Monthly Archives: August 2011

“Have you no sense of decency, sir?”

I was as naive as could be. And possibly stupid. I now realized.

When I first read the op-ed by Warren Buffett in New York Times, “Stop Coddling the Super Rich”, on 14 August, in which Buffett expounded on the concept of “shared sacrifices” and argued for tax increase for the super wealthy, himself included, I thought, BRAVO! Now this should be a plan that at least 98% of the population can get behind of.

I would leave rates for 99.7 percent of taxpayers unchanged and continue the current 2-percentage-point reduction in the employee contribution to the payroll tax. This cut helps the poor and the middle class, who need every break they can get.

But for those making more than $1 million — there were 236,883 such households in 2009 — I would raise rates immediately on taxable income in excess of $1 million, including, of course, dividends and capital gains. And for those who make $10 million or more — there were 8,274 in 2009 — I would suggest an additional increase in rate.

 

He ended his well-reasoned proposal with this plea:

My friends and I have been coddled long enough by a billionaire-friendly Congress. It’s time for our government to get serious about shared sacrifice.

 

Why was I surprised that Fox News immediately rose up in arms and accused Buffett of inciting CLASS WARFARE (ironically when they are themselves the ones that continue to use such figures of speech)? The rhetorics employed by these pundits left me gagging and in shock.

 

(For those who cannot watch the video, here is the partial list of Fox News clips included in this Daily Show segment. You can find the entire transcript on Daily Kos)

NEIL CAVUTO (8/15/2011): Warren Buffett, writing how the rich should pay more taxes, but saying not a word about the half of American households that pay no income taxes at all.

STUART VARNEY (8/18/2011): Is that fair, when half the population pays absolutely nothing?

SEN. JOHN CORNYN, R-TX (7/7/2011): 51%, that’s a majority of American households, paid no income tax in 2009. Zero. Zip. Nada.

NEAL BOORTZ (6/1/2011): Many of them get so much money in tax credits … that it wipes out any Social Security taxes or Medicare taxes they’re paying. They are absolutely on a free ride.

SPEAKER JOHN BOEHNER (7/11/2011): … broaden the tax base …

MICHELE BACHMANN (7/11/2011): Everyone needs to pay something.

NEIL CAVUTO (8/6/2011): Before you start demanding one group pay more, maybe get everyone to put skin in the game.

ROBERT RECTOR, HERITAGE FOUNDATION (7/19/2011): When you look at the actual living conditions of the 43 million people that the Census says are poor, you see that in fact they have all these modern conveniences.

STUART VARNEY (7/19/2011): Poor families in the United States are not what they used to be. 99% of them have a refrigerator. 81% have a microwave; 78% have air conditioning; 63% have cable TV; 54% have cell phones; 48% have a coffee maker; 25% have a dishwasher.

 

[The technical definition of being poor is a family of four with an income of $22,350 a year.]

 

NEAL BOORTZ (7/6/2011): It is all-out war on the productive class in our society for the benefit of the moocher class.

JOHN STOSSEL (10/12/2010): The makers, and the takers.

BILL O’REILLY (10/12/2010): They want to take it from somebody else.

LAURA INGRAHAM (6/29/2011): Everyone’s jumping in the wagon, no one wants to pull.

NEAL BOORTZ (6/22/2011): … parasites we have out there depending on government …

NEBRASKA ATTY. GEN. JON BRUNING (8/18/2011): The raccoons, they’re not stupid, they’re going to do the easy way if we make it easy for them, just like welfare recipients all across America.

ANN COULTER (8/15/2011): Welfare will create generations of utterly irresponsible animals.

 

[The bottom 50% of the people, the moochers, the takers? They control 2.5% of the wealth. ]

 

What happened to Compassionate Conservatism? Remember that? They don’t even bother to pretend to care any more?

As I laughed at Jon Stewart’s sardonic commentaries, at the same time, I felt my eyes burning. Out of frustration. Out of shame. Yes, I feel ashamed for these people. The Haves. The “class” that I belong to. All I could do to calm myself the fuck down was to recite these lines that Joseph Welch said to Joseph McCarthy during one of the infamous hearings:

 Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last, have you left no sense of decency?

 

Where I’m From

I am from sunshine, sweat, and bricks of humid air.

I am from have you eaten yet.

I am from rice, salted fish, stir-fried greens, from soy sauce, sesame oil, vinegar, from ginger, star anise, and cayenne peppers.

I am from concrete jungle, clothes lines stretched-across the rooftops, the smell of sun in the fabrics, of gardenias, jasmines and sweet osmanthus.

I am from morning glories winding along random barbed wires, coconut trees lining the streets crowded with motorcyles, from white azaleas strewn on the ground after thunderstorms like discarded Kleenexes.

I am from greetings, and salutations, from strangers in the streets who are also uncles and aunts and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and grandmas and grandpas.

I am from blood is thicker than water, from you don’t turn your back to your family, from families stick together.

I am from proper, ladylike, and demure. From handkerchiefs and silk scarves and pocketbooks. From you should always make sure your hand is not empty and idle. From knees together, ankles crossed.

I am from politeness, decorum, and unwritten rules that everybody abides by.

I am from hospitality, from it takes a village, from gossips and busybodies.

I am from if you swallow the watermelon seeds it will sprout from the top of your head, from don’t point your finger at the new moon otherwise she will come and cut off your ear when you are sleeping at night. From if you cry or misbehave, Auntie Tiger will come and eat you up.

I am from humility, gratitude and contentment.

I am from nobody owes you anything, from be grateful even if someone gives you a mere roll of toilet paper, from nothing you get is because you deserve it.

I am from temples, incenses, and gods and deities.

I am from reincarnation, from Karma, from eighteen layers of hell.

I am from lurid ghost stories of vengeance, from spirits within magnificent rocks and towering trees.

I am from convention, contradiction, and confusion. I am from Post-Colonialism, Late Capitalism, and Rampant Materialism.

I am from the proletariat.

I am from the hushed wrath of my father, the quiet disappointment of my mother.

I am from a bottle of Aspirins.

I am from the deafening silence of a mid-summer afternoon when the only thing you could hear was the cicadas.

 

Many thanks to Elly over at BugginWord for writing her beautiful piece “Where I’m From” and for alerting us to this wonderful writing exercise. Of course, I did not follow the rules in the template, not because I am some rebel chick but because I am not good at writing descriptive scenes. 

Repost: My Problems with “The Help”

Apparently many of my friends from my “real life” LOVE The Help. Love it. They are telling people on Facebook to “GO SEE THE HELP. RUN. NOT WALK!” including a dear dear friend who studied and wrote about Apartheid in South Africa. As I ponder how much I should share my perspectives with her at the risk of hurting her feelings and alienating her, I re-read my post from January 20. 2010, and nope, my view has not changed. Since the movie adaptation is receiving rave reviews all over and I have not seen my Anglo-Saxon lady friends so enthusiastic about a movie with an African American lead since The Blind Side (yes please argue why the African American characters are at most CO-lead, and you’ll be right in my book), I feel compelled to share this post from almost 2 years ago again.

Or, actually, skip this post entirely and go read My Brown Baby‘s post “I Was the Help —- and My Experience Taught to Dream Big“. If you have been reading my blog and liking what you have been reading, I have a feeling that you are going to appreciate very very much what Denene Millner, the autohor, has to say about the book, the movie and the reception of it. Peace out.

 

REPOSTED from January 20, 2010

I probably don’t need to publish this post on my blog. It is not appealing. It is not good writing. It will not make you laugh out loud. It is not even a proper rant. Besides, it is friggin’ long – I am amazed at how much I tapped out on my iPhod, and tedious. I am not even making any coherent argument, not to mention grammatical errors! Run-on sentences! totally exposing myself as a feeble-minded person. Even the title spells “MEH”.

That being said, I feel this pathological need to be on the record, I guess. Since I have been treating this blog as my diary, I want everything that comes out of my head to be on here. So, sorry about this… mental puke…

I brought the book, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett with me on my flight back home last December. I have had the whole flight between IAD and Narita to ponder on this book. I won’t even attempt at writing a review since I am really not qualified to do so. And at any rate, there are already more than 1,400 reviews on Amazon.com. Furthermore, all the book reviewers in the major news outlets have done so and waxed poetic on this book, with one of them comparing The Help to To Kill A Mocking Bird.* I will just make a list of things that I have been chewing on. By Tap Tap Tap on my iPhone (without a SIM) and therefore heavy editing involved thereafter.

Spoiler alert: If you are thinking of reading this book, you should skip this. I will also be 100% honest with myself, which means I will be contradictory, at times nonsensical, and possibly offending, especially if you love the book.

Confession first: I enjoyed reading this book tremendously. Cliché, yes. Truth is: it IS a page turner. For me. From the moment when I opened it in August when I first received it, I could not completely put Aibileen out of my head until the Christmas week, when I finally had time to sit down and read the book in long stretches.

The stories are riveting. The voices are, as much as I hate using this word because it is often confused with “stereotypical”, or at the very least “archetypal”, the voices sound to me “authentic”. That is, when I was reading it, when I was caught up in the drama of the story that was being expertly told, when I was kept in suspense as to the safety of the women, when I was hoping with clenched fists and a racing hear that they would triumph over evil and that justice would be done. Well, justice be done to a certain extent, in the strict confines of the story-telling.

Now I ask myself: How many Southerners do I know? None.

Do I know any African American domestic help? Nope.

What do I know about Southern dialects and accents? Not a thing.

So what do I know about whether the book is “authentic” or not? Hasn’t this always been the gripe I have against books like Memoirs of a Geisha? That a fiction novel, on account of its main characters being of a non-white race, is evaluated and praised for delivering an “authentic” portrayal. Do we even care whether Dan Brown’s characters are authentic or not?

Damn the identity politics theories I read, classes I took.

I cannot help, in the back of my mind, though I immensely enjoyed the stories of these women, that a white woman took possession of the black women’s stories twice, especially after I read Kathryn Stockett’s personal note at the end of the book: like Skeeter in the story, Stockett wrote the black women’s stories and gained wild success.

I understand the above statement reeks of identity politics, but I cannot help the gnawing feelings in the back of my head.

What bothers me even more is Skeeter’s cajoling, forcing almost, these women into telling her their stories because she was told that she needed to write something that nobody had ever written before in order to get into the publishing world. Throughout I was extremely uncomfortable with her motive: next to the all too real risk to the black women’s lives, her motif seems so trivial. Selfish even. What is the potential downside for her engagement in this feat? None too serious really. And indeed, there was a happy ending for Skeeter. But for Minnie and Aibileen the future remained uncertain.

Although I do wish something horrible would happen to the wrong-doers and was a bit let down when it didn’t, I do applaud the author for not cheapening the story by taking the easy way out. They are still in the mid 1960s in Mississippi and it is not like they are going to all of a sudden find true equality by the end of the book. I need to give the author props for not providing her White readers with an easy cathartic way to assuage the white guilt. “The villain that caused such misery is dead/appropriately punished, all is well in the universe. Now get on with your merry life.”

As I mentioned, the book received gleaming reviews. From White book reviewers. This could be racist on my part, and certainly identity politics at its worst as some might say, nevertheless, I feel I NEED TO know how an African American reader may feel about this book. NOT because a white woman from a privileged family in the South wrote this book, but because, again, despite my immense enjoyment of this book, and yes indeed I feel guilty for liking this book when I started wondering how my friends back in my graduate study classes would have said about this book, I cannot ignore the conflation of the tropes: 1. the White heroine being rescued, or finding self-realization, through Black folks around her that she does not socialize with, 2. Black people, unable to help or save themselves, being rescued by a White person.

I imagine this book already optioned by a movie studio. Or soon will be. Anyway you look at it, it IS going to be a great vehicle for some of the outstanding African American actresses, and god only knows how hard it is for a good script with a strong minority character lead to make it all the way to some head honcho’s desk. I do hope that the script and the actor that portrays Leroy would breathe some more life into him rather than the one-dimensional wife-beater. When in doubt, we reach for the things we share as women: abusive husbands, cheating boyfriends, sexist Chauvinistic patriarchs. In that process, our men are further demonized. Joy Luck Club immediately comes to mind. I can’t watch that movie without cringing. Not a single man in that movie is worthy of loving. Is it why it was accepted by the white mainstream audience? “Poor Asian women. They are so much better off over here. Away from their men.”

When The Blind Side came out, and the Internet was all abuzz about what a feel good movie it was, it immediately raised the mental red flag for me. “Feel good” means, to me, “Not for you. You are probably not the target audience/reader. Stay home. Otherwise you won’t feel good.”

I asked an African American columnist whether she planned to see the movie,

“No. We don’t consider that movie an attractive idea.” She said coyly.

* The surest way to incite heated debate against the worth of any book is to compare it to the beloved To Kill a Mocking Bird… So if you hate someone, yeah, go ahead and compare them to Harper Lee.

The Ice Cream Index

Earlier today I learned of these numbers today from Mature Landscaping:

Salary of retired US Presidents ……………$180,000 FOR LIFE
Salary of House/Senate ……………………..$174,00​0 FOR LIFE
Salary of Speaker of the House …………….$223,500 FOR LIFE
Salary of Majority/Minority Leaders …… $193,400 FOR LIFE
Average Salary of a teacher ……………….. $40,065
Average Salary of Soldier DEPLOYED IN AFGHANISTAN $38,000

 

I had been feeling unsettled by a gnawing sense of guilt and shame ever since. That’s probably why when we caught a glimpse of the evening news, I suddenly blurted out,

Did you know how much a soldier that is currently fighting in the war is paid? A year? $38,000. That’s how much!

The boys immediately were feeling just as outraged. “That’s not a lot of money right?” The Teenager got a bit emotional. “And they are risking their lives over there!”

8-year-old Mr. Monk got up on the coffee table and pontificated as he’s wont to.

You know what? What we need is for the economy to get better!

I swear I have no idea where he got this (or any others). We seldom watch TV, let alone news. I wonder whether this has anything to do with his endless viewing of The Simpsons. In fact, he watches The Simpsons so much he’s able to quote some of the episodes the way The Husband is able to quote The Princess Bride.

You know how you can tell the economy is getting lower?

(He is, after all, only 8 years old…)

The free ice cream at ______ Burgers is now so small that you only get the bottom part. It used to be as big as the Dairy Queen’s!

Hold the thought while I contact The Economist about the Ice Cream Index idea.

Shoot

A couple of weeks ago, I was in downtown Chicago with my family. We do that from time to time: using the hotel points we racked up from business trips for a weekend in downtown Chicago. A Staycation. (Sorry for using the stupid buzz word) After a most satisfying lunch at Berghoff where I was surprised by one two of the best Tom Collins I’ve ever had.

Berghoff is billed as a historic restaurant in Chicago. A classic. A landmark. A local gem. You know what that means. That (usually) means it is a tourist trap and therefore I was not expecting much. Following the theme of Lowered Expectations, I was absolutely blown away when I took a sip of the Tim Collins. I have been looking for a good, old, solid Tom Collins for a while now, and I have been to quite a few places where the bar tenders actually asked me, “What is a Tom Collin?”  Not making this up. Little did I know that I would have found The Perfect Tom Collins that one afternoon when we sort of gave up and walked into Berghoff because it was still open for lunch at 3 pm and was not crowded.

After lunch, The Husband announced that he needed a nap. (Don’t say anything. I know. Ugh)  I looked at the boys, “Well, mommy is going shopping. Whom do you want to go with?” “Dad!”

*Cue evil genius laughter on my part*

That’s how I got two hours of Alone Time wandering around the Chicago loop area by myself.

The streets were mostly empty.  I took my time, walking slowly, deliberately, yet aimlessly.  Occasionally I would stop, whip out my phone to take a picture of something that struck my fancy. Lamp post. Intricate carvings on a building. Wrought iron works. Brass decor on top of an elevator door. Of course, my idea of me being a great street photographer trumps my actual photographic skills and that is why none of those photos are featured here. Believe me when I say that the images are whimsical and beautiful and fascinating when I have them framed like this with my mind:

Click. Click. Click.

Of course, while I was taking my leisurely stroll, I had no idea that the pictures were coughcoughcough so I was walking around with the aura and euphoria of a street photographer exploring the beauties around me.

At one point when I stopped to take pictures of a wall scone outside one of those gorgeous Chicago buildings, a guy doubled back to ask me whether I would like a picture with the wall scone. I laughed and explained that I was simply taking random pictures of random objects. “Because I am crazy like this.”

Oh, yeah. I do say things like that to random strangers. I am indeed crazy like this.

“If you like Chicago architectural details, you really should go into this building over there,” he pointed at a building not far from the crosswalk where we both stopped at the light. “It has an amazing lobby with all the original details intact.”

Alas. (See above).

But all was not lost because when I came out from the building, I spotted a bride and a groom being led by a real photographer towards a deserted intersection. I ran. I was shameless. By god I was going to get that shot of the photographer taking a picture of this couple standing in the middle of a Chicago intersection.

I had just watched the trailer to the documentary Bill Cunningham New York and I might have been mistakenly inspired…

How ironic would that photo be. How awesome!

But when I got to within the optimal (photo) shooting range, I could not raise my phone. I was shy. It felt awkward even though there were others taking pictures of them.

I couldn’t help but smile because it was a lovely sight and walked across the street away from the trio, trying to look as if I meant to cross the street all along. As soon as I turned my back toward then, the little voice piped up,

“God damn it! You need to get over this! Chicken!” I thought to myself. “They won’t mind. People gawk and take pictures of brides all the time.”

“FINE!” I turned around to snap a picture and then quickly walked away, as if I had done something wrong.

 

The Lesser of Two Evils

Yet another interesting conversation with my 8-year-old that makes me worry…

[In the car]

Mr. Monk: Mom?

Me [Distracted by This American Life on NPR]: Huh?

Mr. Monk: What’s the drug that starts with an M?

Me [Paying attention now]: Eh… You mean Methamphetamine? [Crap! How did he know about Meth?!]

Mr. Monk: You know what I think? [He IS the King of Non Sequitur] I think that the best way to get rid of an addiction is to have another one.

Me [Trying hard not to freak out. Deep breath]: Eh… Where did you hear that? Who told you that?

Mr. Monk: Nobody. I came up with this theory on my own. Let’s say you want to quit smoking, won’t the best way to quit smoking is to become addicted to some other drugs?

Me: Ok. It does not work that way, honey. Addictions don’t work like that. You are going to end up addicted to BOTH cigarettes and whatever drugs, and that would be really really really bad.

Mr. Monk: Oh. But wouldn’t it be better if you are addicted to cigarettes if you have to choose?

Me: Ok. Let’s say some crazy god comes down from heaven and says to you, “Thou shall choose an addiction!” Then yes, hypothetically speaking, you should choose cigarettes. Or if someone sticks a gun to your head and make you choose. Then yes, go for the cigarettes.

Mr. Monk: Yeah. Because cigarettes will cut your life short but drugs will ruin your life completely.

Me [Kind of relieved]: Well, I sure hope you never get yourself into a crazy situation where you are forced to choose! Ha ha.

Mr. Monk: Then why do they have Marijuana added gum at Walgreens for helping people quit smoking?

Me [So this is where the FIRST question came from. M is for marijuana. I should feel better about this. But… WILL THIS NEVER END?! And what was the last time we were at Walgreens? Wasn’t it a week ago?!]: What? WHAT?! Oh I am pretty sure you saw it wrong. First of all, it is illegal to sell marijuana. [Yes yes, I omitted the whole exception for medicinal use. But I think I deserved a pass here since I was trying hard not to crash the car!] I don’t think Walgreens would sell some gum with marijuana  in it. You must have read the label wrong.

Mr. Monk: Yeah, you are probably right.

[Silence]

Mr. Monk: Mom?

Me [Holding my breath]: Y–E–S?

Mr. Monk: What does CVS stand for?

 

My son. Champion Player of Free Association.

 

If I could tell you one thing about parenting

My 8-year-old, known as Mr. Monk here, is singing a song that he improvises right now. In the middle of the Kaleidoscopic of lyrics, I heard,

 

Thank you for being our mother.

 

I chuckled. “I honestly do not know how to take that.”

“Well, don’t take it as an insult. I am not being sarcastic.”

“Well, thank you.” I said while remembering what I did to deserve this: Did not get home until 8:30 because I was trapped on the train due to a wind advisory while the kids stayed home by themselves; Fed him leftover chicken from the rotisserie chicken I bought on Sunday but forgot to take it out from the fridge; Gave him half-melted ice cream which I did not remember until an hour after I got home from the grocery store.

This goes to show that whatever you do, keeping the expectations low is going to make parenting a lot easier.

 

A Reason as Good as Any

Conversations that happened yesterday…

(Proving that thank goodness I work fulltime so I don’t spend too much time talking to my kids…)

 

[On the way to lunch]

13-year-old: My friend is jealous. He thinks we have the coolest license plate ever! [Be rest assured: It is dorky.]

8-year-old: Oh, mom, we should keep this car forever so we can keep our license plate.

13-year-old: Dummy. We can keep our license plate even when we have a new car.

Me: Actually they have made the rule so that people can pass down their license plates to their kids.

8-year-old: You mean when you die, we can have the license plate?! Cool!

Me (failing to be concerned by his excitement):  Actually you two will probably fight over it. We need to get another cool license plate.

[A lengthy discussion ensued regarding what other cool (and equally dorky) license plate we could get]

[At the restaurant]

Me: Ugh. I forgot my ring… Speaking of my ring. I need to update my will. Now that I have lost both my engagement ring and my wedding ring, I no longer have anything to pass down to you.

13-year-old: Nice job, mom!

8-year-old: You mean you have written down what we are getting when you die? When you die, do we get everything?

Me: Technically, no. When a person dies, and if they’re married, their spouse would get everything. That’s how most people set up their wills. Oh, remember that Mr. Monk episode? (Yeah, we are polite to fictional TV characters) Remember the guy had to pretend that his father died after his stepmother? They both already had kids when they got married. The husband left his son everything; the wife left his daughters everything. The man actually died before his wife, so the son would have lost everything. That’s why he went through the trouble to make sure that people think his stepmother died after before his dad.

[Pause while the boys digested the twisted plot line]

8-year-old: Can you do me a favor? Can you and dad never get a divorce so this thing won’t get so complicated?