Black Swans

Anything that groups people into different categories and makes generalizations about them can hinder creativity. I do know of an exception to groupings, however - that would be me and my boyfriend.

We've been together for over a year now. We're exact opposites in lots of ways, but we've found common ground in many more ways as well. When I look back on everything that we've been through, I find one of my sociology lessons coming to mind.

A theory is only good until it's been disproved. You can theorize that all swans are white - but when someone points out JUST ONE black swan, then your theory falls apart.

I want to say more - but let's just leave it at that. This is an experience, but unlike everyone else who blogs everything down to the last gory detail, I'll be the black swan and I won't.

Here's the exception to the rule. And here, the entry ends.

The Girl in Me Doth Protest

I have been a debater since high school, and I have always loved speaking in public. There's nothing like the stage of public speaking to get my adrenaline running, and there's nothing like the rich applause of my audience to tell me that I just performed a job well. I was a public speaker all the way through high school and college, and I toured the Philippines along with my fellow professors in order to talk about genetically modified organisms.

I love genetics, see, and it was fun to talk about it to different audiences. I talked about basic genetic engineering before an audience of high school students, lectured on forensic molecular biology in front of high school teachers, and discussed diseases testing with elementary school students.

My emotional downfall came when I started work as a science communication specialist, and I had to talk to other scientists from various countries.

I like using humor in my speeches, and I like using my energy when I speak. I have always gotten good reviews for this energy: students find it contaminating, teachers find it encouraging, and scientists find that it breathes life into otherwise boring science. What I got, however, was a slap in the face.

"You can't use humor - it makes you look nervous."

And thus began my protest against stereotypes. I know myself best, and I know when I am nervous: when I can feel my heart pounding in my throat, when I'm not sure I remember what I'm supposed to say, I become sedate and quieter. But when I know every single word of the concepts that I wish to impart, my brain goes into hyper-drive: I can turn concepts into humor, and I know that I have the gift of imparting knowledge without looking like a stodgy scholar.

"You're a girl, and you're young and attractive. It's hard to take you seriously."

And thus began a fresh protest against stereotypes as these words were uttered by a superior in my company. I felt defeated: I had been born with two X chromosomes, I had a pretty good mix of genes from attractive parents, and I was no more than 26 years old. I had biology against me - and someone, somewhere, had drawn the lines and said that women who were young and pretty had not right to talk. This made me wonder, of course, why I had been pushed into the talking arena in the first place by my critics - and it made me wonder: has stereotyping become so institutionalized in our culture that I could not break out of molds without being chided?

After a month of silently ruminating on the criticism and plotting world domination, I realized that I had come up against an opinion. Some people like sedate speakers who impart an air of serenity. I like energetic speakers who are openly enthusiastic about their subject matter. The matter of me being a young, attractive woman, however, still hurt me. The stereotype runs rampant in Asian cultures, it appears: women are not seen as managers or superiors, and if anything, they are teachers of basic subjects. They cannot claim authority, superiority, or expertise. Pretty women are apparently decorations: they do not have brains, and in the Asian brand of genetics, the "Pretty," "Brains," and "Communication Ability" genes do not occur together.

I may not be the best public speaker in the world, but I know that I can do good things, teach well, and impart learning. How can I fulfill my dreams if I am turned away - if all ears are shut - even before I start talking?

Gates Shut, Eyes Open

You see, but you do not know
That I am more than a woman
in heels and trinkets tiny,
dressed to decorate what she sees as the greater gem

You see a girl to grace your fantasies, a jester to laugh at,
my mouth mere purveyor of words
while the owner is but the wall through which other voices speak

I see a woman who speaks and jests for she knows things you do not
and wishes that you, too, would love learning
and not simply love the sight,
shut the gate,
and watch the speaker

I see a woman who weeps within as your eyes brim with fire
and wishes that you would stop
or look away
or see beyond the borders of your imaginings

Spell it Right, Get Corrected?

I am an editing geek. I may not have perfect grammar and editing skills, but I still cringe when I see words spelled wrongly, an "its" in place of "it's" and vice-versa, a phrase used wrongly, a double negative - I have pet peeves when it comes to words, in short. I can often be irrational, in fact, when I make grammatical errors, and I actually imagine a red pen coming out of the sky and impaling me as I spit out the wrong word, the right word wrongly spelled, the comma that comes out of nowhere to tell me that no, I am not perfect.

Miss Editing Geek emerged last semester at a statistics class. Our professor showed the raw data for a statistics problem that involved the 50 U.S. States. His question was, "What's wrong with this data?"

I immediately spotted an error: Massachusetts was spelled "Massachusettes". So I spoke up, "Massachusetts is spelled wrong."

My seat mate, a White American, turned to me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said, and too confidently, I think, "There isn't an 'e' before the last 's.'"

"Oh," he replied, with an understated sneer, "Is that how they spell it in the Philippines?"

"No. That's how they spell it anywhere. Wanna bet?"

I wish I had placed that bet, because my seat mate had promised a hundred dollars - I pitied him then, but I don't pity him now.

Mercilessness aside, I think his question was more than a joke about people who are over critical about spelling. It could be a defense mechanism set up by Caucasians who think that they are the English experts versus the Asian Editing Geek who has no right to correct Americans. It could be a way to put down the Asian girl who seems to be too smart for her own good, especially considering the fact that this same seat mate is a Conservative. For all I know, it could simply have been a joke, and I am over-reading into a mere jest.

On the other hand, I find his comment disturbing. First, how could he not have known how Massachusetts is spelled? Why did he need a non-U.S. citizen to point it out to him? Second, why did he react defensively? Why did he make it sound as though he were putting my skills down - and simply because I wasn't from his country? Was this another case of White Supremacy in action?

I know I could simply be reading too much into the comment - and I, too, might have been annoying for picking out such a tiny error that could have little to no bearing on the data. Then again, I brought this issue up with my boyfriend, and his reaction was, "Could I even trust the data if the data encoder can't spell stuff right? What if the extra 'e' had been an extra '0' in the numbers?"

Then again, we could both be over-reacting.

And still, I remain an Editing Geek. If there are errors in this post, however, please consider the fact that I'm ranting and raving while I'm letting out my verbal diarrhea. I may be setting letters, punctuation marks, and even my sanity loose.

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.

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.

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.