Facebook Fail

There’s a stupid-ass photo circulating on Facebook, and if it hadn’t been re-posted by someone I kind of know, I probably wouldn’t give a shit. Too bad the re-post showed up on my newsfeed, accompanied by commentary positively dripping with white privilege. Now I’m kind of pissed and eager to avoid packing for DC. So here I am!

The photo is below. If you click on it, you can see where it’s posted on Facebook and read the comments, but I don’t recommend it. (When has reading online comments ever resulted in a positive outlook on the human race?) The text in the photo is an abridged transcript of this interview.

I’ve got three things to say about this photo. All of them have been said before, about other bullshit, by people who’ve been doing this for much longer than I have. In fact, I’m just going to let Tim Wise handle most of this.

One: Yes, Morgan Freeman, black history is American history, and celebrating American history should mean celebrating black history. But, surprise! It generally doesn’t. In fact, celebrating American history often means celebrating genocide, exploitation and white supremacy. Ever heard of Columbus Day or Thanksgiving? It’s fucked up that we need to set aside one month to celebrate black history, but blame the reason we need to (spoiler: it starts with an “I” and ends in “nstitutional racism”), not the fact that we do.

Two: Morgan Freeman says, “Which month is white history month?”

There’s a bunch, actually. They just “go by the tricky names of May, June, July, August, September.”

Three: This is the line that a lot of people on Facebook seem to love so much: The interviewer says, “How are we going to get rid of racism?” and Morgan Freeman responds, “Stop talking about it.”

Ah, yes, my preferred method of problem-solving.

Hey, Tim, don’t you talk about this sometimes?

Well, look, to blame the conversation about race for racism is like blaming the speedometer on your car for the ticket that you just got. It doesn’t make any sense. When you have mobs of people surrounding John Lewis, one of this nation’s preeminent heroes in the civil rights struggle and using the “n” word with him, when you’ve got folks showing up at rallies with signs that have the president with a bone through his nose dressed like a witch doctor, or pictures of the White House lawn covered in watermelons, you don’t get to retreat and go, “Gee, don’t talk about that. If you wouldn’t talk about it, it would go away.”

We wouldn’t say that about any other problem. I mean, think about world hunger. Who would say, world hunger, “Gee, if we just don’t talk about it, maybe food will miraculously appear on the plates of the hungry?” I mean, no other problem on earth do we say that. Here’s the thing, Don, historically white America has never wanted to talk about race. We didn’t want to talk about it in 1963 when two out of three white Americans said the Civil Rights Movement was pushing for too much and was being divisive and in ’68, Pat Buchanan told Richard Nixon, not to go to Dr. King’s funeral because he was one of the most divisive people in American history. A lot of white folks on the right have always wanted to stop talking about this and they’ve always been wrong.

Talking about race isn’t the problem. Racism is. Talking about racism won’t eradicate it, but it’s a pretty nifty stepping stone on the way to ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING instead of sitting around pretending it doesn’t exist.

In conclusion, just because a person of color says something that’s complicit in white supremacy doesn’t mean you can feel like your privilege/racism has been validated. That shit ain’t no parking stub.

Things Said in Earnest by Men Hitting on Me

Him: “Do you read the Economist?”

Me: “No, I don’t.”

Him: [explains what the Economist is]

***

“Not to brag, but I always scored more points than the rest of my high school cross country team. Combined.”

***

“I’d ask you to see you again later tonight, but I feel like I should go to my department’s chili contest. I’m adjudicating.”

***

“So, what happened after middle school? Did you just start trying or something?”

***

“I am the 1 percent.”

I’m going to talk about race and you can’t stop me!

When I was studying in Amsterdam during my junior year of college, I wrote a post in my travel blog about an instance of racism I experienced while I was biking to class one day. I’ve since deleted the blog, but the story is copied below.

Context: When you pass another cyclist in Amsterdam, you typically pass on the left. I was riding to class one morning when the group of cyclists in front of me suddenly stopped in the middle of the bike lane to talk to some friends walking by. There was little space to the left of them, so I chose to pass on the right.

Since the cyclists were poised for relaunch, I rang my bell so they wouldn’t blindly make any sudden moves and knock me into the street as I passed by. The entire group glanced up at me, and one of the cyclists said something to me in Dutch. Surprised, I looked back. He was sneering, mocking: “You’re supposed to pass on the left.”

Caught off guard, I was still processing the moment when he called out again, continuing to stare straight into my eyes. He repeated his sardonic jeer, but this time, he added what I can only describe as a sing-song “Chinese” accent.

He and his friends laughed and immediately returned to their conversation without skipping a beat. Me? I whispered “Fuck you,” turned into the lot, locked my bike with shaking hands, and cranked up the “forget” dial on my hippocampus.

And almost succeeded.

It’s strange; I’ve biked along the exact same route to the university parking lot a dozen times since that day, and today was the first time I remembered what had happened. I’d actually forgotten about it. I’ve been forgetting things like this all my life. I never wanted to be like the jaded adults I know who perceive every other negative interpersonal encounter as an act of racism and don’t even react anymore, except to give a half-hearted shrug. Unless we’re talking Ghirardelli dark chocolate chips, I want my shoulder to be completely chip-free—not just for me and my happiness, but also because I care about what people think of me. Even now, I feel the need to insert some kind of disclaimer that says:

“Yo, just because I spent an entire blog entry talking about racism doesn’t mean that I like, care, or that it affects me, or anyone, really! I mean, everyone knows racism is basically dead, and all the ‘cool’ minorities are ‘chill’ enough to brush off any minor racist-y things that happen. And my temperature is definitely on the lower end of the gamut. Definitely. And don’t you forget that.”

[...]

Wait, we need an upper. An adorable kitty should do the trick:

I didn’t write about this incident until almost a month afterward because I was afraid to talk about race. I had tried having conversations about race before, and they had never gone well, even with the people closest to me. I was afraid of how I would make my readers (my family and a handful of mostly white friends) feel—sad, awkward, unsure how to respond—and, in turn, how their responses would make me feel. What if someone told me I was overreacting? What if someone said, “Are you sure you heard the guy right? Maybe he said something else.” I was afraid of feeling even more marginalized, even more alone, in a foreign country thousands of miles from home.

And then, nobody responded.

Oh, three people commented on that post. But they didn’t mention my story. Mostly, they talked about the adorable kitten in the YouTube video and my parents’ beliefs regarding premarital sex, which I’d referenced in my introduction to the story. On the blog, on Facebook, via email, during scheduled Skype dates: nobody acknowledged what I’d said—not even my boyfriend. The silence was deafening. And really fucking oppressive.

I don’t mean to point fingers or assign blame. I totally understand why it happened. Talking about race is often uncomfortable, especially in multiracial spaces. Moreover, my original post didn’t exactly open up a space for dialogue or analysis; it basically said, “Yo, I experienced this racist incident about a month ago, kbye!” I didn’t have the skills or language to deconstruct what had happened, and I can’t blame my friends for being in the same boat. I also understand that in many spaces—almost all of the ones I’ve ever inhabited—it can feel like talking about race is taboo. It’s divisive and it’s just not what civilized people do, amirite?

Five months ago, for the first time ever, I was given permission to talk about race. While the fellowship I’m doing is focused on hunger and food justice issues, it also has an important anti-racism component (which makes sense, since poverty, racism, and all forms of oppression are inextricably interconnected). The intensive ten-day training I mentioned in an earlier post included a lot of thinking and talking and learning about race and racism. I haven’t been able to stop thinking and talking and learning about it since. And you know what’s crazy? Race doesn’t feel taboo anymore. Pretty much ever. It’s amazing how easy it is to talk about something when you decide it’s okay to talk about it.

I have the skills and the language now, and I’m going to start talking about it here. I hope you’ll stick around and even join the conversation. I promise I’ll still continue to write about the most embarrassing shit that happens to me. Except maybe the time I peed my pants at work. You really don’t need to know about that.

Best Bollywood movie ever

My roommate and I saw this when it came to the Milwaukee Film Festival. If you watch the trailer, I guarantee that you will be overwhelmed by your desire to watch the movie. Who cares if you still have no fucking clue what the plot’s about? You’ve got your robotic leopards, your gratuitous weaponry, and your beautiful dancing women. What more do you need?

Making new friends

During the first half of the fellowship, my job is to travel to 27 counties in Wisconsin and visit the social services agency in each one. In most counties, I also visit the job center, aging & disability resource center, or public library. In January, I’ll be writing a report based on my findings, which means that I’ll be traveling 2-3 days every week from now until Christmas in order to get to all of the sites.

I drive a truck—it belongs to my agency—but I don’t just drive a truck. I’m a trucker. I eat the beef jerky and everything. And what is it, exactly, that this trucker does? By day, I assess the agencies and the resources they provide to FoodShare applicants by interviewing clients and staff; at night, I go out to bars and try to make friends.

My first trip took me to Vilas County, which is so far up in the boonies, it’s basically in Canada.

That, right there, is what’s great about living in this state in the fall. Even if you only get to enjoy it for about a week before you start snowshoeing to work.

After visiting the social services agency in Vilas, I walked across the street and paid a visit to the public library. It was here that I made my first new friend.

She wasn’t much of a talker.

For dinner, I headed to the main street in town (the only one) and wandered over to the pub blaring Simon and Garfunkel. It was filled with lively people, all of them middle-aged or older and yelling over one another. I eyed a seat next to an overly friendly gentleman who was, the bartender insisted, “Completely harmless!” So I sat down and made my second new friend.

His name was Pepper.

He was the resident golf pro in the town of Eagle River, Wisconsin.

To give you some perspective, the population of Eagle River is 1,398 according to the 2010 census. (What does being the resident golf pro even mean when you’re probably the only person within a 90-mile radius who knows how to play? And, um, who do you play with?)

Pepper also sings at that very pub on Fridays.

Mostly Neil Diamond.

When he sings, he calls himself Diamond Pepper.

Oh, yes, he was real. And a bit handsy. Fiesty old man!

He was only the first of many new friends I would make in the pub that night, all of them older than my parents and each louder than the next. It was a good night.

Postscript: As I noted earlier, the population of Eagle River is 1,398. How many of those residents are Asian, according to the census? LITERALLY ONE PERSON. No wonder nobody bothered asking me if I was from around town. Everyone just kept saying, “Wait, so, how the hell did you end up here?”

Real world?

Where have I been? Well, we didn’t have internet in our apartment for like two weeks. And then, I don’t know, I got busy, okay? What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? NO HABLO ESPAÑOL.

Just kidding I love you please don’t leave me.

As this blog is supposed to be about how I’ve recently been hurled headlong into the real world, I guess I could tell you a little bit about what that means instead of avoiding talking about my life as a post-grad by recounting weird shit that happened during my childhood.

As of early September, I’m living in Milwaukee, which is the largest city in Wisconsin, which is a state in the Midwestern United States that borders Canada and produces a lot of cheese. It used to produce a lot of beer, which is why its baseball team is called the Brewers. It doesn’t produce quite as much anymore, but everyone still drinks a lot of it. Since human beings can’t live on cheese and beer alone—though I do welcome counter-arguments, as I have no empirical evidence—Wisconsinites supplement their diets with massive quantities of bratwurst. Here’s what Wisconsin’sPlate looks like: (No, I couldn’t omit the apostrophe. Yes, I know it would look better without. Yes, I was born this way.)

I’ll be here for six months, for the first half of a one-year social justice fellowship program. Until February, I’m part of the advocacy team of a large food bank, working on a research project assessing the resources available to clients applying to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), formerly called the Food Stamp Program and known as FoodShare in Wisconsin. Except for my field site partner/roommate, who was placed with me in Milwaukee, our other fellow fellows are living and working in several other cities across the U.S. The fellowship began in late August with training in D.C., where, for 10 days, we ate, breathed, and repeatedly had unprotected brainsex with poverty in the U.S., federal nutrition programs and policy, and systems of oppression. Every day. It was the most amazing and traumatic experience of my life.

But it didn’t stop there! Although my fellow fellows and I are separated by miles and timezones, the strength of our community is palpable in the daily emails that fill my inbox with important articles on current events, engaging discussions about hot topics in the social justice world, and a reminder to think critically about literally everything.

I need to point out that the New York Times debate series on the SNAP Restaurant Meals Program (second link above) is hardly evenhanded and presents the topic in an inaccurate and biased way. My personal opinion to come in a future post, along with adventures in almost-Canada, the best Bollywood movie ever, and more on Wisconsin’s weird obsession with bratwurst. Preview: Sausage jumpsuits.

Three firsts, part 2

Read part 1 first.

My first boyfriend

My first boyfriend was a 12-year-old boy we’ll call Tom. I sat next to Tom in history class, and we became friends the day he read aloud from the textbook and unintentionally read “Atlanta, GA” as “Atlanta gah.” I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. He was always making me laugh.

Halfway through the year, he asked me to be his girlfriend in a note passed to me during science class. Flattered, I quickly wrote back saying yes. We spent the next months holding hands on the way to class and walking to each other’s lockers after school before parting ways—he, to his bus, and I, to musical rehearsal. I considered my first relationship a great success.

Until one day after school, when we were walking together and he ambushed me mid-sentence, unceremoniously planting a wet one on my left cheek.

“What the—” I stopped in my tracks and gaped at him. He grinned back.

“Bye!” he said gleefully, disappearing into the crowd of middle-school students stampeding toward the bus corral.

I stood paralyzed, staring blankly at the spot where he had just stood. The kiss had been a wet one indeed; my cheek tingled in discomfort under the unwelcome attachment of excess saliva. But even if it wasn’t a kiss on the mouth, it was my first kiss-on-the-cheek-from-a-male-who-wasn’t-my-father, and, determined to preserve the sanctity of the moment, I stubbornly resisted the overwhelming urge to wipe it off with the back of my hand, a towel, a scalding shower. No, I insisted, my first kiss on the cheek would dry au naturel.

This mistake proved to be fatal to our relationship. For the rest of the year, every time I looked at Tom, I remembered how the minutes had stretched on intolerably as I waited for his slaver to evaporate from my face. Whenever his hand touched mine, I shuddered, remembering that after the last droplet of saliva had finally dried up, my cheek had been left with a thin layer of crusty residue that crinkled whenever I spoke. Why? I thought constantly. Why did it have to be so wet?

I became obsessed with his mouth. I studied it constantly and discovered that it was shaped differently than most everyone else’s. When it was active, say, during lunchtime, it wasn’t as noticeable. But in a state of rest, the lips naturally puckered out. They were almost fish-like. Through meticulous observation, I noted that only one other boy in our grade had similar lips, though they weren’t as fishy as Tom’s. The common denominator? The trumpet. Both boys played the trumpet. When they played the trumpet, their lips puckered. Through some terrible stroke of fate, Tom’s had become permanently so.

At the end of the year, I broke up with Tom and made a note in my diary to avoid the lips of trumpet players.

Three firsts, part 1

My first love

My first love was a boy named Du-shik. He was four; I was three. He was far more sophisticated than the immature three-year-old boys I was used to, and more impressively, he was two inches taller. When adults asked who I desired as a future mate, my standard answer (Daddy) was phased out in favor of Du-shik. Dad pouted at first, but eventually he moved on, as I had, and joined the rest of the parents in finding us—mostly me—adorable. Although he was apathetic to the idea of marrying me, Du-shik tolerated my company and occasional physical advances, and that was enough for me. When I turned four, my family moved from Wisconsin to California, but I wasn’t upset; I knew we would find a way to be together one day. They say your first love is forever, I thought happily.

When I was nine, my family visited our friends in Wisconsin over vacation. I had been counting the minutes until my reunion with Du-shik for weeks. As I waited for Du-shik’s family to arrive at the house where we were staying, I thought I would explode from the anticipation. I chewed on my nails. I bounced in my seat. I ran laps around the grand piano.

When Du-shik finally walked through the door, I gasped.

He hadn’t aged well. The bowl cut hair and baby fat that I had found endearing during his pre-K years seemed out of place and awkward on his adolescent frame; the quiet, sweet boy I remembered had been replaced by an exuberant video game fanatic who considered imitating flatulence the pinnacle of modern comedy. I studied him with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

They’re wrong, I realized.