Tag Archives: trying to do the right thing

Raising Boys

As much as I lament the lack of girl presence in my household, I know I am blessed to have my boys. They tug at my heart even though they bruise my sides sometimes when they roughhouse; They have no control over and are unaware of their own growing limbs. They are protective of their mother even though I am often the butt of the joke made by them. (“Ha ha. You said Butt!”) They crack me up with their antics even though at least once every day I have to use my most unpleasant voice in order to be heard.

I am a tomboy. Magenta makes me physically ill. I am scared of dolls. It is probably for the better that I do not have girls. (I know I am committing gender stereotyping here. Guilty as charged.) On the other hand, what do I know about boys that equips me with the wisdom and strength to bring them up to become upstanding world citizens?

I know there are many excellent books out there on how to raise boys so they become well-adjusted, whole persons. Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, as has been recommended to me when the kids were little, is one of them. I have to admit though, I haven’t read any of these books. I am wary of reading parenting books. It’s probably the aftermath from reading dozens of books trying to teach me the right way to get my babies to sleep through the night and every single one of them failing me. Unfair judgement and gross generalization? Probably so.

That being said, the title of the book Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys has been on my mind ever since I heard about it.

First of all, the title itself is misleading: Not only do we need to make sure we construct an emotional life for them, afterwards, we also need to make sure to nurture and protect it. The premise of the book is that boys have been pressured by this society to be isolated from their emotions, and that it is becoming more and more important, with the increasing violence committed by young men to their peers in mind, to provide our sons with a well-rounded emotional education, to allow them to learn a vocabulary of emotions to express themselves.

As much as I agree with the above statement, the way I see it, this book, and all the other books, failed to ask the first question:

WHY does the emotional life of our boys need to be protected? What does it say about the society we live in?

We need to protect the emotional life of our sons because this society we are bringing them up in is obsessed with an uber macho image of itself. Instead of challenging the hegemony, they simply took it as a given.

Frankly I am tired of this bullshit. This cliche. What defines a man in this country.

We have never told the boys to stop crying because they are boys.

We encourage reading and writing. The appreciation of arts and music.

We allow them to like and own cute stuff. (Thank you to Japanese pop culture which provides ample supplies of cute imagery and items that do not churn one’s stomach).

We allow Mr. Monk to declare that his favorite color is pink. And then purple.

We allow loving rainbows.

We still snuggle with the boys now that they are no longer toddlers.

We have always engaged in frank conversations about our emotions with the boys.

We tell them we love them every single day.

We don’t watch sports on the weekend.

We don’t push them to go outside and play ball with the neighborhood boys.

My husband does not go fishing.

My boys do not play any ball-related sports.

They watched and LOVED ice dancing, realizing what an athletic accomplishment it was.

My oldest is in competitive gymnastics, a sport, frankly, as athletic as it gets, and yet, he gets teased by girls for doing a “girls’ sport”. (Fortunately we have managed to provide him with a well-rounded emotional life that he does not care…)

I know we are considered to be “odd” in the neighborhood, our being an interracial couple aside.

Once when a neighbor dad invited Mr. Monk to his backyard to play football (or some other ball) with all the other boys, Mr. Monk looked him straight in the eye and declared, “I don’t like sports.” He turned around, walked away, and then stooped to pick up a dandelion. The poor man looked dumbfounded. I didn’t allow him a chance to show me his “sympathy”. “I don’t like sports either.” I said nonchalantly as I walked away.

I am tired of how all these experts failed to question what’s defined as properly masculine in the US society.

Why doesn’t anybody wonder WHY it is perfectly okay for a man, any man, say, to wear pink, carry a purse, comb your hair in a European and Asian society? And yet it is a NO NO here in the US of A?

What happened in the relatively short history of the forming of this country that caused this? Surely Andrew Jackson could not have done this single-handedly. Could he?

With this thorn on my back, you could imagine my excitement when I came across a book called Boyhoods: Rethinking Masculinities. Oh Boy, was I ever! Especially since it has the endorsement of Judith Butler and Tony Kushner, I couldn’t wait to read some scathing argument against the preconceived notion of masculinity and perhaps there would be some explanation on why the American society is so distinct in its homophobic tendency. Yes, it is homophobia, hand in hand with this cultural obsession with machismo. Our men are so concerned with NOT being labeled as gay that they would go to great length to prove otherwise.

I was disappointed yet again.

The author basically preaches the concept that it is ok for boys to behave feminine since some of them do. And it is ok if they are gay since most of the feminine ones turn out to be.

While I agree with 75% of the statement above, I take issue with this automatic equation between Feminine Boys = Gay

Before I go on further, please allow me to invoke “The Seinfeld Disclaimer” first: “Not that there is anything wrong with that!”

The “feminine” tendencies as identified in the book did not trigger my “OMG something is wrong with my kids”-dar at all. Perhaps because I did not grow up in this country and of course, I am not male, I do not have all these nerve endings that automatically warn me against what will inadvertently be taken as “inappropriate boy behavior”. To me, things such as “dislike for sports”, instead of being a label for femininity, should be counted towards individualities and personal quirks.

Who defines what is considered feminine vs. masculine? I am not so progressive as to suggest that donning a woman’s dress is not sufficient enough to identify a male person as “against the norm”. However “simple matters” such as the preference of certain colors (pink), activities (knitting, cooking, arts & crafts) and companions (little boys liking to play house, or other quieter play in general, with little girls) as “signifiers”? We need to stand up and cry foul. The arbitrary, rigid line needs to be challenged.

I try. As they grow older, especially as my first born looking towards entering Middle School after the summer, I fear I may be fighting a losing battle. Soon, as dictated by the reality called Living in the USA, I will need to gear up to protect his emotional life for him as he slips further and further away from his emotional self so that he could be strong enough to face his reality called School Yard.

Trouble Maker? You talking to me?

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Sometimes I wonder whether the teachers talk about the parents amongst themselves. I would probably be known as “Trouble Maker”. My favorite moment was when I confronted approached the principal at the Thanksgiving Feast:

“Could I safely assume that the headpieces the children are wearing are ‘turkeys’ and not ‘head dresses’?” I used the quotation marks and I gave him an “I am just kidding, but only half” look.

“Huh? Ohh. I am sure they are turkeys…” Well, he did not sound so sure. He sounded surprised. I was surprised that HE was surprised. You mean, nobody else but me wondered about THAT? Anyway, he’s been put on notice and he seems scared to see me ever since. I can hear him inside his head, “Oh. For crying out loud. What now?!” Fortunately for all of us, I work full-time and I hardly ever go to school.

Today I wrote an email* to my 6-grade-son’s teacher:

Dear Mrs. G,

D told me yesterday about Heather’s big birthday party bash. She has apparently invited the whole class to her house from 2 to 8 pm. It sounds like it is going to be an awesome party. The IT party of their childhood before they go off onto Middle School.

Being a pain in everybody else’s neck, I asked D whether all seven girls in the class actually do hang out with each other.

“Does anybody get left out? You know, it’s going to hurt a lot if one of them gets left out seeing how few girls you have in your class.”

I don’t know why. Nobody gave me the job of being purveyor of social justice. Like I said, I am just a pain. Probably born that way. I am sorry… Really. I am. Because I make troubles whenever I send you an email.

At my question, D paused and said, “Well, she sort of invited the whole class. Except one.”

“What? Who?” But I already knew the answer, based on things D has told me in the past.

“Charles Wu was not invited.”

“And she gave out the invitations to everybody else in class? Does Charles know about this?”

D’s eyes turned red. “Yeah. I think he knows.”

“We play with Charles during recess and we are nice to him.” He continued, his eyes getting redder. “I guess all that is just skin deep…”

I am not writing to ask you to talk to Heather about any of this. On the contrary. It will probably worsen Charles’ status on the food chain. Besides, if she is indeed forced to include Charles, I shudder at the thought of what’s going to happen to him at the party. Probably nothing. Exactly nothing. Nobody would talk to him or play with him. Indifference is the most hurtful thing one human being can do to the other.

I am writing, in addition to me being a pain, to let you know the situation in case Charles seems down lately. I am sure you have seen THIS many many times in your years of teaching. So please tell me I am making too big a deal out of this. (Yeah, I know. I wish I did not read Lord of the Flies either…) Please tell me that they all survive, that they all walk out of this unscathed. But I know, I never forget what happened to me in elementary school. And it still hurts because nobody talked to me about it when it was happening.

Sincerely,
[Me]

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Just in case.

The Golden Rule

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I can’t remember exactly what started us discussing the Golden Rule at the dinner table. Probably had something to do with the constant bickering between the two of them.

“Remember the Golden Rule? What is the Golden Rule?” I wheedled.

“I know: it’s something like ‘Love thy neighbors’.” My oldest has the knack of answering any question with utter conviction without knowing anything about it. I hope he goes into law or politics so as to optimize this talent one day…

“I know: We were just talking about it in our class…” Mr. Monk said.

“I remember now,” my oldest said, and he did, sort of, “it is something like ‘Do unto others how you would like to be treated’.”

“No! You are wrong! That’s not how it’s said!” Mr. Monk protested.

Before this escalated into another heated argument over nothing, I clapped my hands, “Okay guys. The official phrase is ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. But you know what it means. I just want to say this: ‘When in doubt, evoke the Golden Rule.’ Okay?”

“Reinforce Moral Upbringing of Offspring.” Check.

An hour later…

The two boys were wrestling on the floor. As Mr. Monk was being overpowered by his older brother,

“What is the Golden Rule? *pant* What is the Golden Rule?! Ahhhh. *pant* Hrrrmmmph. REMEMBER THE GOLDEN RULE!!”

Freedom from Want, Or The Case of the Golden Turkey

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Even if you don’t know its name, you must have seen this iconic painting by Norman Rockwell:

The name of the painting is Freedom from Want, by Norman Rockwell in 1943. Ever since its appearance and subsequent permeation into the pop culture and the collective American consciousness, it is also known as Thanksgiving Dinner.

This is the quintessential image conjured up whenever a family feast/celebration is mentioned.

Books, movies, TV shows. Countless re-presentation of this painting serving as emulation, improvement, critique, parody, and commentary of the definition of (“an American”) family, the imagining / celebration / debunking of it.

Mr. Monk asked me to make a turkey for Thanksgiving.

“But I am ordering it from Honey Baked Ham. Just like last year. And actually, just like every year.”

“A real turkey?”

“Hmm. Yes…. Turkey breast.”

Truth be told: the whole family, including my parents-in-law who visit us every Thanksgiving, will NOT touch the dark meat, except me. We are also not big meat eaters. Therefore a small turkey breast makes perfect sense. Waste not. Right?

“That’s NOT a real turkey then.”

“What do you mean it’s not a real turkey? You ate it last year and you liked it.”

“But I want a real turkey. You know, like they show on TV with a lot of people around the table…”

“You mean a whole turkey with skins and bones on a big plate? With the wings and legs and everything?”

“Yup.”

“And there are things tied around the legs and the turkey is surrounded by pretty, fluffy, green, things?” It’s obvious I am woefully unaware of cooking jargons…

“Yup.”

So, he does not really want a turkey, he wants what the TV shows and movies depict as a proper family celebration. I may be able to produce a golden turkey, with silver things and red strings tied around the legs, BUT I would still be unable to produce LOTS OF PEOPLE…

Here is his expectation:

Here is what I plan to deliver:

Clearly there is a gap.

This conversation sent me on a trip of soul-searching: Am I not making enough efforts to create the “right” family memories for my children? Am I guilty of depriving my children of living the “American dream”?

You have to forgive me: being a foreigner or maybe just being plain neurotic, I am forever self-conscious of “depriving” my children of the proper “American experiences”. Deep down, out of pride (which as I am well aware is one of the Seven Deadly Sins…) and sheer vanity, I want them to grow up just as American as the next kid can be, in addition to all the global perspectives I am trying to instill in them as well. I don’t want my foreignness to become somehow a liability. Well, like I said, sheer pride and vanity…

I was all ready to make Mr. Monk the turkey after an one-hour long conversation with my lone co-worker who drew diagrams, even a cross-section one, on the white board to explain step by step how to prep and cook a proper Thanksgiving turkey, including where and how and when to put on the silver things on the legs. I asked Mr. Monk again:

“Mommy will make you a turkey if that’s what you really want for Thanksgiving.”

“He’s not going to eat it!” My husband stepped in.

“Mom. I am NOT going to eat it. Just so you know.” Mr. Monk said somberly.

“So you just want to look at it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Note to Self: Do not watch cooking shows with Mr. Monk again in the hope that he may be tempted to widen his palette beyond plain pasta, white bread, and rice. So far, it has not worked.

Note to Self II: Check Mr. Monk’s Letter to Santa in case he asks for Martha Stewart to be his new mom. Not that I could do anything about it. But it would be good to know if I totally fucked up by not cooking him the golden turkey…

Towards a Discussion of Religious Pluralism with a First Grader. Gingerly.

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Seriously. This is how I feel every Saturday now...

Seriously. I fear this is true.

Scene 1

On our way home in the car, the 11 year-old lodged an official complaint against his younger brother for embarassing him in school: He talks about God too much. He said things like, “God created everything” in daily, random conversations, without prompting. On top of that, he also sometimes sports a British accent, according to his older brother, “Like Charlie and Lola!”

(Trying very hard not to laugh out loud since both kids were visibly upset).

“People don’t talk that way. It is rude. You can’t assume that the person believes in what YOU believe in.”

“He was telling Miss [Babysitter] about the Ten Commandments!”

“Well,” I attempted to smooth things out, “Miss [Babysitter] is probably not offended. At any rate, it is very possible she is Catholic since her family moved from Poland when she was in high school.”

“Isn’t it rude to assume?” Once again, he got me right then and there.

He was so indignant. Mr. Monk, my 6-year-old, started wailing. “I DID NOT! And why can’t I tell her about the Ten Commandments? She knows about them too!”

At the same time I was proud that we must be doing something right bringing up my oldest, I also felt panic. Surely my youngest is confused as hell. If we insist on him going to Religious Ed every Saturday morning, why can’t he talk about what he has learned there? And if there are people that do not believe in Jesus and God as taught in Religious Ed, for example, Mommy Heathen here, why does he have to believe? Of course, these were questions swarming inside my head as I sped home since the radio cranked up way high was not enough to drone out Mr. Monk’s indignant sobbing. He himself has not asked me those questions yet. Not that day. But they did come way sooner than I had expected.

Seriously? What kind of 6-year-old discusses religious pluralism with their parents?

Scene 2

“Why do people that were not baptized NOT believe in the same god as people that were baptized?”

The questions came. They came fast and furious. We were going to bed. Supposed to.

Not knowing how to answer this question, I decided to take the literal approach:

“Honey, you know that Muslims and the Jewish people believe in the same god that you do. [I am assuming he does for the convenience of having a conversation with him that would actually get us somewhere…] The main difference is that they do not believe that Jesus is the savior.”

Did I say it right? Is Jesus Christ the savior? I was sure I pulled that line out from one of the Christmas carols.

“Do you believe Jesus Christ is the savior?”

“No.” I said without hesitation.

I never talk down to my children. I made a conscious decision when I was pregnant with my first born and one day, all of a sudden, I realized just how heavy that burden is, to be responsible for another human being’s moral upbringing.

He turned away from me. I could see his shoulders heaving. He was quietly sobbing.

Oh my god. Was he fearing for my soul? Finally he turned to look at me in the eyes, very seriously, too serious for a 6 year old.

“Do you want me to learn that Jesus Christ is the savior? That GOD created the world?”

I explained that since his father is Catholic, and I am not, I would prefer that his father talks to him about this subject.

“No.” He said emphatically. “I want to know whether YOU want me to learn about this.”

I started to explain why we decided to have them baptized and have them attend Religious Ed: Moral upbringing. It takes a village.

Growing up, I was never religious yet deep down I understood the expectations of me to be good. To do good. Karma. Reincarnation. It was never explicitly taught, but I knew. Everyone of us knew. It is embedded in the culture. I am certainly not suggesting Asian societies/cultures are more moral. Ha. Far from it. My theory is that the subtle permeation in daily life of the implicit belief in Karma, in What goes around, comes around, in you do reap what you sow, makes it easier to conform to a certain moral code without an explicit religious upbringing.

My husband and I were alone in the city. Far away from any “villages” that we could count on as a moral foundation for our children. We thought, Catholic Church! Besides, my husband went through the whole Religious Ed ordeal ritual thing and he turned out fine, it just seemed a natural conclusion to draw.

“I don’t need you to learn about God, which god, I am not sure. You will have to make your own decision when you grow up. But right now, I want to make sure that you can learn right from wrong. That you will know to do the right thing when we are not around.”

With a stroke of genius, I used Spiderman as an example to explain Karma.

“Remember when Peter Parker let the robber go because he was mad at the man for cheating him out of his winnings, but later the robber killed his uncle?”

I think he got it. I hope he got it. He turned his back towards me again. Silence. But I could tell from his breathing that he was not falling asleep. It was almost midnight. My child with an old soul…

“Are you worried that mommy may go to hell?”

“Not really. I don’t know.” His voice was calm.

I told him about how when his broher was his age, he came home one day after Religious Ed and asked us, “Are you and daddy going to hell?” Apparently the teacher had told him that his parents would be going to hell if they (we) don’t go to mass every Sunday.

“That was awful!” He commented. He did not sound traumatized. THAT. Seemed to be all I could have asked for that night.

How much do you tell your children when they are so young? Too little, you are sheltering them. Too much, you are burdening them. I decided I would make my one last pitch and let it be. Well, as much “let it be” as I could muster as a mother.

“I want you to remember this: there are people that will use religion as an excuse to try to get you to do things that you know are not right, to beleive things that you know are wrong. Anybody, ANYBODY, that uses religion as an excuse to talk you out of thinking for yourself…”

“… is wrong?” He finished the sentence for me.

“Yes.” I sighed and gave him a hug.

“Ok. I am going to sleep now. Good night.”

Then he was sound asleep.

Got Pigtail? Ugh. Halloween Costume Conundrum

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Every Halloween, we saw news reports and editorial comments on offensive costumes du jour. What I call Halloween Costume Conundrum. HCC.

This year, the HCC award went to Illegal Alien:

illegal alien

It was such a brouhaha partly because, in my opinion, it was sold through Target’s website. Target, the one mega store that does not seem to garner public ires, not yet. In fact, Target has been the trendy, cheap chic, darling for just about every social spectrum in the U.S. (It is amazing if you think about it. Kudos to their PR and marketing teams.) Protests against this costume started garnering support when immigrant activists cried foul, loudly. Several news programs commented on the costume as “distasteful” and “disgusting”, or even racist.

Now, I am as overtly sensitive as the next person of color, and probably have one of the largest chips on my shoulder. But my first reaction to this costume was:

That is clever!

You see: here the costume plays on the double meaning of “alien” and twists it around. The costume does not indicate the race/ethnicity/gender/sexual orientation of the wearer. It reminds us, or me at least, that there ARE illegal aliens from all over the world. (And as hinted by this costume, beyond this world even…) AND, the “alien” is holding a GREEN CARD, therefore technically, the being is NOT illegal.

Subversive, no?

Furthermore, it could also be saying: Underneath the appearances, we are all PEOPLE. Our common enemy should be the sons-of-bitches in the galaxy far far away that are scheming to invade Earth and enslave our minds and bodies. We are the world. Indeed. Nicely done.

Why would people look at this and immediately label it as “racist”? Doesn’t the automatic association of “illegal aliens = Latinos” expose the person’s own prejudice?

Why would the immigrant activists make the quick assumptions that the illegal aliens in the Extraterrestrial form are meant to target the Latino community? Although I agree that most people, whether they admit it or not, do make the equation readily, I wish the immigrant activists would have seized the opportunity to dis-stabilize the stereotype that has been haunting the Latino communities.

“Look at this costume. ‘Illegal aliens’ may not be illegal after all. And underneath that label / mask, that could be ANYBODY.”

NOW, the more progressive (and yes, the “annoying” ones, the “hyper sensitive” ones, the buzz killers, the trouble makers, etc.) bunch amongst of us wince at any costume that aims to convey a different race/ethnicity when it is donned. I still feel conflicted towards how I should react:

What if the wearer is a person of color? What if a Chinese person wants to dress up as a Geisha? What if an African American person wants to dress up as a Native American warrior or a Native American Princess? (Yes. I am channeling my puzzlement towards the Tyra Bank’s “Hapa disaster” on America’s Next Top Model…)

How about dressing up as a Bavarian with a beer mug in hand? Yodel-a-hee-hoo, Yodel-a-hee-hoo! Is that offensive to a person of Bavarian descent?

I do have a semi-answer to the above: A person of Bavarian descent would most likely be treated just as a “regular” person. White. Un-marked. Even if they do speak with an accented English, as long as they don’t speak, when they walk down the street, they are “Just like everybody else.” Whereas a person of color will always carry the visible indicator with them. We are marked. There are always assumptions, unconsciously, made about us.

“So, you are Chinese. You must like rice.”

Yes, I do. But when I look at a white person, I don’t go,

“So, you are white. You must like cheese.” Or, if you are a hip white person, “Sushi“.

Because I overthink things, especially things that matters to nobody else, I was at a loss when I saw this, at a costume shop, right in the middle of the PC, Liberal center of the U.S. – Cambridge, MA:

“What are you?” OMG, a form I could fill out wihout having to choose!

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My children are, in the common lingo, “mixed”. Or, if they want to be hip when they grow up and get into identity politics, they can call themselves Hapa, or, indeed, whatever the hack they want. If they want to call themselves a mutt, the way Prez. Obama did, fine with me too.

But despite my wish to chant along with “We are all the same deep down inside” and “We are the world”, reality always sets in when I fill out forms for the kids, especially when I register my kids for school.

Ethnicity:

White.

Black.

American Indian.

Asian.

Hispanic/Latino.

“Other” is not an option provided. Even if it were, I probably wouldn’t have chosen it anyway: There is no way I would self-identify my children as “Other”. The school district needs to recognize them for who they are. They are not OTHER, thank you very much. (Edward Said would be very proud indeed…)

For 7 years, I checked TWO boxes, and inadvertently, there was only one check left when the form was returned back to me to “check for accuracy”. The funny thing is, sometimes “White” was selected, and sometimes “Asian” was selected: the school system can’t seem to make up its mind. I guess it depends on what my children looked like on that particular day… I would stubbornly check BOTH boxes again and send it back.

That’s why I was so excited when I was filling out this form below: Has got to be the most PC form I’ve ever seen.

Drawing1

I do wonder though: Now that “Multi-racial” is a choice, under what kind of circumstances would one select “Other”?

“How to Care for Introverts”

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I saw this a couple of weeks ago from a twittie bird on Twitter… I clicked on the link, expecting it to be a funny, ha ha moment, “tongue in cheek”. I grew silent as I read the list. It describes my youngest almost to a T, and for the first time, I was getting an idea of “Where he’s coming from”.

It does not say much about my being an observant mother, does it? How could I have not seen? It is so obvious: The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) assessment has so conveniently divided people along this line: on one side you have your extroverts, on the other, introverts. It’s just that it has never occurred to me that we are living essentially in an “extrovert” world now.

There is an implicit, prevalent belief that in order to be somebody, you need to be an extrovert, or act like one, for most professions residing in a corporate structure. Of course, if you are a writer, an artist, or a musician, you are welcome to be as introvert as you need to. Hack, you can be crazy if that’s what floats your boat. I am sure the way human interactions have been moving onto the Interweb, into the virtual world, has allowed a lot of introverts to thrive. How many amongst us are “closeted introverts” that are gregarious and energetic online yet reserved and apprehensive in real life.

A lot. Judging by the sheer amount of comments on Reddit, almost 700 of them. This list received almost 2,400 “Up” votes, and 3,400 “Diggs“. A pent-up realization that it is O.K. to not to want to be around other people 24/7, to not be adaptive, to not enjoy change, to take a long time before making a decision. To be quiet. To be observant. To need to feel drained by other people. To want to be by yourself.

I like to joke that there is no manual for parenting. Well, this list sort of helps.

“A Class Divided”: Powerful experiment on how Racism can be learned, and in 15 minutes

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Some of you may know about this already, since this Frontline documentary was first aired in 1985. I have only heard about the “Blue-eyed vs. Brown-eyed” experiment done by a daring 3rd-grade teacher, but I have never actually seen the documentary until today. Through Twitter, of course. There is something to be said about the power of audio visual presentation.

I was impressed by the courage of the teacher, Jane Elliott, and awed by the outcome when I READ the description of what happened in those two days:

On the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered in April 1968, Jane Elliott’s third graders from the small, all-white town of Riceville, Iowa, came to class confused and upset. They recently had made King their ‘Hero of the Month,’ and they couldn’t understand why someone would kill him. So Elliott decided to teach her class a daring lesson in the meaning of discrimination. She wanted to show her pupils what discrimination feels like, and what it can do to people.

Elliott divided her class by eye color — those with blue eyes and those with brown. On the first day, the blue-eyed children were told they were smarter, nicer, neater, and better than those with brown eyes. Throughout the day, Elliott praised them and allowed them privileges such as a taking a longer recess and being first in the lunch line. In contrast, the brown-eyed children had to wear collars around their necks and their behavior and performance were criticized and ridiculed by Elliott. On the second day, the roles were reversed and the blue-eyed children were made to feel inferior while the brown eyes were designated the dominant group…

But the text does not prepare you for the visceral reactions you’ll be getting when you watch the actual documentary… I’ve got goose bumps all over me…

You can find the full 5-part program directly here and also Teachers’ Guide.

What is even more valuable as a lesson, and reminder, for all of us, even in this day and age, despite the sensationalism this documentary certainly has delivered, is what Jane Elliot said to have pushed her towards such a drastic experiment on her 3rd graders in an interview:

Yet all I could think of as I saw this attitude of sympathetic indifference develop was the way I had myself reacted to racial discrimination all these many years: Sure, an incident can anger you. Sure, you feel sorry about the way blacks are being treated. Sure, something ought to be done about it. And now, what shall we talk about?

Coda: I was surprised to learn that the small, rural, all-white community actually supported this experiment. The parents were ok with Ms. Elliot’s unique lesson plan. Upon further reading, the superintendent at that time was indeed under a lot of pressure to fire Jane Elliot. He didn’t. According to Elliot, “20 percent of the people in Riceville are still absolutely furious about what I did on April 4, 1968.” But the parents of her students never had any problem with her unique lesson plan…

It is probably the sign for the times we live in and my unrelenting cynicism. As I was watching the video and dealing with the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts forming inside me, one part of my brain was actually thinking, and I am not proud to admit it,

“Whoa. That took some courage for her to do that. I wonder whether she would have got herself AND the school AND the school district into a shit load of trouble if she were doing this NOW. Imagine the protests from parents…”

Have we somehow walked backwards some time when nobody was looking?

Maybe, just maybe, The People of Walmart has something to teach us?

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Scene 1:

There is this new website, People of Walmart, that’s gaining the buzz. (Heck, even The Bloggess mentioned them as “shit-I-didn’t-write-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome” for this week…)

(Note: Time.com also wrote about it on August 31, 2009, the day after this post was originally published.)

Here is one of the most excellent specimen, in all its glory:

(Do check out the guy’s YouTube site as advertised on the back of his jacket… Did I? Of course!)

Like a guilty pleasure and inexplicable obsession, I gawk at the pictures on a daily basis ever since I was alerted to its existence, shaking my head, unable to avert my eyes away from the grotesque. The proverbial Train Wreck, and I am one of the Rubber-neckers.

I tweeted. Sent the link to everybody I know. “Hilarious. You’ve got to see this!”

Scene 2:

Last week Jezebel.com brought this to our attention:

Glamour Shocks Readers By Featuring Plus-Size Model’s Belly

Lizzie Miller by all means is a gorgeous woman. We all agreed. The reaction from female readers to Glamour’s featuring her, tummy and thighs and all, is spetacular yet not surprising.

I want to believe with all my heart that this picture is going to stop myself from agonizing over my body image, to convince myself that what I see in the mirror is good enough – I am not greedy. I don’t ask for “gorgeous”. I am only asking for “confident”. But despite being a gullible person when it comes to panhadlers, I, decidedly, unconsciously, took a cynical stance towards this whole “Rah Rah Big is Beautiful” self-congratulatory outbreak of celebrations in the cyber space.

And as usual, I feel guilty because I desperately want to do the right thing.

Scene 3:

I came upon this blog post by chance:

News Flash! Average is Beautiful. Then Why Am I Having a Fat Day?

“Jane” eloquently put in words what I could not have expressed. The witty title alone summed it up. Here is the part that resonated with me, hitting me like a bucket of cold water and an injection of warm vodka at the same time:

So I sit here. Feeling fat. And all this media coverage saying size 12 is beautiful hasn’t made me feel much better at all.

Although many would consider my self-critique of being overweight as insincere whining, “Is she backdoor-bragging? That bitch!” Let’s face it, I am Asian, and if I am not willowy, I am considered fat. Also, I am just better at hiding the extra pounds:

Control-top panty hose, body shapers, smoothers, I have come to accept this, are my friends.

But are they really?

We have come a long way since the Corset scene in Gone with the Wind, or have we?

*See “Hattie McDaniel: What We Don’t Know About Mammy” for a re-reading of the Mammy character if this picture unsettles you, still, after you have seen it so many times…

Scene 4:

Back to People of Walmart, and this time, we encounter “Pink Belly“…

Part of me naturally gawked and tzzked at the unsightly middle bulge, the Muffin Top of all Muffin Tops, wondering why anybody in their right mind would let it all hang out like this.

“OMG, does she really think that is attractive?”

Part of me though wanted to say, sincerely,

“I salute you. I admire you for the courage that I do not possess. You go girl! Be yourself! Say No to corset! And wear whatever the fuck your heart desires!”

The Absence of Alternatives

My therapy sessions…