Friday, October 07, 2011

Provocation

Just finished reading The Help. When the movie came out, i was intrigued. I knew i had to read the book. I didn't want any imagery laid out for me. My mind makes the best pictures.

The premise of the story resonates with me on several levels. Humanitarianism has been dear to my heart for years. Life is not fair and nobody ever said it was. The only fair thing we can do is to look at a situation from all angles. It's easy to hate. It's quick to hate. But to walk in someone's shoes, to try to understand. To me this enriches the human experience.

Not long ago, a friend on FB updated his status:

Just watched The Help. Now I want to beat up white people.

Man, was he missing the point. Of the entire book.

Then there's the childrearing aspect that rattles me viscerally. The fact that my mother was not my primary caretaker, either. She made the bucks. She provided. But a child remembers the person who tended to her needs when she was hungry; when she was sick. When she needed a maternal figure.

I remember when i was in grade school i used to wish that my father would divorce my mother and marry my Aunt Teresa so we could be a real family.

Now, i have struggled with that very simplified notion. The feminist in me keeps arguing if a woman is not good enough a mother unless she stays at home full-time, outside of the work force. I can't reconcile that.

My Aunt Teresa, under-educated and far from insightful, who happened to also have worked as a maid before she married my schizophrenic uncle she'd been caring for, did nothing inspiring like teach me self-respect or human intrinsic values. But the selflessness and the dedication i witnessed. And remember. And am grateful for.

I know it takes a village, but to this day i wonder what it would be like if all those good qualities could be one embodiment. Does this just mean i'm not very enlightened?

Speaking of feminism, I sure am delighted by the idea of a female character in that era who does not necessarily worry over being single in her early twenties when she is surrounded by friends with babies. Especially when the man she fell in love with does not get the importance of what she's doing, the greatness of it all. He does not get her. NEVER marry someone who does not get you.

While The Help is set in Jackson, Mississippi in the '60's, I am reminded, with disgust and sadness, that the subservient culture is still alive and well today in many parts of Asia (that I know of). Women from the Philippines and Indonesia, among other nations that chronically suffer a shortage in jobs, are exported into more well-to-do parts of the continent to work as live-in maids. College-educated women. Can you imagine the humiliation? And yes they are still expected to act meek, Yes-ma'am this, Yes-sir that. Miles and miles from home, they don't get a lot of days off. Their only family in a strange land are other maids. And the wealthy societies go and mock these women in so-called comedy, reinforcing stereotypes on what these women look and sound like. It's all a joke to them, as if they've chosen this.

Right now i have friends on FB, people i went to school with, who have posted statuses like, "I can't wait till my maid is back from vacation!" Seriously? That's your biggest problem? Makes me cringe.

Heck, i also recall, back in the '90's, when i was still living in the L.A. area and hanging out with Persian "friends". There was this particular family that had done well for themselves. They had this Hispanic woman who came in to help a couple of times a week. They called her Mexican then, cuz, you know, it was L.A. Now i'm not even sure that was her heritage. I will never forget the way she'd look around the house, tiptoeing, speaking softly, if speaking at all, rarely speaking unless spoken to. The family acted civil with her when they had company. But i swear there was fear in her eyes. When i would smile at her, thank her, etc. she could barely look me in the eye. She'd turn away, as if even smiling back would get her accused of slacking or something. I wondered time and again, what might someone have said to her in the past? To have broken her spirit? The last straw was when the matriach was the family would stress, in the presence of company, "We don't treat her like help." Really? From where i sat, that was all they'd ever done. At any rate, if you didn't see someone different than you, is there a need to mention the nonexistence of that difference?

I know the classes and the deep-seated mentality of "we're better than them" are not going away any time soon. I'm just glad, every now and then, someone writes a book to shake us up a little so some of us don't forget how ridiculous we can be and still are.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Scanned

The other day I happened to glance at my grocery receipt that read: "Your cashier today was SELF". I cracked up. Guess i just never paid close attention before.

I've checked myself out at the store many times now. Glad to see that it's becoming a trend. Why not? Less manpower, minimum supervision. Customers prefer the paced control. Everyone is happy.

The way i see it, it's for impatient peeps who are not lazy. And with the 15-items-or-less stipulation, it is *usually* faster. Even when it's not, you don't notice it, cuz it's you. We notice when others are slow.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

First World Problem*

I am so tired from Bollywood class. And it was only the second session.

I recently took up Bollywood Dance For Beginners. I've been fascinated watching it on SYTYCD. I've noticed all these Bollywood Cardio classes sprouting up all over. The increasing popularity intrigues me. Plus it looks like fun.

But i didn't want to be taking a workout version at some gym. See, it's always been a problem of mine to be confined while exercising. It needs to be fun, engaging not only the body but the mind also. Exercise for me can't be stationary or repetitive. I get bored.

Now dance i can do. I dig rhythm. I dig grace and precision. I dig looking like i'm in the know.

Just the 10-minute warm-up in the beginning of class kills me. I lack the flexibility and the stamina to hold a position. I've let myself go for too long.

But i give it my all. Once i start moving, sweating, getting my heart pumping, hell, yeah, bring it on!

I'm reminded of when I was 16 when i didn't mind sweating. That seems so long ago. I had just moved to Brooklyn, NY, and, unaccustomed to being bused around and on a curfew compounded with having no friends, all I longed for was to sweat, to get my heart pumping, to be anywhere but inside. When the weather was nice I'd skip the bus and walked from school. It'd take me about 40 minutes. Piece of cake. I'd enjoy every minute of it. Wishing I'd never reach "home".

The beginning of not knowing where home is.

Tonight, in a mirrored studio, after a lesson even more strenuous than the last, i panted, soaked in perspiration, felt my chest heave.

I felt alive. I didn't remember the last time I'd felt that exhilarated.

There's gonna be a public group performance at the end of the quarter. I keep debating whether I should participate. I don't want to look like a fool. But something tells me if i don't, i'll be kicking myself for years to come.

Besides, as of tonight I'd already been selected to be in the front row on stage. So I'd better dance well!

(Later RJ would comment, "So you can't be that bad!")

After class, my paranoid self walked up to the primary instructor to make sure she'd be emailing us a video of tonight's series. Cuz there's no way in hell i'd remember otherwise.

Mariposa*assured me that she would as soon as Serena** the secondary instructor sent it to her.***

Then she smiled and added, "Good work, V."

I looked down at this petite young girl, probably half my age, whose smile had seemed timid just then. I felt like i was towering over her. I wondered if she wondered how old i was, what an Asian woman was doing in her majorly Indian (and neighboring nations? I'm ignorant) congregation. The only Asian there.

I don't know if she felt obliged for an utterance of encouragement, but i felt utterly approved.

When i came home, i felt filthy. My Nike True Dri top was sticking to my skin, not wicking away moisture as advertised. I complained to RJ about how hard it'd been, how i'd never manage to memorize every move, how beat i was.

Then i grinned widely and said, "But... It was fun!"



*A favorite hashtag between RJ and me
**Not her real name
***Oooh i just realized that together they're S&M!

Raw Silk 2

Not too long ago, i sang praises for "Irreplaceable" by Beyoncé.

It came on the radio again the other day. I still enjoyed it tremendously. However, the lyrics didn't sound right anymore.

Telling me how I'll never ever find a man like you...
I could have another you in a minute


No, i wouldn't want another like "you". I want different. Better.

I've advocated in recent years that, if you're doing things right, every new relationship should (hopefully) be an upgrade. With every experience you should have learned something about yourself and what you need which explains what was lacking - the reason you had to move on.

I am reminded of Adele's new hit "Someone Like You". She is trés talented and I am impressed by her second album entirely. Her soulful voice blows me away. I've tweeted, "How does someone so young know so much (about pain)?" Pain, when expressed beautifully, can be highly enjoyable. It pierces your core being and resonates.

But after having listened to the lyrics repeatedly, i don't agree with the sentiment.

Never mind i'll find someone like you

Again, i don't want someone just like an ex. That's why he is an ex!

Monday, September 05, 2011

Epiphany 25

You know what the one thing that bothers me the most about aging is?

It's not slower metabolism

sagging boobs

deteriorating brain cells.

It's the disappearing philtrum.

Saturday, September 03, 2011

Snippet 206

AC:
Gugu, are you married yet?

V:
No.

AC:
Why not?

V:
It's not the right time.

AC:
When is the right time?

V:
Do you want Gugu to be married?

AC:
Yeah. When?

Quote 253

You just got to learn to talk to people who aren't like you. It's called empathy, man.

- Galvin*, "Niece", Louis C.K.



*I may be misspoken