Chicanismo by Selena Rosas
10 Problems
1. People assume I speak either poor Spanish or poor English. 2. Speaking Spanglish is wrong. 3. Only brown skin is consider Mexican. 4. Too Americanized. 5. Don’t belong here in the United States, but you also don’t belong in Mexico. 6. Being forced under tradition. 7. Machismo always makes you feel like an object. 8. Conflict between your own ideas and culture. 9 El sueño Americano, The American Dream, can sometimes stop you from going after what you really want to do. 10. Lack of freedom.
Revolution
La revolucion would lead to a new world, one where las culturas would be accepted instead of us having to assimilate to one American culture. I would be able to speak Spanish without being told, “This is America speak English”. Speaking Spanglish wouldn’t be improper, it would be my free choice. Just like speaking Spanish, it would be my choice to speak it or even learn it, the pressure to be fluent in it would stop. No one would be able to tell me I’m not Mexican or American enough. Brown would stop meaning Mexican, there’s blue eyed light skinned Mexicans just like there’s black Mexicans. The classification would stop. Machismo would become a belief of the past, it wouldn’t continue to make us women feel like object. We would be our own person, one that wouldn’t be defined by our gender. I wouldn’t be my father’s daughter or my brother’s sister or someone’s wife. I wouldn’t belong to anyone. People would stop assuming my family is illegal and stop using that as a threat. “What would you do if I called immigration” would become a type of rude question you’re taught not to ask. Deportation would stop. Families wouldn’t be separated.
People
Esmeralda Carranza, Mrs. Lomeli, Abigail Villegas.
I met Esmeralda my first day of freshman year. She became my best friend and I became someone who listen to her. I saw the way her dad treated her as an object. He wanted a boy so bad, someone that could carry his name and be his pride. But his wife only gave him three girls. What a shame, they were all potential embarrassments. He made it clear that to him they were all his property. He would beat up her mother and call his daughters whores, reminding them that they were worthless. When it came time to choose a college, he reminded them that he wouldn’t be helping them, “Why would a get a loan for girl who can’t become anything? So that she could pregnant and leave me with a bill? You’re not worth it.” He didn’t see the value in women. It’s hard to become a powerful Chicana when part of culture believe in holding you back.
Most teachers I’ve met are always so filled with hope and power, they always told us, you guys have to go away, you guys have to go after your dreams, do what you want not what your parents want. Only one teacher was able to tell us “I get it”, she a Chicana as well, she knew the type of problems that would cause at home. Mrs. Lomeli, being born here she wanted to have the same freedom other had at 18, but just like us she didn’t have it. She was always guilted by her parent who reminded her that they left all their family for her future, how could she want to go away for college when she was the only family they had. Her family had learned little English, she didn’t have that same right to just leave.
There isn’t an exam you have to pass to be Chicana, if you’re Mexican American and consider yourself Chicana that all you need. My friend Abigail always encounter this problem. “If you’re really Mexican speak Spanish”, there was always this problem that you need certain characteristics to be Chicana. She would always get upset by this question because her not knowing Spanish or not eating spicy food didn’t make her any less Mexican.
Celebrities
Sandra Cisneros is an author that had to go against her family’s ideals, a Mexican woman is not leave the house until they got married. For her parents having an “Americanized” daughter broke their heart when she moved out to live on her own. What was the point in working hard and finally buying a house if their daughter didn’t want to live in it? Yet it lead to her success as an author, revealing their disappointments she cause her parents in her writing was what made her a success.
Jenni Rivera was another artist who had to a lot of difficulty getting to her dream. El sueno Americano wasn’t going after a crazy career. It was going to college and get a safe career. She wanted be a singer, but a singer in the most macho dominated category, Mexican regional music. Her mother begged her not to become a singer that was no place for a woman, she wouldn’t make it. One radio programmer threw her music in the trash reminder her she was worth nothing in the Mexican regional world. It was her singing against this machismo that gain her the support from the public, primarily female Latinas that understood this struggle.
Selena Quintanilla had conflict in the beginning of her career because of her lack of fluency in Spanish. Her Dad didn’t want to risk sending her to perform interviews in México because he knew they would tear her apart for not being a “true” Mexican. Luckily her charisma overpower her lack of fluency.
Statistics
UCLAChicano Studies: Out of 100 Chicanos and Chicanas who start elementary only 46 will graduate from high school, 8 will receive a bachelors, and only 2 will earn a graduate or professional degree.
In California, 40 percent of Latinos enroll in community college with the hopes to transfer to a four year college yet only 10 percent reach their goal.
In the US 34 percent of girls become pregnant before the age of 20, among that 51 percent of Latinas become pregnant before the age of 20. Those of Mexican descent have the highest rate of teen pregnancies among Latinas.
In 2011 in 2012, 3600 US Citizens children parents were processed for deportation.
More than 7Million children in the United States live with parents from Mexico, and half of these children are estimated to be U.S Citizens living with noncitizen parents.
Images
Bumper sticker: “My son is not sick he is just fulfilling his macho duties” –My uncle has this on his car after his son was arrested for rape. He said if he were in Mexico his son wouldn’t be in jail today. He would say real Mexicans would feel shame to be impure, but no because she was an Americana who was probably looking to make some money and didn’t mind letting other guys she wasn’t a virgin she opened her mouth. A true Mexicana would have kept this shameful act to herself, after all she provoked him and he is only a man fluffily his duties.
Personal Experiences
At the border, immigration told me my passport looked fake and made me step out to ask a couple of “routine questions”. He then asked me if I thought I could really fool him with a passport that could be bought in any alley of Mexico. It wasn’t until another immigration officer intervene that I was let go. Even being born here, I will always be questioned whether I really am American or not.
I was speaking Spanglish in class once, and the substitute teacher told me to speak proper English, this was America not Mexico. She kept going on that if students don’t know how to speak proper English they should be held back until they do and punished for speaking Spanish. I was in 4th grade when I first felt ashamed of my tongue not being able to stick to just one language. This is became just one of the times I’ve been shamed for speaking my language.
What does Mom/Dad say?
Dad: I did not cross the border for you not to do something successful with your life. Pick a good safe career.
Mom: You’re Mexican before you are American. That’s why you are Mexican American, not American Mexican. Don’t think being born here guarantees you a good life on your own. You still have to learn how to be somebodies wife.
1. People assume I speak either poor Spanish or poor English. 2. Speaking Spanglish is wrong. 3. Only brown skin is consider Mexican. 4. Too Americanized. 5. Don’t belong here in the United States, but you also don’t belong in Mexico. 6. Being forced under tradition. 7. Machismo always makes you feel like an object. 8. Conflict between your own ideas and culture. 9 El sueño Americano, The American Dream, can sometimes stop you from going after what you really want to do. 10. Lack of freedom.
Revolution
La revolucion would lead to a new world, one where las culturas would be accepted instead of us having to assimilate to one American culture. I would be able to speak Spanish without being told, “This is America speak English”. Speaking Spanglish wouldn’t be improper, it would be my free choice. Just like speaking Spanish, it would be my choice to speak it or even learn it, the pressure to be fluent in it would stop. No one would be able to tell me I’m not Mexican or American enough. Brown would stop meaning Mexican, there’s blue eyed light skinned Mexicans just like there’s black Mexicans. The classification would stop. Machismo would become a belief of the past, it wouldn’t continue to make us women feel like object. We would be our own person, one that wouldn’t be defined by our gender. I wouldn’t be my father’s daughter or my brother’s sister or someone’s wife. I wouldn’t belong to anyone. People would stop assuming my family is illegal and stop using that as a threat. “What would you do if I called immigration” would become a type of rude question you’re taught not to ask. Deportation would stop. Families wouldn’t be separated.
People
Esmeralda Carranza, Mrs. Lomeli, Abigail Villegas.
I met Esmeralda my first day of freshman year. She became my best friend and I became someone who listen to her. I saw the way her dad treated her as an object. He wanted a boy so bad, someone that could carry his name and be his pride. But his wife only gave him three girls. What a shame, they were all potential embarrassments. He made it clear that to him they were all his property. He would beat up her mother and call his daughters whores, reminding them that they were worthless. When it came time to choose a college, he reminded them that he wouldn’t be helping them, “Why would a get a loan for girl who can’t become anything? So that she could pregnant and leave me with a bill? You’re not worth it.” He didn’t see the value in women. It’s hard to become a powerful Chicana when part of culture believe in holding you back.
Most teachers I’ve met are always so filled with hope and power, they always told us, you guys have to go away, you guys have to go after your dreams, do what you want not what your parents want. Only one teacher was able to tell us “I get it”, she a Chicana as well, she knew the type of problems that would cause at home. Mrs. Lomeli, being born here she wanted to have the same freedom other had at 18, but just like us she didn’t have it. She was always guilted by her parent who reminded her that they left all their family for her future, how could she want to go away for college when she was the only family they had. Her family had learned little English, she didn’t have that same right to just leave.
There isn’t an exam you have to pass to be Chicana, if you’re Mexican American and consider yourself Chicana that all you need. My friend Abigail always encounter this problem. “If you’re really Mexican speak Spanish”, there was always this problem that you need certain characteristics to be Chicana. She would always get upset by this question because her not knowing Spanish or not eating spicy food didn’t make her any less Mexican.
Celebrities
Sandra Cisneros is an author that had to go against her family’s ideals, a Mexican woman is not leave the house until they got married. For her parents having an “Americanized” daughter broke their heart when she moved out to live on her own. What was the point in working hard and finally buying a house if their daughter didn’t want to live in it? Yet it lead to her success as an author, revealing their disappointments she cause her parents in her writing was what made her a success.
Jenni Rivera was another artist who had to a lot of difficulty getting to her dream. El sueno Americano wasn’t going after a crazy career. It was going to college and get a safe career. She wanted be a singer, but a singer in the most macho dominated category, Mexican regional music. Her mother begged her not to become a singer that was no place for a woman, she wouldn’t make it. One radio programmer threw her music in the trash reminder her she was worth nothing in the Mexican regional world. It was her singing against this machismo that gain her the support from the public, primarily female Latinas that understood this struggle.
Selena Quintanilla had conflict in the beginning of her career because of her lack of fluency in Spanish. Her Dad didn’t want to risk sending her to perform interviews in México because he knew they would tear her apart for not being a “true” Mexican. Luckily her charisma overpower her lack of fluency.
Statistics
UCLAChicano Studies: Out of 100 Chicanos and Chicanas who start elementary only 46 will graduate from high school, 8 will receive a bachelors, and only 2 will earn a graduate or professional degree.
In California, 40 percent of Latinos enroll in community college with the hopes to transfer to a four year college yet only 10 percent reach their goal.
In the US 34 percent of girls become pregnant before the age of 20, among that 51 percent of Latinas become pregnant before the age of 20. Those of Mexican descent have the highest rate of teen pregnancies among Latinas.
In 2011 in 2012, 3600 US Citizens children parents were processed for deportation.
More than 7Million children in the United States live with parents from Mexico, and half of these children are estimated to be U.S Citizens living with noncitizen parents.
Images
Bumper sticker: “My son is not sick he is just fulfilling his macho duties” –My uncle has this on his car after his son was arrested for rape. He said if he were in Mexico his son wouldn’t be in jail today. He would say real Mexicans would feel shame to be impure, but no because she was an Americana who was probably looking to make some money and didn’t mind letting other guys she wasn’t a virgin she opened her mouth. A true Mexicana would have kept this shameful act to herself, after all she provoked him and he is only a man fluffily his duties.
Personal Experiences
At the border, immigration told me my passport looked fake and made me step out to ask a couple of “routine questions”. He then asked me if I thought I could really fool him with a passport that could be bought in any alley of Mexico. It wasn’t until another immigration officer intervene that I was let go. Even being born here, I will always be questioned whether I really am American or not.
I was speaking Spanglish in class once, and the substitute teacher told me to speak proper English, this was America not Mexico. She kept going on that if students don’t know how to speak proper English they should be held back until they do and punished for speaking Spanish. I was in 4th grade when I first felt ashamed of my tongue not being able to stick to just one language. This is became just one of the times I’ve been shamed for speaking my language.
What does Mom/Dad say?
Dad: I did not cross the border for you not to do something successful with your life. Pick a good safe career.
Mom: You’re Mexican before you are American. That’s why you are Mexican American, not American Mexican. Don’t think being born here guarantees you a good life on your own. You still have to learn how to be somebodies wife.
White Woman- T. M.
White Woman
People You Know
My friend Emily had a conflict in a group with a young woman of color. For the point I am trying to make here, I would like to actually use the word “black” instead of “of color.” I want to use the word black because I don’t want to be afraid of it and I don’t want to walk lightly around a heavy subject. So Emily confronted this black girl about something emotional and the girl responded to her with, “I think you’re just saying this because I’m black.” Emily has her own historical value in this topic with memories of being bullied by a black woman in high school. “Don’t you dare play the race card on me,” she says. The point in her high school years was not that she was being bullied by a black girl. The point was that she was being bullied. Now she has the memory of the girl’s voice, her clothing, the way she looked at her, the color of her skin. Both in high school and in the group, Emily would be the antagonist. What would happen if a white girl went to the office to say a black girl was bullying her? She would be making it up. She’s racist. She needs to check her unearned privilege. There was also a young white man I met at a conference, and he knows a woman named Heidi who I met there as well. Heidi is an extremely beautiful, astute young black woman. She’s an absolute firecracker, quick and seamless with the delivery of her thoughts. Ariel looks to her and says, “I want to speak to my anxiety and that I find you very attractive. You’re very smart and I find that I really wish you would let me in a little.” Heidi spat back at him with malice. She then spoke to how women of color were sexualized historically and something about exoticism. She wasn’t incorrect, but she masked her feelings with information, unable to take in the love from a person with light skin. As far as societal impact goes here, I don’t feel that Ariel could articulately defend himself because he was the tall white man with extreme, unearned white man privilege, and Heidi was the oppressed black woman who could say whatever she wanted because he was so privileged.
5-10 Famous People
1. Taylor Swift
2. Reese Witherspoon
3. Jennifer Aniston
4. Rachel McAdams
5. Carrie Underwood
I chose these women because they are very similar in their sweet, “good white girl” images, which feed the idea that white women were made to be this way- gentle, tearful and timid. The wives of white men. How badly do we suck? I am writing from my reactive feelings and I understand my words may be racy or abrasive. In consequence I face playing the same role I previously played with Heidi, the young white girl with a fast mouth. In saying this, I feel very serious about including that accepting my white privilege has been an excruciating and empowering challenge, and has helped me to separate myself from the denial of my privilege. Heidi and I are more alike than different. This has helped me to disavow my white woman submissions to the white man, and has also helped me to build more love for myself than I had back when I met Heidi, when I cursed myself for the color of my skin. I understand that racism towards black people and other ethnicities pervades throughout the world intensely and deserves to be denounced, diminished and fought against with the same vigor and passion that I’m putting into describing the pain of being a white woman. I know that as a woman with light skin I will never fully and wholly understand a life with dark skin in this culture, to be slashed with racism and to be devalued throughout history and have your character degraded prior to anything further than sight. Complete unity may be unattainable or even ludicrous to some, if homogeneity and sameness are even possible. In consequence of white privilege, I also understand we do not carry parallel fears, such as becoming victims in law enforcement. This is the Unearned Privilege. In so many ways, my trials cannot compare with that of a black person’s in precisely what they go through. This does not negate my own relationship with pain and also does not devalue a black person’s.
Images/Pictures
People You Know
My friend Emily had a conflict in a group with a young woman of color. For the point I am trying to make here, I would like to actually use the word “black” instead of “of color.” I want to use the word black because I don’t want to be afraid of it and I don’t want to walk lightly around a heavy subject. So Emily confronted this black girl about something emotional and the girl responded to her with, “I think you’re just saying this because I’m black.” Emily has her own historical value in this topic with memories of being bullied by a black woman in high school. “Don’t you dare play the race card on me,” she says. The point in her high school years was not that she was being bullied by a black girl. The point was that she was being bullied. Now she has the memory of the girl’s voice, her clothing, the way she looked at her, the color of her skin. Both in high school and in the group, Emily would be the antagonist. What would happen if a white girl went to the office to say a black girl was bullying her? She would be making it up. She’s racist. She needs to check her unearned privilege. There was also a young white man I met at a conference, and he knows a woman named Heidi who I met there as well. Heidi is an extremely beautiful, astute young black woman. She’s an absolute firecracker, quick and seamless with the delivery of her thoughts. Ariel looks to her and says, “I want to speak to my anxiety and that I find you very attractive. You’re very smart and I find that I really wish you would let me in a little.” Heidi spat back at him with malice. She then spoke to how women of color were sexualized historically and something about exoticism. She wasn’t incorrect, but she masked her feelings with information, unable to take in the love from a person with light skin. As far as societal impact goes here, I don’t feel that Ariel could articulately defend himself because he was the tall white man with extreme, unearned white man privilege, and Heidi was the oppressed black woman who could say whatever she wanted because he was so privileged.
5-10 Famous People
1. Taylor Swift
2. Reese Witherspoon
3. Jennifer Aniston
4. Rachel McAdams
5. Carrie Underwood
I chose these women because they are very similar in their sweet, “good white girl” images, which feed the idea that white women were made to be this way- gentle, tearful and timid. The wives of white men. How badly do we suck? I am writing from my reactive feelings and I understand my words may be racy or abrasive. In consequence I face playing the same role I previously played with Heidi, the young white girl with a fast mouth. In saying this, I feel very serious about including that accepting my white privilege has been an excruciating and empowering challenge, and has helped me to separate myself from the denial of my privilege. Heidi and I are more alike than different. This has helped me to disavow my white woman submissions to the white man, and has also helped me to build more love for myself than I had back when I met Heidi, when I cursed myself for the color of my skin. I understand that racism towards black people and other ethnicities pervades throughout the world intensely and deserves to be denounced, diminished and fought against with the same vigor and passion that I’m putting into describing the pain of being a white woman. I know that as a woman with light skin I will never fully and wholly understand a life with dark skin in this culture, to be slashed with racism and to be devalued throughout history and have your character degraded prior to anything further than sight. Complete unity may be unattainable or even ludicrous to some, if homogeneity and sameness are even possible. In consequence of white privilege, I also understand we do not carry parallel fears, such as becoming victims in law enforcement. This is the Unearned Privilege. In so many ways, my trials cannot compare with that of a black person’s in precisely what they go through. This does not negate my own relationship with pain and also does not devalue a black person’s.
Images/Pictures
The woman on the right represents the white woman who is wealthy enough to have nice things, and Daddy probably got her that blow-out anyway. She is a little stupid but she is kind and very sensitive, and cries easily, especially if she’s attacked when she’s just trying to do something nice. She can be stuck up at times though and loves looking in the mirror.
Song Lyrics
“You pulled my chair out and helped me in, and you don’t know how nice that is, but I do.” Song lyrics by Taylor Swift. I didn’t pick this specifically because of the lyric, but I picked it in unison with the lyric being written by an extremely wealthy, fair-skinned, gentle, emotional, country-singing American sweetheart. It also happens that she appreciates having her chair pulled out for her. By a fault so much greater and complex than her lyric or intention, she is fulfilling the typical white girl image.
Two Personal Experiences
My first experience is with one of my best friends, Brandon. He is black, and gay, and we talk a lot about him being black and gay and me being white and such and our lives like this. We connect powerfully. Hearing his personal tragedies and slays with racism and the people who have “colored” him with this puts into alarming perspective where my skin color has such deep meaning. I also had an experience that changed my life at a conference a few months back. In my small group I asked the group what they thought of something that happened in the beginning of the conference, and Heidi looked at me with animosity and said, “I know what type of white girl you are, the kind that takes up all the space.” I wish I had smiled and said, “Thank you for giving me my space.”
Top Ten Problems
1. I am first seen as white, therefore, privileged and can’t understand. Maybe I can’t.
2. I feel I have to work harder to show that I am intelligent.
3. I feel I have to work harder to show I am kind.
4. I feel I have no work harder to show I won’t take shit.
5. I feel I can’t talk or dance certain ways. I do anyway, I’m moving on.
6. I don’t feel like I have the right to be upset about my life because I have all this privilege.
7. I don’t feel like I can share my experience with the color of my skin, because I have light skin.
8. I must have tons of money, therefore can’t complain about anything.
9. I was born in a white suburb in Indiana, and I think that speaks for itself.
10. I am white and have light hair and light eyes, am energetic and like to perform (sing, dance, act, be silly “center of attention”- typical white behavior).
I have found that acknowledging and owning my unearned privilege and understanding that we are all beautiful, complex three-dimensional human beings has helped build my comprehension of the subject, and my self-esteem.
5-10 Stereotypes
1. I am easy.
2. I am submissive.
3. I am ditzy.
4. I don’t understand racial and ethnic cultures and the real diversities and angst involved.
5. I think I’m the cutest thing, like, ever.
6. I love Daddy’s credit card.
7. I think it’s funny to act black.
8. I am racist (racist, like, REALLY racist, not racist in the sense that we are racist because we live in a racist culture.)
9. I didn’t have to work for what I have.
10. My life has been easy.
This topic is viewed in a troublesome way by society by encouraging it through characters on all types of media. Externally, these characters DO exist, and this also has been conditioned in our society to be a shameful and bad thing, while also not addressing who these women are inside and what they really think about. Certainly even the ditziest have grains of compassion, passion, intelligence and boundaries, and obtaining privilege does not make someone simple.
2-4 Examples from TV
Friends is one of my favorite shows. It also only has white characters, with women who are privileged enough, bubbly, fun, silly, and all end up with white men. Many television shows and movies to date are designed this way. The lack of diversity is highly offensive, however if not intentional, and trying to integrate diversity now is also viewed as intensely offensive. I was thinking today, what would happen if they started making brown Band Aids? I also think of The Disney Channel specifically is an enormous offender of the stereotypical white woman.
3 Statistics
What percentage of characters on television are white?
What percentage of white female characters on television end up with white men?
What percentage of white women are in the middle class?
Money and my topic are relatable by the topic of privilege, and the percentages of people that are found in these answers could be very revealing.
Song Lyrics
“You pulled my chair out and helped me in, and you don’t know how nice that is, but I do.” Song lyrics by Taylor Swift. I didn’t pick this specifically because of the lyric, but I picked it in unison with the lyric being written by an extremely wealthy, fair-skinned, gentle, emotional, country-singing American sweetheart. It also happens that she appreciates having her chair pulled out for her. By a fault so much greater and complex than her lyric or intention, she is fulfilling the typical white girl image.
Two Personal Experiences
My first experience is with one of my best friends, Brandon. He is black, and gay, and we talk a lot about him being black and gay and me being white and such and our lives like this. We connect powerfully. Hearing his personal tragedies and slays with racism and the people who have “colored” him with this puts into alarming perspective where my skin color has such deep meaning. I also had an experience that changed my life at a conference a few months back. In my small group I asked the group what they thought of something that happened in the beginning of the conference, and Heidi looked at me with animosity and said, “I know what type of white girl you are, the kind that takes up all the space.” I wish I had smiled and said, “Thank you for giving me my space.”
Top Ten Problems
1. I am first seen as white, therefore, privileged and can’t understand. Maybe I can’t.
2. I feel I have to work harder to show that I am intelligent.
3. I feel I have to work harder to show I am kind.
4. I feel I have no work harder to show I won’t take shit.
5. I feel I can’t talk or dance certain ways. I do anyway, I’m moving on.
6. I don’t feel like I have the right to be upset about my life because I have all this privilege.
7. I don’t feel like I can share my experience with the color of my skin, because I have light skin.
8. I must have tons of money, therefore can’t complain about anything.
9. I was born in a white suburb in Indiana, and I think that speaks for itself.
10. I am white and have light hair and light eyes, am energetic and like to perform (sing, dance, act, be silly “center of attention”- typical white behavior).
I have found that acknowledging and owning my unearned privilege and understanding that we are all beautiful, complex three-dimensional human beings has helped build my comprehension of the subject, and my self-esteem.
5-10 Stereotypes
1. I am easy.
2. I am submissive.
3. I am ditzy.
4. I don’t understand racial and ethnic cultures and the real diversities and angst involved.
5. I think I’m the cutest thing, like, ever.
6. I love Daddy’s credit card.
7. I think it’s funny to act black.
8. I am racist (racist, like, REALLY racist, not racist in the sense that we are racist because we live in a racist culture.)
9. I didn’t have to work for what I have.
10. My life has been easy.
This topic is viewed in a troublesome way by society by encouraging it through characters on all types of media. Externally, these characters DO exist, and this also has been conditioned in our society to be a shameful and bad thing, while also not addressing who these women are inside and what they really think about. Certainly even the ditziest have grains of compassion, passion, intelligence and boundaries, and obtaining privilege does not make someone simple.
2-4 Examples from TV
Friends is one of my favorite shows. It also only has white characters, with women who are privileged enough, bubbly, fun, silly, and all end up with white men. Many television shows and movies to date are designed this way. The lack of diversity is highly offensive, however if not intentional, and trying to integrate diversity now is also viewed as intensely offensive. I was thinking today, what would happen if they started making brown Band Aids? I also think of The Disney Channel specifically is an enormous offender of the stereotypical white woman.
3 Statistics
What percentage of characters on television are white?
What percentage of white female characters on television end up with white men?
What percentage of white women are in the middle class?
Money and my topic are relatable by the topic of privilege, and the percentages of people that are found in these answers could be very revealing.
The Vainest Essay Ever Written-Jeremy Kelleher
Mom Says/Dad Says
“You look great! I’m so proud!” These are words you work to hear from your parents. You spend a lot of time waiting for your mother to talk to you like some movie scene showing success of a character. My mom was so proud that her fat son finally was thin. I did work really hard for what I had achieved, but little did she know that I had begun to hate myself just as much as I used to.
“Wow, you’re no longer a big lumpy oath!” The somewhat negative/positive words of my father. My dad will always cover up happy emotion with bad sarcasm. He tries to be supportive, but he can’t be with anything. He always says the wrong thing at the wrong time.
The List
1.) Unwanted attention, 2.) Judgment 3.) Not knowing how to take compliments, 4.) Fear of people 5.) Self-hate 6.) Self-conscious 7.) Expected to be a new person 8.) People treat you differently 9.) All of the sudden you’re a different person 10.) Feeling like you have to change yourself.
Pictures
We are all a slave to media. Especially right now you see all of the wonderful New Year’s resolution campaigns. If I see one more “New Year, New You” poster, picture, or online ad I am going to scream at the top of my lungs. It’s as if as the outside of your body changes the whole world expects you to change every aspect of your inner self to fit your new shell. I agree that losing weight is healthy and makes you feel better, but you don’t have to rip of every shred of individuality to do it. We a country obsessed with stereotypes and vanity.
My Revolution
Don’t judge a book by its cover. The phrase that been preached like a bible quote our whole lives. People says they don’t, but they do. I lost 110 pounds, I felt healthier, but you would think that you would feel like a “New you”. I may have melted a whole person off my body, but I was still Jeremy. People do judge you on looks and I’ve seen it first-hand. In my revolution, it wouldn’t just be about stopping judgment on one issue or person, it would be everyone. Other’s judgments can put a damper on the happiest moments of our lives. In my updated world, no one would judge people on first impressions or stereotypes. I felt like I had completed the impossible, and even though people had given me more than enough “Congrats!” I was paralyzed by the realization that two years ago, none of these people would have even given me the time of day. Don’t judge a book by its cover, don’t judge people even in a socially positive way.
According to…
The following facts are presented to you from Business Insider:
1.) In a study of nearly 300 Dutch advertising agencies, economists found that firms with better-looking executives had higher revenues.
2.) Beautiful people are typically treated better by others. In a study from Harvard University, researchers found that wearing makeup, shown to enhance a woman's attractiveness, boosted people's perceptions of that subject's competence, likability, attractiveness, and trustworthiness.
3.) Facial symmetry, considered the beacon of beauty, can be perceived as a sign of health, even if it is not related to actual health. In an Australian study, researchers morphed photographs of young adults so that their faces were perfectly symmetrical. In general, the symmetric version of each face — both male and female — received higher health ratings than the normal image. Individuals with asymmetric faces were perceived as unhealthy.
The List – Part Two
1.) Skinny people are healthy 2.) Thin people are happier 3.) Skinny people are stuck up 4.) Skinny people have always been skinny 5.) Your life is easier
Just another Statistic
How many post weight loss people suffer from social issues? How many people are self-conscious of their bodies regardless of their weight? What are the REAL health benefits of being at you “ideal” body weight? Does weight loss really help your self-esteem? How many people are truly happy with their bodies after major weight loss?
Past and Present
I wasn’t always overweight, I gained all of my weight in my pre-teen years. I will never forget when I was probably about sixteen and someone said “You would actually be datable if you lost weight”. From that point forward, I hated myself. Up until then I was completely comfortable in my own skin. I didn’t care because it never affected me, I didn’t let it affect me. After that moment, I realized that people really care more about physical appearance than I ever thought. This was when I went through my insane, rebellious, reclose stage mostly to compensate for my fat ass. Once that was all over, I decided to become “healthy”, I ate salad and ran on a treadmill for two years like some kind of self-hating middle aged mom.
Once the weight was gone I began to feel great about myself for about a month, then I ran into someone I hadn’t ever talked to and never even made eye contact with. Now, after being “ideally weighted”, a person who could walk right through me on the street like I was a ghost, is striking up common conversation with me. I kept thinking, I am still me, nothing has changed I just dropped a few pounds of fat off my body, which apparently makes it okay to communicate with me like I am an actual human being. Everyone should know, no matter what you look like, who you are, or how bad you struggle, there is a dark side to each side of the coin.
“You look great! I’m so proud!” These are words you work to hear from your parents. You spend a lot of time waiting for your mother to talk to you like some movie scene showing success of a character. My mom was so proud that her fat son finally was thin. I did work really hard for what I had achieved, but little did she know that I had begun to hate myself just as much as I used to.
“Wow, you’re no longer a big lumpy oath!” The somewhat negative/positive words of my father. My dad will always cover up happy emotion with bad sarcasm. He tries to be supportive, but he can’t be with anything. He always says the wrong thing at the wrong time.
The List
1.) Unwanted attention, 2.) Judgment 3.) Not knowing how to take compliments, 4.) Fear of people 5.) Self-hate 6.) Self-conscious 7.) Expected to be a new person 8.) People treat you differently 9.) All of the sudden you’re a different person 10.) Feeling like you have to change yourself.
Pictures
We are all a slave to media. Especially right now you see all of the wonderful New Year’s resolution campaigns. If I see one more “New Year, New You” poster, picture, or online ad I am going to scream at the top of my lungs. It’s as if as the outside of your body changes the whole world expects you to change every aspect of your inner self to fit your new shell. I agree that losing weight is healthy and makes you feel better, but you don’t have to rip of every shred of individuality to do it. We a country obsessed with stereotypes and vanity.
My Revolution
Don’t judge a book by its cover. The phrase that been preached like a bible quote our whole lives. People says they don’t, but they do. I lost 110 pounds, I felt healthier, but you would think that you would feel like a “New you”. I may have melted a whole person off my body, but I was still Jeremy. People do judge you on looks and I’ve seen it first-hand. In my revolution, it wouldn’t just be about stopping judgment on one issue or person, it would be everyone. Other’s judgments can put a damper on the happiest moments of our lives. In my updated world, no one would judge people on first impressions or stereotypes. I felt like I had completed the impossible, and even though people had given me more than enough “Congrats!” I was paralyzed by the realization that two years ago, none of these people would have even given me the time of day. Don’t judge a book by its cover, don’t judge people even in a socially positive way.
According to…
The following facts are presented to you from Business Insider:
1.) In a study of nearly 300 Dutch advertising agencies, economists found that firms with better-looking executives had higher revenues.
2.) Beautiful people are typically treated better by others. In a study from Harvard University, researchers found that wearing makeup, shown to enhance a woman's attractiveness, boosted people's perceptions of that subject's competence, likability, attractiveness, and trustworthiness.
3.) Facial symmetry, considered the beacon of beauty, can be perceived as a sign of health, even if it is not related to actual health. In an Australian study, researchers morphed photographs of young adults so that their faces were perfectly symmetrical. In general, the symmetric version of each face — both male and female — received higher health ratings than the normal image. Individuals with asymmetric faces were perceived as unhealthy.
The List – Part Two
1.) Skinny people are healthy 2.) Thin people are happier 3.) Skinny people are stuck up 4.) Skinny people have always been skinny 5.) Your life is easier
Just another Statistic
How many post weight loss people suffer from social issues? How many people are self-conscious of their bodies regardless of their weight? What are the REAL health benefits of being at you “ideal” body weight? Does weight loss really help your self-esteem? How many people are truly happy with their bodies after major weight loss?
Past and Present
I wasn’t always overweight, I gained all of my weight in my pre-teen years. I will never forget when I was probably about sixteen and someone said “You would actually be datable if you lost weight”. From that point forward, I hated myself. Up until then I was completely comfortable in my own skin. I didn’t care because it never affected me, I didn’t let it affect me. After that moment, I realized that people really care more about physical appearance than I ever thought. This was when I went through my insane, rebellious, reclose stage mostly to compensate for my fat ass. Once that was all over, I decided to become “healthy”, I ate salad and ran on a treadmill for two years like some kind of self-hating middle aged mom.
Once the weight was gone I began to feel great about myself for about a month, then I ran into someone I hadn’t ever talked to and never even made eye contact with. Now, after being “ideally weighted”, a person who could walk right through me on the street like I was a ghost, is striking up common conversation with me. I kept thinking, I am still me, nothing has changed I just dropped a few pounds of fat off my body, which apparently makes it okay to communicate with me like I am an actual human being. Everyone should know, no matter what you look like, who you are, or how bad you struggle, there is a dark side to each side of the coin.
Where Am I and How Did I Get Here? by Amelia Enberg - 2014
Stone soup. Doesn’t sound appealing, but it is an elementary classroom staple. Based on an old folktale and turned into a children’s book, strangers come together with bits and pieces to make a hearty soup that all started with a pot of water and a simple stone. In practice, young students each contribute a piece of the soup—carrots, potatoes, pepper, and so on—for everyone's enjoyment. Of course, with any good folktale, you learn a valuable moral lesson in an entertaining way: give a little of your own and you can reap the benefits of many, make new friends, and understand the power of collaboration and community.
In my idyllic kindergarten classroom, we read this story and planned on making our own version of stone soup. I remember initially thinking how gross this soup would be! Come on, we’re going to put a rock in a soup? If that was a good idea, Campbell’s would have put that in my favorite canned chicken with rice. So, when I was in the grocery store picking the ingredient with my mom, she suggested “Well, maybe we can add some garlic or other spices. This soup seems plain.” Me, being the goody two-shoes I was in elementary school, shot back quickly, “No Mama! We have to follow the recipe!” All the ingredients were the boring, standard American fare—like meat and potatoes—so I understood her disdain in following the list. My mom cooks some of the best spicy food, flavorful and warming soups and curries. Compared to her recipes, this soup was going to be as tasty as regular Cheerios. But I wasn’t comfortable introducing a new ingredient to the mix; American kindergarteners aren’t familiar with the zest of ginger or the yellowness of turmeric. Other kids just won’t get it. I don’t want to be that weird, ethnic kid that probably smells! Well, I don’t think that I smell, but that’s how it ALWAYS is on cartoons. The different kid smells weird.
So, being the blind sheep that I was, I picked the benign carrot to bring to the class soup and make the teacher happy. The soup wasn’t memorable in flavor, lacking in the diversity of ingredients and backgrounds that was represented in the classroom. What if Kyle’s mom puts beans in her soup? How about some healthy greens? A pepper or two to give it a kick? Surely we all had contributed something to the soup, but it wasn’t authentic. The sense of community that was supposed to be developed in our classroom was strictly dictated by our loving teacher. We could have each offered something from our unique backgrounds to the soup and all enjoyed our respective contributions together.
Or it would end up being a very disjointed, multi-ethnic soup that tasted like dirt. Either way, there’s a rock in the soup; it’s bound to taste like dirt.
* * *
I’m a mish-mash of cultures, the “Indiana” of people you might say: “The Crossroads of America.” With influences from my Indonesian mother, Montanan father, and the Midwestern lifestyle, I often find myself lost amongst the worlds. It’s hard to make sense of it all and relate to others, even my friends, when no one seems to understand what I am referring to or talking about. I blame my knack for being a bit tardy on the Indonesian saying jam kerat or “rubber time.” No one understands when I talk about how I crave a traditional pasty that my grandma used to make. Often, I carry around several accents in my voice, depending on what I am talking about. If I get really excited and hyped up about something, I’ll speaksofastthatitmakesnosensewhatIamsayingnoteventome. The ideas and possibilities spilling out like a shaken up diet Coke and Mentos sometimes scares people off. It’s that lingual element of quickness not found in English, but in languages like Indonesian or Spanish, that disorients people. Sometimes, when my mom and I get really excited about something, perhaps about a possible trip to Australia or Italy, it is like we are speaking our own language:
“Mom-mom-mom, maybewecanevenseetheOperaHouseinSydney!”
“OrwecanstopovertoBali—“
“—ILOVEBALI!!!! Wecanfinallygetthosemassages.”
“Let’slookattickets, whynot, justtosee!”
It could just be the fact our thoughts run as fast as our mouths, but the conversations leave my brother clueless and confused most of the time.
On the contrary, my dad can speak slower than molasses, a trait very common to those raised in Butte, Montana. The careful cadence of each word slowly trickling like a glacial melt often frustrates me in conversations with my father. Although relocation and time has quickened my dad’s steady speech pattern, I still rush his sentences for the sake of my fleeting brain. The Midwest adds a peculiar element to my vernacular. From the outside, a Midwestern accent is dominated by the pronunciation of “Chi-CAH-go”, extending the “a” sound into almost a nasally, drawn out tone. It’s not eloquent, sophisticated, or urbane—it represents Middle America, geographically and socioeconomically. It will have me marked, no matter where I will go in this world: New York, Los Angeles, London, or Tokyo. But I don’t think I would want it any other way.
* * *
AP Physics. Cream of the crop kids that I had class with for the entirety of my high school years filled this classroom: the band kids, the science nerds, the mechanical slackers, and me (a hybrid breed of my own, a jack of all trades). Our teacher was a personable guy, down to earth and humorous, yet he had a smug air to him. Decked out in running shoes, jeans, and a plaid button-down, Mr. Richardson embodied the standard West Michigan male that hunts, fishes, and also teaches smart-alecky students. He had a smart comeback to all of my antics. I challenged his authority at every opportunity and was feisty or stubborn, I can't decide which. This environment made me completely comfortable; I made myself at home there. I was free to speak my mind and weird thoughts, sit on top of the desks, taunt my teacher, and make a bed out of the back counter. I was without restrictions and filters in that room.
Within the room was a number of science oddities, but the weirdest thing was the collection of vintage toys that exemplified different physics principles, namely a gymnastics doll that could do flips. Now, I don’t recall how we got on the topic of the appearance of the doll, but Mr. Richardson was blathering on how cute the doll was and how every little girl would want this doll. Blue eyes, voluminous curly blonde hair, and the smile of a champion, it was the stereotypical doll for any Western culture. For me, this was not the case. I had never looked like this doll nor would I ever; I’m brown. Brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin. So this doll never appealed to me. She did not know who I was or what I will be, so I retorted with a stern, “No. I always looked for dolls that looked like me.”
Mr. Richardson gave a befuddled look and began to laugh; the whole class began to laugh. What a ridiculous statement, they thought. Why would it matter how the doll looked?
I remember shying away after that moment, reflecting on what just happened. Being mixed has caused me to search long and far for something that closely resembled who I could be, but for most of my white classmates, their role models could be found everywhere.
* * *
It has always been a struggle to figure out who I am, but isn’t that the adolescent cliché? What clique do I belong to? Am I really a jock or a nerd? It’s the type of things teen magazines feed off of to drive stereotyped trends. I’ve really been a floater all throughout school, dipping my talents in many places: academics, sports, theatre, choir, art. Somewhere I had to fit in and find my relative niche in the sea of high school activities, but I seemed to mold into whatever setting I chose.
I took a creative writing class with one of my favorite teachers in high school—Mrs. Burton, a motherly yet challenging woman—and it helped me discover where I could fit in the scheme of voices. The class varied in types of creative sounds: some students wrote dreary and woefully, filled with pain of prior experiences. Some people were cynical yet insightful, while others were purely comical. At first, it was difficult to figure out what I really sounded like: I liked poking fun at things, but I couldn’t get the right punch line. I’m not particularly a pessimistic person or had experiences that negatively affected me up until then. I surely did not want to be the droll, over-achieving person who incorporated words just for flamboyant flair to flaunt my vocabulary, but I knew I had an intellectual edge. We started the course with short stories and transitioned into poetry. Poetry was very intriguing to me. Each word must be carefully selected for the right cadence or tone. The framework could be tight and patterned or loose and playful. You can’t ramble on in a poem or be extremely vague; poetry is the essence of writing: no more, no less. At the end of the class, my favorite pieces I wrote were poems. In an attempt to challenge myself, I wrote on the most peculiar topics: cows, a woman in a bar (even though I was 17 and had never stepped in a bar before), and a lot of off-beat things. Someone had to write about them, right? I dared to go past myself and embody other experiences in order to tell a new perspective.
Surprisingly enough, one of my poems was even published! My “Ode to California Cows” was featured as an editor’s pick in TeenInk magazine, a national publisher of high school student writing. I guess someone appreciated my odd choice to write about cows, who knew?
* * *
Back in elementary school, there were a few book series’ that were very popular: Junie B Jones, The Boxcar Children, Goosebumps, and of course, JK Rowling’s gem Harry Potter. I had received the first two installments from my aunt at a young age—the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, debuted in the States in ’98, making me the ripe old age of five. The mythical themes, according to my mother, scared me since the typical literature of a five year old consists of Hop on Pop and Clifford the Big Red Dog. But, as popularity for the Harry Potter books grew a few years later, I whipped them back out and read them like many of my eight year old peers.
At recess, my friends and I would play the characters from the books. With twigs in tow, Jenna would play Harry Potter (since she had glasses and Harry has glasses), Emily was Ron (the loyal sidekick), Alex was Hermione (their hair was essentially the same), and a few others joined the crew. I was left with a small pool of character choices, minor players with little backstory. Should I adapt the role of Sybill Trelawney, the kooky professor who read tea leaves? Or the gameskeeper Hagrid? (Not a chance, I was a short child.) Maybe settle with playing Hedwig, Harry’s pet owl? With my logical mind, I connected a few dots: my mom is Asian, therefore I am part Asian. The sole Asian character in the series was Harry’s love interest, Cho Chang.
* * *
Looking back now, I was really scraping at the bottom of the barrel for something and someone who I could be. There weren’t any other Indonesian families in my hometown, let alone any other Asians when I was in elementary school. My concept of being Asian was restricted to being different, eating noodles, and having dark hair. How stereotypical my understanding of being Asian was! And I really don’t have any Asian friends now because I don’t seem to connect with them. I grew up too white to identify with “traditionally recognized Asians” (Chinese, Japanese, Korean) and I was obviously different than the white kids. I embodied this gray area, the in-between. It was truly a struggle to find out where I fit in the greater scheme of things when I have had so many different influences than most of my peers. I’ve tried to use a variety of words to describe what it is like to see from my perspective, but it is difficult, like describing a new color. It’s not quite green, but has hints of silver and specks of gold. Shimmery yet doesn’t glisten. What to call this color, hmm, who picks who this color is? Self-defined, it can only be itself.
In my idyllic kindergarten classroom, we read this story and planned on making our own version of stone soup. I remember initially thinking how gross this soup would be! Come on, we’re going to put a rock in a soup? If that was a good idea, Campbell’s would have put that in my favorite canned chicken with rice. So, when I was in the grocery store picking the ingredient with my mom, she suggested “Well, maybe we can add some garlic or other spices. This soup seems plain.” Me, being the goody two-shoes I was in elementary school, shot back quickly, “No Mama! We have to follow the recipe!” All the ingredients were the boring, standard American fare—like meat and potatoes—so I understood her disdain in following the list. My mom cooks some of the best spicy food, flavorful and warming soups and curries. Compared to her recipes, this soup was going to be as tasty as regular Cheerios. But I wasn’t comfortable introducing a new ingredient to the mix; American kindergarteners aren’t familiar with the zest of ginger or the yellowness of turmeric. Other kids just won’t get it. I don’t want to be that weird, ethnic kid that probably smells! Well, I don’t think that I smell, but that’s how it ALWAYS is on cartoons. The different kid smells weird.
So, being the blind sheep that I was, I picked the benign carrot to bring to the class soup and make the teacher happy. The soup wasn’t memorable in flavor, lacking in the diversity of ingredients and backgrounds that was represented in the classroom. What if Kyle’s mom puts beans in her soup? How about some healthy greens? A pepper or two to give it a kick? Surely we all had contributed something to the soup, but it wasn’t authentic. The sense of community that was supposed to be developed in our classroom was strictly dictated by our loving teacher. We could have each offered something from our unique backgrounds to the soup and all enjoyed our respective contributions together.
Or it would end up being a very disjointed, multi-ethnic soup that tasted like dirt. Either way, there’s a rock in the soup; it’s bound to taste like dirt.
* * *
I’m a mish-mash of cultures, the “Indiana” of people you might say: “The Crossroads of America.” With influences from my Indonesian mother, Montanan father, and the Midwestern lifestyle, I often find myself lost amongst the worlds. It’s hard to make sense of it all and relate to others, even my friends, when no one seems to understand what I am referring to or talking about. I blame my knack for being a bit tardy on the Indonesian saying jam kerat or “rubber time.” No one understands when I talk about how I crave a traditional pasty that my grandma used to make. Often, I carry around several accents in my voice, depending on what I am talking about. If I get really excited and hyped up about something, I’ll speaksofastthatitmakesnosensewhatIamsayingnoteventome. The ideas and possibilities spilling out like a shaken up diet Coke and Mentos sometimes scares people off. It’s that lingual element of quickness not found in English, but in languages like Indonesian or Spanish, that disorients people. Sometimes, when my mom and I get really excited about something, perhaps about a possible trip to Australia or Italy, it is like we are speaking our own language:
“Mom-mom-mom, maybewecanevenseetheOperaHouseinSydney!”
“OrwecanstopovertoBali—“
“—ILOVEBALI!!!! Wecanfinallygetthosemassages.”
“Let’slookattickets, whynot, justtosee!”
It could just be the fact our thoughts run as fast as our mouths, but the conversations leave my brother clueless and confused most of the time.
On the contrary, my dad can speak slower than molasses, a trait very common to those raised in Butte, Montana. The careful cadence of each word slowly trickling like a glacial melt often frustrates me in conversations with my father. Although relocation and time has quickened my dad’s steady speech pattern, I still rush his sentences for the sake of my fleeting brain. The Midwest adds a peculiar element to my vernacular. From the outside, a Midwestern accent is dominated by the pronunciation of “Chi-CAH-go”, extending the “a” sound into almost a nasally, drawn out tone. It’s not eloquent, sophisticated, or urbane—it represents Middle America, geographically and socioeconomically. It will have me marked, no matter where I will go in this world: New York, Los Angeles, London, or Tokyo. But I don’t think I would want it any other way.
* * *
AP Physics. Cream of the crop kids that I had class with for the entirety of my high school years filled this classroom: the band kids, the science nerds, the mechanical slackers, and me (a hybrid breed of my own, a jack of all trades). Our teacher was a personable guy, down to earth and humorous, yet he had a smug air to him. Decked out in running shoes, jeans, and a plaid button-down, Mr. Richardson embodied the standard West Michigan male that hunts, fishes, and also teaches smart-alecky students. He had a smart comeback to all of my antics. I challenged his authority at every opportunity and was feisty or stubborn, I can't decide which. This environment made me completely comfortable; I made myself at home there. I was free to speak my mind and weird thoughts, sit on top of the desks, taunt my teacher, and make a bed out of the back counter. I was without restrictions and filters in that room.
Within the room was a number of science oddities, but the weirdest thing was the collection of vintage toys that exemplified different physics principles, namely a gymnastics doll that could do flips. Now, I don’t recall how we got on the topic of the appearance of the doll, but Mr. Richardson was blathering on how cute the doll was and how every little girl would want this doll. Blue eyes, voluminous curly blonde hair, and the smile of a champion, it was the stereotypical doll for any Western culture. For me, this was not the case. I had never looked like this doll nor would I ever; I’m brown. Brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin. So this doll never appealed to me. She did not know who I was or what I will be, so I retorted with a stern, “No. I always looked for dolls that looked like me.”
Mr. Richardson gave a befuddled look and began to laugh; the whole class began to laugh. What a ridiculous statement, they thought. Why would it matter how the doll looked?
I remember shying away after that moment, reflecting on what just happened. Being mixed has caused me to search long and far for something that closely resembled who I could be, but for most of my white classmates, their role models could be found everywhere.
* * *
It has always been a struggle to figure out who I am, but isn’t that the adolescent cliché? What clique do I belong to? Am I really a jock or a nerd? It’s the type of things teen magazines feed off of to drive stereotyped trends. I’ve really been a floater all throughout school, dipping my talents in many places: academics, sports, theatre, choir, art. Somewhere I had to fit in and find my relative niche in the sea of high school activities, but I seemed to mold into whatever setting I chose.
I took a creative writing class with one of my favorite teachers in high school—Mrs. Burton, a motherly yet challenging woman—and it helped me discover where I could fit in the scheme of voices. The class varied in types of creative sounds: some students wrote dreary and woefully, filled with pain of prior experiences. Some people were cynical yet insightful, while others were purely comical. At first, it was difficult to figure out what I really sounded like: I liked poking fun at things, but I couldn’t get the right punch line. I’m not particularly a pessimistic person or had experiences that negatively affected me up until then. I surely did not want to be the droll, over-achieving person who incorporated words just for flamboyant flair to flaunt my vocabulary, but I knew I had an intellectual edge. We started the course with short stories and transitioned into poetry. Poetry was very intriguing to me. Each word must be carefully selected for the right cadence or tone. The framework could be tight and patterned or loose and playful. You can’t ramble on in a poem or be extremely vague; poetry is the essence of writing: no more, no less. At the end of the class, my favorite pieces I wrote were poems. In an attempt to challenge myself, I wrote on the most peculiar topics: cows, a woman in a bar (even though I was 17 and had never stepped in a bar before), and a lot of off-beat things. Someone had to write about them, right? I dared to go past myself and embody other experiences in order to tell a new perspective.
Surprisingly enough, one of my poems was even published! My “Ode to California Cows” was featured as an editor’s pick in TeenInk magazine, a national publisher of high school student writing. I guess someone appreciated my odd choice to write about cows, who knew?
* * *
Back in elementary school, there were a few book series’ that were very popular: Junie B Jones, The Boxcar Children, Goosebumps, and of course, JK Rowling’s gem Harry Potter. I had received the first two installments from my aunt at a young age—the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, debuted in the States in ’98, making me the ripe old age of five. The mythical themes, according to my mother, scared me since the typical literature of a five year old consists of Hop on Pop and Clifford the Big Red Dog. But, as popularity for the Harry Potter books grew a few years later, I whipped them back out and read them like many of my eight year old peers.
At recess, my friends and I would play the characters from the books. With twigs in tow, Jenna would play Harry Potter (since she had glasses and Harry has glasses), Emily was Ron (the loyal sidekick), Alex was Hermione (their hair was essentially the same), and a few others joined the crew. I was left with a small pool of character choices, minor players with little backstory. Should I adapt the role of Sybill Trelawney, the kooky professor who read tea leaves? Or the gameskeeper Hagrid? (Not a chance, I was a short child.) Maybe settle with playing Hedwig, Harry’s pet owl? With my logical mind, I connected a few dots: my mom is Asian, therefore I am part Asian. The sole Asian character in the series was Harry’s love interest, Cho Chang.
* * *
Looking back now, I was really scraping at the bottom of the barrel for something and someone who I could be. There weren’t any other Indonesian families in my hometown, let alone any other Asians when I was in elementary school. My concept of being Asian was restricted to being different, eating noodles, and having dark hair. How stereotypical my understanding of being Asian was! And I really don’t have any Asian friends now because I don’t seem to connect with them. I grew up too white to identify with “traditionally recognized Asians” (Chinese, Japanese, Korean) and I was obviously different than the white kids. I embodied this gray area, the in-between. It was truly a struggle to find out where I fit in the greater scheme of things when I have had so many different influences than most of my peers. I’ve tried to use a variety of words to describe what it is like to see from my perspective, but it is difficult, like describing a new color. It’s not quite green, but has hints of silver and specks of gold. Shimmery yet doesn’t glisten. What to call this color, hmm, who picks who this color is? Self-defined, it can only be itself.
Grand Schemes and Quiet Conversations by Andrew Metzger
Two calicos doze on the warm radiator cover, content and unperturbed. The luminescent glow from the television paints a small pale blue grey orb around it. Within that tiny orb I sit feeling the tiredness calling me to sleep. Reaching forward I grasp the remote, my fingers finding the necessary buttons by memory. With a tiny electrical click, the room is plunged into absolute black for a moment, while my eyes adjust to the pale light from the streetlamp that seeps through the window. Rising from the couch I begin to cautiously find my way towards the warmth and security of my bed where my wife gently snores, and has most likely rolled onto my side of the bed. Weaving my way around the coffee table I near the threshold between the living room and dining room, crossing under the wooden arch that cleaves the rooms in two. I can sense the looming presence of the dining room table pushing me to the right and squeezing me into the gauntlet between itself and the blue bookshelf.
With a sudden lurch, that book, the one that haunts me, that lives on the blue bookshelf, biding its time amongst all the others, inserts itself into my thoughts. Lightly leafed through but still waiting to be read, waiting for the cracks in the spine, the turned pages and the occasional stain. The title “What Would Jane Say?” reverberates in my head and recalls her absence so instantly and vividly. I know that tonight the book will accost me, that tonight it will not let me pass unchastised. The inquisition begins as soon as I reach the chair at the head of the dining room table. Why haven’t you read me yet? Aren’t you interested? What’s wrong? Don’t you love me? The familiar voice tears at me in absentia, bringing waves of guilt and shame. I begin questioning myself and my own motives. Why haven’t I read that damn book?
Pressed into the ink of the inscription, meticulously written on the title page is an unrelenting love that both forms the backbone of myself and makes me feel unworthy of it at the same time, paralyzing me in its intensity and depth. With an effort I break free of the spell the book has cast over me rushing carelessly through the remainder of the gauntlet formed by the table and the bookshelf. Attaining the safety of the kitchen hall the voice recedes, growing smaller and more distant. The relief of surviving the inquisition is palpable, and yet a sense of loss seeps in to replace the acute pain, less immediate but I know it will linger. Crawling into bed I say the mantra I have repeated many times before, soon I will read that book.
The written word is more than just what is written. It is more than the sum of the words on the paper and even more than just the sum of its parts. When a writer finishes a work they then send it out into the world to interact with people. It is in this interaction with people and amongst people that a book gains its true meaning. This dialogue with and between individuals is the final edit of the work, the final touch that the story requires. Some writing stays with us because of the beauty with which it is written, some because it introduces us to profound ideas. Lots of the writing that stays with us does so because of who gave it to us, or what time in our life we received it. These written works define our relationships with others and set our thinking within a timeline, allowing us to retrace our scattered memories across the minutia that rules our days. Books rekindle long dormant conversations. Helping us to remember and hold onto the moments that shape us and mark us, the wonderful, the painful and the bittersweet.
Space invaders cover one of the walls of the bedroom I share with my brother, tiny little aliens fluttering back and forth set against a deep blue background. The other three walls are a lighter shade of blue framed by the dark wood of the trim. It is a large room, at least to little me, encompassing a bunk bed and two dressers as well as the evidence of the two boys who occupy it. Star Wars action figures and dirty socks left to lie where they fell leaving a visible trail of the day’s activity. Snuggling into the bottom bunk with my mom to read “The Wind in the Willows”, I am safe and happy in a way that only children can ever know.
Holding the large book between us, her red curls tickling my cheek, we are caught up in the shenanigans of our friends Mole, Rat and Mr. Toad. Occasionally pausing for a moment from the story we enjoy the beautiful illustrations, pointing out the details of the pictures to each other. The snarling faces of the evil little ferrets as they dropped a stone on the boat Mr. Toad was rowing, sending him into the churning water, soaking and sputtering. The chaos as Mr. Toad and his friends, Mole and Rat and wise old Badger exact revenge on the ferrets sending them scattering everywhere. The large glossy pages are thick and heavy in my small hands turning them in excitement for what is next. What new adventures or dangers await my friends and how would they handle them? Slowly I slip into a semi-conscious state the book becoming my reality, their stories becoming mine as my mom continues reading. “At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning.” Finishing the chapter she closes the big green book, the gold embossed title reflecting light. I mumble “please read more” as she leans over to kiss my forehead. She whispers “I love you Andy boy, goodnight” and I am fast asleep.
The moments when a book connects to you, or when it connects you to others is the real value of the written word. Words written but never read, or never shared are meaningless symbols, stuck to a page without purpose or direction. It is in the exchange of ideas, beliefs, hopes and fears that the written word can inspire, that make it powerful and necessary. Seeing ourselves in the characters gives us perspective on our own dramas, allowing us to walk in someone else’s shoes, before we cast judgment on them. Realizing that the family member or close friend you pass that book on to may not feel the same about it, or get the same thing from it, forces us to examine why something resonates with us. What does it say about me that I feel the way I feel about this particular work while they feel something completely different.
When forced to at least ask the questions, if not find satisfactory answers by these experiences we begin to form our own voice. Listening carefully, and between the lines, to the way an idea or writing affects others, searching for meaning we may have missed or misconstrued, validating our thoughts by the moral compass of those whose voices have guided and shaped us most. Along the way we come upon a discovery that is confusing and freeing at the same time. We discern that those voices hold no universal truths, only the questions that we have yet to stumble over, that we must find the way on our own. The freedom to choose our own path together with an enlarging world of new ideas forces us to examine the larger picture. To step outside of our rhetorical bubbles and tread on unfamiliar ground unaccompanied.
Once I had set the table my mom sent me to fetch my brothers and my dad. Running up the front stairs I take a right at the top, bounding into my parents room I throw myself on their bed being sure to avoid my dad’s suit jacket which he has carefully laid out on the bed “Dinner ready” he asks while he hangs his suit pants on the hanger. “Yes mom says to come down now; I have to get Tim and Chris now” I blurt as I bounce of the bed and back out the door on my way to find my brothers. The four of us file into the kitchen puncturing the calm warmth of the kitchen; the soft roar of boiling water, the rhythmic thwack of chopping is invaded by the din of the “he who speaks loudest” mentality of a house full of boys, including my father. Settling in and filling our plates we exchange the usual how was your day? And what did you learn at school today? Once the conversational housekeeping has been dispensed, the discussion turns to what it eventually does in my family, politics and social issues. Topics and ideas are brought up, played with, and dissected. Solutions are offered and debated, advanced and dismissed. Tangential conversations bubble up and then flame out.
Amidst the clamor and bravado my mother’s voice manages to still hold sway cutting through the noise. Softer and more diplomatic than my brothers and I, not as cynical or sarcastic as my father, yet stubborn and as sure of her position, arguing from the high ground of a mother who looks out for all, who subverts her needs for the greater good. Constantly returning the conversation to the effects that grand schemes and plans have on real people, the people whose problems we were supposedly trying to solve. Patiently she inquires “how does that help the students” or “who really benefits” seemingly simple questions, but loaded with the ballast of a million earlier conversations. A line of questioning designed to shed light on the viewpoints we had not considered in our neat and tidy solution.
As the plates are emptied and the table cleared the conversation peters out. The family drifts away to their own activities, the conversation not ended, just suspended, each of us mulling a point another made, searching for a counterpoint, a new argument for when the conversation reignites. Maybe tomorrow night, maybe next week, or next month but it will resurface, and when it does we will be ready with an argument, a question, or an opinion. A small piece added to the conversation, shared with others.
I’ve been told it can be an intimidating and confusing experience for the uninitiated. They don’t understand how we can attack each other’s ideas with such glee and yet still claim to love and respect each other. They don’t understand that to us sarcasm is a valid argument. It can seem disrespectful and irreverent, in fact it can be, and certainly is mindfully irreverent if not intentionally disrespectful. Respect and reverence are reserved for ideas that have been tested and tried, argued and attacked and survived the crucible. At the kitchen table there are no sacred cows only acceptable and unacceptable forms of challenge.
My mom’s birthday is in late January; in early February of 2010 we had a party to celebrate her sixtieth birthday and the release of her book. The party had a New Orleans theme because my mom and her partner John loved spending time there. A good portion of her book “What Would Jane Say?” was written on a hotel balcony in the French Quarter. My brothers, my wife, John’s daughter, and I had made jambalaya and muffaletta sandwiches and decorated the art gallery that had once been a church, in a clichéd idea of Mardi-gras. Purple, green and gold streamers strung between the pillars, with balloons of the same colors spread about the room reflecting the light from the votive candles.
Mom was beautiful, her head meticulously dressed in a colorful and sparkling silk wrap, her gaunt cheeks flushed with color at the outpouring of love and affection from friends and family. Seated in her throne in a prominent place with John by her side she welcomed and conversed with the steady stream of people who wanted her attention. My brothers and I worked the room making sure there was plenty of food and that everyone had a drink, taking turns spending a few minutes with her, snatching a few more minutes in her presence. That night she was more alive than I had seen her in a while. Vibrant in the triumph of having finished her book and gotten it published, reveling in the evidence of her life well spent in conversation and community with others.
Two weeks later, with John at her side, she died peacefully late at night, after a day surrounded by her family and friends. Though unconscious the last two days she had willed herself to hold on until my cousin and aunt made it from Detroit to spend a few minutes at her hospital bedside, whispering final messages in her ear. John told us later that at one point the night of her party she had leaned over and told him that she needed to find something new to keep her going now that the book was done. At the time he had taken it as a hopeful sign, but maybe she was just admitting that she didn’t have anything left to give. That the book she had written after being diagnosed with stage four cancer was her final word, all she had the time or energy or fight left to say.
A lifetime of intellectually fought but emotionally driven crusades would end with this one. Her final words, the final conversation she hoped to inspire, a contrarian piece meant to push back against the glorification of Daniel Burnham and the myth that he deserves credit for the Chicago park system. A gentle but stern reminder that it was not merely the grand schemes of great men but the quiet conversations amongst people that move us forward, in this case the hard work of the settlement house women like Jane Adams who actually created the parks the city’s children play in, one park at a time without the press and the fanfare. It seems fitting that this would be her last conversation as it was probably the message my mom most hoped to embed in her sons.
With a sudden lurch, that book, the one that haunts me, that lives on the blue bookshelf, biding its time amongst all the others, inserts itself into my thoughts. Lightly leafed through but still waiting to be read, waiting for the cracks in the spine, the turned pages and the occasional stain. The title “What Would Jane Say?” reverberates in my head and recalls her absence so instantly and vividly. I know that tonight the book will accost me, that tonight it will not let me pass unchastised. The inquisition begins as soon as I reach the chair at the head of the dining room table. Why haven’t you read me yet? Aren’t you interested? What’s wrong? Don’t you love me? The familiar voice tears at me in absentia, bringing waves of guilt and shame. I begin questioning myself and my own motives. Why haven’t I read that damn book?
Pressed into the ink of the inscription, meticulously written on the title page is an unrelenting love that both forms the backbone of myself and makes me feel unworthy of it at the same time, paralyzing me in its intensity and depth. With an effort I break free of the spell the book has cast over me rushing carelessly through the remainder of the gauntlet formed by the table and the bookshelf. Attaining the safety of the kitchen hall the voice recedes, growing smaller and more distant. The relief of surviving the inquisition is palpable, and yet a sense of loss seeps in to replace the acute pain, less immediate but I know it will linger. Crawling into bed I say the mantra I have repeated many times before, soon I will read that book.
The written word is more than just what is written. It is more than the sum of the words on the paper and even more than just the sum of its parts. When a writer finishes a work they then send it out into the world to interact with people. It is in this interaction with people and amongst people that a book gains its true meaning. This dialogue with and between individuals is the final edit of the work, the final touch that the story requires. Some writing stays with us because of the beauty with which it is written, some because it introduces us to profound ideas. Lots of the writing that stays with us does so because of who gave it to us, or what time in our life we received it. These written works define our relationships with others and set our thinking within a timeline, allowing us to retrace our scattered memories across the minutia that rules our days. Books rekindle long dormant conversations. Helping us to remember and hold onto the moments that shape us and mark us, the wonderful, the painful and the bittersweet.
Space invaders cover one of the walls of the bedroom I share with my brother, tiny little aliens fluttering back and forth set against a deep blue background. The other three walls are a lighter shade of blue framed by the dark wood of the trim. It is a large room, at least to little me, encompassing a bunk bed and two dressers as well as the evidence of the two boys who occupy it. Star Wars action figures and dirty socks left to lie where they fell leaving a visible trail of the day’s activity. Snuggling into the bottom bunk with my mom to read “The Wind in the Willows”, I am safe and happy in a way that only children can ever know.
Holding the large book between us, her red curls tickling my cheek, we are caught up in the shenanigans of our friends Mole, Rat and Mr. Toad. Occasionally pausing for a moment from the story we enjoy the beautiful illustrations, pointing out the details of the pictures to each other. The snarling faces of the evil little ferrets as they dropped a stone on the boat Mr. Toad was rowing, sending him into the churning water, soaking and sputtering. The chaos as Mr. Toad and his friends, Mole and Rat and wise old Badger exact revenge on the ferrets sending them scattering everywhere. The large glossy pages are thick and heavy in my small hands turning them in excitement for what is next. What new adventures or dangers await my friends and how would they handle them? Slowly I slip into a semi-conscious state the book becoming my reality, their stories becoming mine as my mom continues reading. “At last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning.” Finishing the chapter she closes the big green book, the gold embossed title reflecting light. I mumble “please read more” as she leans over to kiss my forehead. She whispers “I love you Andy boy, goodnight” and I am fast asleep.
The moments when a book connects to you, or when it connects you to others is the real value of the written word. Words written but never read, or never shared are meaningless symbols, stuck to a page without purpose or direction. It is in the exchange of ideas, beliefs, hopes and fears that the written word can inspire, that make it powerful and necessary. Seeing ourselves in the characters gives us perspective on our own dramas, allowing us to walk in someone else’s shoes, before we cast judgment on them. Realizing that the family member or close friend you pass that book on to may not feel the same about it, or get the same thing from it, forces us to examine why something resonates with us. What does it say about me that I feel the way I feel about this particular work while they feel something completely different.
When forced to at least ask the questions, if not find satisfactory answers by these experiences we begin to form our own voice. Listening carefully, and between the lines, to the way an idea or writing affects others, searching for meaning we may have missed or misconstrued, validating our thoughts by the moral compass of those whose voices have guided and shaped us most. Along the way we come upon a discovery that is confusing and freeing at the same time. We discern that those voices hold no universal truths, only the questions that we have yet to stumble over, that we must find the way on our own. The freedom to choose our own path together with an enlarging world of new ideas forces us to examine the larger picture. To step outside of our rhetorical bubbles and tread on unfamiliar ground unaccompanied.
Once I had set the table my mom sent me to fetch my brothers and my dad. Running up the front stairs I take a right at the top, bounding into my parents room I throw myself on their bed being sure to avoid my dad’s suit jacket which he has carefully laid out on the bed “Dinner ready” he asks while he hangs his suit pants on the hanger. “Yes mom says to come down now; I have to get Tim and Chris now” I blurt as I bounce of the bed and back out the door on my way to find my brothers. The four of us file into the kitchen puncturing the calm warmth of the kitchen; the soft roar of boiling water, the rhythmic thwack of chopping is invaded by the din of the “he who speaks loudest” mentality of a house full of boys, including my father. Settling in and filling our plates we exchange the usual how was your day? And what did you learn at school today? Once the conversational housekeeping has been dispensed, the discussion turns to what it eventually does in my family, politics and social issues. Topics and ideas are brought up, played with, and dissected. Solutions are offered and debated, advanced and dismissed. Tangential conversations bubble up and then flame out.
Amidst the clamor and bravado my mother’s voice manages to still hold sway cutting through the noise. Softer and more diplomatic than my brothers and I, not as cynical or sarcastic as my father, yet stubborn and as sure of her position, arguing from the high ground of a mother who looks out for all, who subverts her needs for the greater good. Constantly returning the conversation to the effects that grand schemes and plans have on real people, the people whose problems we were supposedly trying to solve. Patiently she inquires “how does that help the students” or “who really benefits” seemingly simple questions, but loaded with the ballast of a million earlier conversations. A line of questioning designed to shed light on the viewpoints we had not considered in our neat and tidy solution.
As the plates are emptied and the table cleared the conversation peters out. The family drifts away to their own activities, the conversation not ended, just suspended, each of us mulling a point another made, searching for a counterpoint, a new argument for when the conversation reignites. Maybe tomorrow night, maybe next week, or next month but it will resurface, and when it does we will be ready with an argument, a question, or an opinion. A small piece added to the conversation, shared with others.
I’ve been told it can be an intimidating and confusing experience for the uninitiated. They don’t understand how we can attack each other’s ideas with such glee and yet still claim to love and respect each other. They don’t understand that to us sarcasm is a valid argument. It can seem disrespectful and irreverent, in fact it can be, and certainly is mindfully irreverent if not intentionally disrespectful. Respect and reverence are reserved for ideas that have been tested and tried, argued and attacked and survived the crucible. At the kitchen table there are no sacred cows only acceptable and unacceptable forms of challenge.
My mom’s birthday is in late January; in early February of 2010 we had a party to celebrate her sixtieth birthday and the release of her book. The party had a New Orleans theme because my mom and her partner John loved spending time there. A good portion of her book “What Would Jane Say?” was written on a hotel balcony in the French Quarter. My brothers, my wife, John’s daughter, and I had made jambalaya and muffaletta sandwiches and decorated the art gallery that had once been a church, in a clichéd idea of Mardi-gras. Purple, green and gold streamers strung between the pillars, with balloons of the same colors spread about the room reflecting the light from the votive candles.
Mom was beautiful, her head meticulously dressed in a colorful and sparkling silk wrap, her gaunt cheeks flushed with color at the outpouring of love and affection from friends and family. Seated in her throne in a prominent place with John by her side she welcomed and conversed with the steady stream of people who wanted her attention. My brothers and I worked the room making sure there was plenty of food and that everyone had a drink, taking turns spending a few minutes with her, snatching a few more minutes in her presence. That night she was more alive than I had seen her in a while. Vibrant in the triumph of having finished her book and gotten it published, reveling in the evidence of her life well spent in conversation and community with others.
Two weeks later, with John at her side, she died peacefully late at night, after a day surrounded by her family and friends. Though unconscious the last two days she had willed herself to hold on until my cousin and aunt made it from Detroit to spend a few minutes at her hospital bedside, whispering final messages in her ear. John told us later that at one point the night of her party she had leaned over and told him that she needed to find something new to keep her going now that the book was done. At the time he had taken it as a hopeful sign, but maybe she was just admitting that she didn’t have anything left to give. That the book she had written after being diagnosed with stage four cancer was her final word, all she had the time or energy or fight left to say.
A lifetime of intellectually fought but emotionally driven crusades would end with this one. Her final words, the final conversation she hoped to inspire, a contrarian piece meant to push back against the glorification of Daniel Burnham and the myth that he deserves credit for the Chicago park system. A gentle but stern reminder that it was not merely the grand schemes of great men but the quiet conversations amongst people that move us forward, in this case the hard work of the settlement house women like Jane Adams who actually created the parks the city’s children play in, one park at a time without the press and the fanfare. It seems fitting that this would be her last conversation as it was probably the message my mom most hoped to embed in her sons.