination based on physical traits.

Age, height, and gender are often used by human resource management staff in filtering out applicants. Job listings will often appear online or in major newspapers, advertising companies looking for people who will fit not only an academic requirement, but a height, age, and gender requirement as well. Here are a few examples from job listings available online.

FRONT DESK CLERK
· Male & Female, ages 21 to 25
· Preferably graduate of BS HRM or Tourism
· At least 5'3" (F) and 5'8" (M) in height
· With pleasing personality
· Excellent communication skills
· Customer-service oriented
· Driving skills for males is a must
· Preferably a renewed or practicing Christian
· 4 vacancies available
(from http://www.philchristiandirectory.com/jobonline.htm. The front desk at their office is apparently too high for smaller people to function in)

5. Utility Personnel
Qualifications:
Male, Not more than 25 years old
At least High school graduate

6. Receptionist
Qualifications:
Graduate of any 4 year busines course
Female at least 5’ 4” in height, with pleasing personality
With good communication skills
Not more than 27 years old
Willing to be assigned in SM Pampanga

7. Cashier
Qualifications:
Graduate of any 4 year busines course
Male at least 5’6” in height, Female at least 5’ 4” in height, with pleasing personality
With experience in any service industry. Familiar with pont of sale (POS) operation
Not more than 27 years old
Willing to be assigned in SM Pampanga

8. Stock Custodian/ Inventory Clerk
Qualifications:
Male at least 5’ 6” in height and with pleasing personality
At least 2nd year college level
Preferably with experience in retail industries
With good communication skills
Not more than 25 years old
Willing to be assigned in SM Pampanga
(from http://pesoolongapo.weebly.com/local-employment-vi.html. Males handle cargo, females work at the front office, and relatively tall people make good cashiers, these people seem to say)

Executive Assistant/Secretary
Female not more than 30 yrs. old >With pleasing personality >Graduate of any 4 year course 3-5 yrs. experience as Admin. or Executive Assistant >Reporting directly to CEO or president Second hand smoker
Location: Manila - Manila
Salary: P40,000-P45,000.00
Date: 21 May 2008
(from http://www.bestjobs.ph/bt-job-SC002-1-Clerical_Administrative_jobs.htm. I don't know why a secretary should be a second hand smoker either)

Company Nurse	Female at least 25-30 years old graduate of B.S Nursing single with NO child with experience in hospital or as company nurse with training of emergency exposure and Red Cross computer literate
Counter Personnel	Female 19-26 years old college level at least 5'2 in height with pleasing personality and good conversant of english willing to be assigned in any branch experience is an advantage

(from http://www.mandaluyong.gov.ph/jobs.html. Children - stay out. Oh, and this company seems to be looking for counter personnel that speak English well - maybe to teach the company how to write English better?)

These are only a few examples of the many advertisements that appear both online and offline in the Philippines. It seems that anyone below 5'2" might hope for better jobs elsewhere; people with families don't deserve to get into the job market; people who can't speak English will usually be shunted out. What kind of message does this send to the youth? That appearance is all that counts? Speaking English with flair is all that matters? Being tall is better than being small but able? Such listings can actually promote and socialize the idea of attractiveness being the sole key to success - a stereotyped tall person will win over the smaller, but not necessarily less able one; being small, in contrast to being tall - or having children, as opposed to being single and childless - is seen as desirable; you may work hard and have the best grades in the world, but when you walk through that door and don't even manage to brush your hair against the upper part of the door frame, you're doomed.

***

This has always disappointed me, this stress on physical characteristics, this great value placed on people whose pituitary glands fortunately worked overtime. For me, the experience proved to be all too real. When I graduated from college, I had a degree in molecular biology and biotechnology, a resume filled with details on speaking engagements, and a cum laude to tie a ribbon around the entire package. I inquired at the crime lab of the Philippine National Police to see if I could work as a forensic molecular biologist. They were in need of staff, and I my thesis dealt with using DNA evidence to solve rape cases.

They looked at me from head to foot and said that I could not qualify: I had to be at least 5'4", I had to undergo police training, and I had to be athletic. I could still work for the lab, they said - but at half the pay of everybody else.

I was at a conference then, and the Police staff were looking at my research poster, which I had based on my thesis. If my expertise was to be shelved in favor of more inches, then I could not stomach working for such a place. I did not give them the luxury of a reply.

I simply stared, and then looked away in annoyance.

Part II. That’s Not Something I Can Swallow

There doesn’t seem to be typecasting of any sort on Hell’s Kitchen. The squabbling is expected where a big prize is up for grabs. There are the usual outspoken team members, whether they are women or men. The battle lines are drawn between the sexes, but there is no stereotyped woman putting on makeup while waiting for the beef to go from medium rare to well done, or stereotyped male throwing sexist remarks while doing a stir fry. There were Caucasians, Asians, and African-Americans. There was no insult on race or gender, only on how bad the food tasted or how messy the kitchen was, thanks to the barking and blaring Gordon Ramsay. It seemed that in Hell’s Kitchen, everyone was a chef. No one was poor or rich; no one was smart or dumb; everyone was cooking, and if they didn’t, Chef Ramsay would scream, “F*** the thank you/insults/thinking/talking and START COOKING!” No one was serving anyone; everyone was competing for the prize, everyone left their lifestyles at the door – but just when Hell’s Kitchen seemed to be heaven for equality, one contestant crossed the line. Matt, newly transferred to the women’s team, was asked if he would be willing to return to the men’s team. He replied, “I’d rather be called a girl than go back to the boys.”

Matt can cook – but can he think before talking? (courtesy of http://www.fox.com/hellskitchen).

If only I could raise an eyebrow, I would have! What was wrong with being called a girl? Why did Matt have to make an issue about being part of the girl’s team? Did being part of the team mean that he was going to be called a girl? The jump of logic made no sense to me, and although it was a single sentence in a little interview nestled within the entire show, it seemed to echo in my ears throughout the rest of the competition. I was cheering for the girls even more rabidly because they had been labeled by their fellow teammate.

Apart from that slip-up by the aspiring chef, however, the rest of the show concentrates on a person’s ability to cook under pressure and almost incessant cursing. The language is rife with curse words: people are tired and exasperated with each other, and often cave beneath the demands of Chef Ramsay. Success is measured by perfection, and sometimes, Ramsay can be a frightening standard to go by. He can throw food into the waste bin or the sink if it is less than perfect as it emerges from Hell’s Kitchen. However, this is no empty competition: contestants are actually serving people and are judged on how satisfied their customers are. The competition breeds pressure, and pressure does not always result in a well-made dish. In the end, we have contestants who leave their lifestyles at the door, but quarrel nevertheless, aim for a prize, curse and get cursed at, and still try to cook despite the heat. I wonder: do they come out better chefs, or bitter people? Would this kind of show condone harshness as a method of making people do better? Or would it actually strengthen what seems to be a society gone too soft in its treatment of people?

Part I. Cheering for the Girls – Just Because I’m One

Food was the order of the evening: I was reading about the first Thanksgiving, and Hell’s Kitchen was playing on TV. I had to watch. After all, the only way that I could get in touch with my old life as a molecular biologist was to play in the kitchen and do culinary experiments. I wouldn’t dream of being harassed endlessly by a perfectionist chef, of course. I could simply live vicariously through the show’s contestants – or let them live courageously for me. Last night, I found myself doing more than just watching how food was cooked, and how contestants dealt with the pressure of the Kitchen and each other. I found myself cheering for the girls, especially when they started winning the challenge. The contestants underwent a blind taste test, where they were made to eat different foods while blindfolded. In true fan girl fashion, I said, and quite loudly, “The girls are winning this. Girls have better palates than men.” Granted, the girls did win the competition, but I found later that I did not cheer so much because I knew that girls would win a challenge based on their physiological abilities – I kept recalling that most of the world’s best known chefs are men, and women had to prove their worth. The question was – why?

When I was young, my peers accepted, and wholeheartedly, the idea that women were weaker than men. I could not and would not swallow the concept. I have spent the last few years lobbying for women’s strength, from correcting my classmates in college when they stereotyped women as clumsy scientists, to loudly cheering for any women’s team when it was pitted against a man’s team anywhere. Tonight, watching Hell’s Kitchen meant that I had yet another chance to cheer (albeit in the privacy of my dorm room) for women, whom I believed could be as good as men at cooking. Weren’t we the mothers and housewives? The kitchen queens?

Scream, Gordon, Scream! (courtesy of http://www.fox.com/hellskitchen).
Gordon Ramsay might have sneered at the Girl’s Team, but the ladies still won the night.

That would be my greatest contradiction: seeing women as the stronger sex in the kitchen because of the housewife label. I really didn’t care if there were many other ways for chefs to be great, the ways having nothing at all to do with gender. I am a woman, and my natural impulse was to cheer for the girls: I had to, because I would not lay down the old arms I had fought with as a child; and I wanted to, because I know I believe, deep within, that men just can’t make it where women have held their turf for hundreds of years. Equality – of course! Now boys, just acknowledge that all those years we women were forced to stay in the kitchen should mean that we’re also better at the craft. Of course, I won’t say that out loud, but I’ll still cheer for the next girl who wins the competition – because she’s just like me, waiting to prove something, wanting to show that women have an edge thanks to a label.

Cheering for Hell’s Kitchen

Hell’s Kitchen is a reality cooking show with an evil twist. Two teams square off and cook up the best meals every week, until only one person remains and gets the top prize of being an apprentice at a posh restaurant owned by host Gordon Ramsay. The problem? Gordon Ramsay can make sailors blush with his cursing. He is a difficult boss, a pusher and extreme motivator, a harsh superior who can compliment recipes once in a blue moon while throwing pots and pans across kitchens and kicking wastebaskets and cooking stations over as often as contestants try to hold back their tears. The show isn’t called Hell’s Kitchen for nothing.

Chef Gordon Ramsay (courtesy of http://www.smh.com.au/news/tv-reviews/hells-kitchen/2007/05/14/1178995061555.html).
Knighted, renowned, and honored, this top chef does not mince his words. If Hell’s Kitchen had a script, the screenwriter’s keyboard would be missing the letters F, U, C, and K by now.

This season, Chef Ramsay pits aspiring men and women chefs against each other. One man, Matt, is labeled by the men’s team as a weak link because he can’t seem to work with the rest of the boys. Chef Ramsay transferred Matt to the girls’ team last week, and this week, Matt has to prove that it isn’t his fault that the boys are doing pitifully.

It turns out that Matt is right.

What follows are experiential and media journal entries on the May 13 episode of Hell’s Kitchen.

It’s Not Just About the Color

I come from a country obsessed with white skin. Olive skin, albeit beautiful to many Western eyes, is seen as a badge of poverty. True, many Philippine beauty queens had olive skin, tanned and bronzed and made as smooth as silk. But they did not get commercial spots or film roles – not like the women who were fair skinned, who used “block and white” and similar whiteners (see above) in an effort to “perfect” their skin. I grew up with a mestizo father, and fair-skinned mother and sister. I alone was not fair-skinned, or white, like them. Hence, my mother invested heavily in bleaching creams and retinoic acid, starting me off with dermatology at the ripe old age of ten. Once, I chided her, albeit jokingly, “Mom, why are you so obsessed with getting white skin?”

“Because white skin is clean,” she retorted angrily.

I had never felt more humiliated than at that moment, as I gazed sidelong at a mirror and eyed my apparently less-than-perfect skin. My mother had not directly scolded me, nor had she intended to appear racist – but she had shown me what the media and my peers would later reinforce. That having white skin meant that you were healthy, and any other color was a sign of sickness. That having white skin meant that you were clean, and any other color was a sign of putridity. I can only vaguely trace it to the long years of colonization of the Philippines, where we fell beneath Spanish, and then American rule – and where adaptation of the habits of colonizers meant not only survival, but wealth. If you knew Spanish during the Spanish occupation, and if you dressed like the Spaniards, then you were supposedly respected. If you knew English during the American occupation, and if you dressed like an American, then you were supposedly paid more attention. In this new occupation – or should I say preoccupation? – with fair skin, I find a new invader: an illusion of beauty powered by Western mass media. To be globalized means to be Westernized, and it seems that the fear of lacking a global perspective drives many to fall into the trap of a Western worldview. To be native, the fear states, is to be backward; and to be backward may translate into poverty in the global economy. Hence, speak English; worship the dollar; act like someone from a Superpower Country; and if possible, look like someone from that country. If you can’t look the part, you can’t get the dollar; if you can’t get the dollar, you go hungry. It’s a leap of logic, but it seems fitting for an impoverished Philippines.

In reading the first day’s readings on how skin color seems to allow people to bend the rules, I find myself in that afternoon once more, when I scoffed at my mother’s obsession with white skin. I find myself thinking of how I, the “Other”, had to suffer being called ugly because I did not have fair skin; how I had to be inspected more thoroughly than my family before I entered the mall, because I didn’t look as “rich” as they; how I endured being laughed at for purportedly being adopted because I did not have the white skin of my parents. I am not angry – I am only challenged, because I have fought against the stereotype for years by earning high grades and always coming out on top. However, I find myself sighing: how much longer must I fight to get the attention I deserve if only to tell people that there is more to love in me beneath my non-whiteness?

My Name is Not Color

I am not the olive that wraps my soul. I am not the brown that holds me in. I am not the blush that bursts with the blood of a thousand passions caged by rules.

But I am a soul, you see
I know how to weave such weeping words that droop like willows from a stagnant page
I know how to dry the tears and paint the sunsets and spill forth the rivers that flow through my imaginings
I am not olive

I am held in
Prisoner behind the bars of labels laid upon a weaver and painter and architect of worlds of words
Soul like dove fluttering and laughing in a cage that fails to clip her wings
I am not brown

I am blood
Passions
Wants and wishes and dreams

I am not mere blush.

I am not painted upon this canvas, made to assume the colors you wish.