Under Consideration

I don't know what it is about New York City but I always learn something new about myself and the world at large while I'm there.

When I found out Banksy was taking up a month's residence in the five boroughs I thought it would be a great opportunity to see his work in person since I have no hope of visiting his usual hits in London any time soon. I asked a friend to come with me to find his works, but we didn't do a very good job--we were distracted by other things, like food and used books. (For the rest of this blog post you'll have to know these two things: my friend and I are both girls; she's black, I'm Asian- a Filipino, to be exact.)

At one point during the day we caught ourselves in the MET. At the top of the grand staircase she introduced me to Stuff White People Like (SWPL). I knew it was a book, I didn't know it began as a blog. Apparently, white people like some of the following:

1. Banksy
2. TED Conferences
3. the Idea of Soccer
4. Manhattan
5. snowboarding
6. Non-Profit Organizations
7. Scarves

As we skimmed some of the listed blog posts we laughed very, very hard, never mind that we preferred the small screen of her smart phone to some of the MET's most treasured works. Anyway, we came across one that intrigued me: Asian Girls, but the page refused to load, so we resigned to view an external page: something of a reaction to SWPL's blog post about 'Asian Girls'.

I do not think I need to tell you what we discovered. The actual SWPL blog post wasn't horrible. In fact, when I read it later I found it moderately amusing. The reactions to it were, well, to say the least, surprising. Many of the reactions made me cry, which I suppose doesn't say much because it's not that difficult to make me cry, but, do you know, I can't remember the last time I felt diminished because of my ethnicity. I admit, I am plagued with self-inflicted derogatory statements, but I can easily deflect my own jabs. I am unpracticed when it comes to a stranger's jabs.

At the time of my initial reaction, I did not know if I was grateful or ungrateful that I was so ignorant of such ignorant, racist, prejudiced thoughts and beliefs. I was torn--make this #753 existential crisis of the year 2013.

Do I really look like an expensive hussy when I walk side by side one of my male white friends? What do you mean when you say that Sandra Oh is 'the Elephant Man of Asian women'? Have you ever seen an elephant man because right now I'm sure he's more attractive than you are.

Am I not supposed to age physically though many birthdays pass? Am I always to look like I'm a twenty-something with perfect skin and weight because I'm naturally genetically engineered that way- never mind I have ancestors who were also Spanish therefore making some people think I'm actually Puerto Rican, or Hawaiian, or, once, I got Somalian (I was really tan one summer).

But then I stopped crying. We were then distracted by other things, and who wants to talk about racism when you can talk about religious ignorance? (Feel free to interpret 'religious ignorance' as you wish.) Our day in the city was not to be ruined!

So, eventually we ended up in a used book store where I found a few books written by Thomas More; etc. I considered buying it, but then I put it down because (1) I already bought a new journal and (2) as much as I admire Thomas More, he's a European White male which usually would not deter me, but where are the Asian theologians? Did More have any Asian contemporaries? But ethnicity doesn't matter right?





When I was a college student (two years removed now) I was one of, like, I think, six Asians on campus- I attended a predominantly white school- and the other five Asians were international students from Myanmar, so they were much more Asian than I was. Anyway, I was reading a book in the hall way when one of my favorite professors, Godblesshim, approached me:

Professor: Justine! There you are. I'm glad I spotted you. I have a question: you're Filipino, right?

Me: Yes? Haha, why?

Professor: Well, you know that class I'm teaching [something about diversity in classroom, I don't remember what it's called], well, in our textbook we have a chapter on Filipino students so I was wondering if you'd like to come in and- I mean, I know you're not speaking for the entire Philippine nation, but just for us to hear your perspective.

Me: Sure, that sounds fun! Actually, it's funny you ask because I've been talking with another professor about ethnicity and identity- I would love to come into your classroom.

So, I bought my own copy of the text book. I get to the chapter, which is entitled "Families with Pilipino Roots". I'm excited: I'm about to have a text book definition of my culture that will act as a foundation I can build upon when I read this (both quotations are from Developing Cross-Cultural Competence):

Understanding the Pilipino American character is complex. The differences among Pilipinos in terms of history, language, familial and other forms of affiliation, religion, education, and individual experiences can be great. Although this chapter provides some general insights into families with Pilipino roots, great caution and consideration must be taken to prevent perpetuating stereotypes. Although many Pilipino Americans have a shared history and common cultural experiences, other factors not related to being Pilipino may have a more decided influence on their self-identities. 

Damnit! My culture doesn't even have a text book definition! Generally, all the other ethnicities listed in the text book have definitions, why doesn't mine? Because

' "Neither history nor geography permitted the Filipinos time to consolidate their parochial and isolated strands into a culture integrated enough to repel outside pressures and influence." Throughout centuries of colonialism, Pilipinos have nevertheless avoided becoming 'carbon copies' of their colonizers. They have pursued a dual historical path of understanding, accommodating to, placating, or opposing the overwhelming power foreigners have exercised in their lives while simultaneously preserving what is essentially Pilipino in themselves. '

Oh, dear God, who am I?

When I attended the class as a guest-speaker I spoke solely on my behalf, and can recall saying (this isn't word for word): "Students are students, no matter the ethnicity. Don't just assume that this text book will offer you everything you need to know about how to deal with students who are Native American, or European, or Latino, or Hispanic. Your future, potential students are still individuals."




So, if students are students; if students are still individuals, why do I care so much for Thomas More's Asian contemporaries?

Why does it bother me that I don't know any of Lewis' Asian contemporaries?

Don't even get me started that religion is predominantly male-oriented (although some of them still act like immature, spoiled thirteen year old girls). Where are my female role models?

St. Patrick's Day, yes- if Patrick were a Patricia, would we have St. Patricia's Day?

I hope that I am not diminishing the importance of God's work in these men's lives. I am not.

I'm not saying that Native Americans and Europeans and Latinos and Hispanics are easier to define that Filipinos.

Because we are all individuals influenced by internal and external situations.

I get that, I do.




A little later in the evening my friend and I were eating at Whole Foods (ironically, another thing that white people like), when a few seats away were these really loud black guys. Just- they were loud; and I was already tired, and subconsciously cranky from my own dealings with racism, and I made some comment to my friend about how I could never date a black guy- Godblessher, she didn't slap me right then and there.

The day after we talked about my revelation: I am racist.

Friend: Justine, you're not racist. You're prejudiced. If you were racist- racism means you hate people of that race. You don't hate black people.

Me: Ha, if I did, I wouldn't be your friend. Thank you, you're so wonderful to me. If I ever become racist, shoot me.

Friend: Hey, I got your back.

And yet I am still haunted with questions of race/ethnicity and gender.





Upworthy recently sent me an e-mail with this video:


He expresses everything I have ever thought, much more cleverly and precisely than I ever could, or would dream, and it's ironic because he's still a white male, although he himself recognizes that women of every color have expressed these very thoughts. Then I realize: the messenger is not as important as the message. 

"I always get asked, 'Where do you get your confidence?' I think people are well meaning, but it's pretty insulting. Because what it means to me is, 'You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a very marginalized person. You're not skinny, you're not white, you're a woman. Why on earth would you feel like you're worth anything?'" -September 2013 issue of Parade Magazine

My Greatest Fear

I am writing a story, and so far, I am loving it. I have all these ideas and they're all meshing together so wonderfully, it's like someone's writing through me! I've had this sensation before, but never for an extended period of time--no, it's not this constant high (I'm not under the influence, not illegally, at least), and it's also not made me ignore all of my other responsibilities. I am thoroughly enjoying this story and I can't wait until I'm done with it...although that may not be for another year or so.

Now, while I enjoy writing this story (it's fantasy/science fiction, by the way), and though I want to finish it...what do I do with it after I'm done?

"You publish it! Online! With a major publishing company! Or an independent publishing company!"

"Well, yeah, but...what if they hate it?"

"Who cares?! This is your work! Let your story shine!"

"No, no, no, I don't think you understand. I care a great deal if people enjoy my work. It's- it's my work. What if people don't like it? What if it just collects dust on the shelf? What if it ends up like-?"

"Like what?"

"What if it ends up like that one book?"

"What book?"

"Exactly!"

"You're being ridiculous."

"I know, it's just...I want people to like my work."

"And they will."

"How do you know? Who's they? Why do we keep talking about them? They don't really matter but they do! I mean, I envy a posthumous sort of fame but, that's my mind. Would my heart be able to work through a posthumous fame? Could I be an Emily Dickinson or a Vincent van Gogh?"

"But you're not either of them so it doesn't matter."

"You're right. You're right."

"Didn't van Gogh consider a posthumous fame? Didn't he write that down in a journal?"

"Yes! But not because he actually wanted it! He just wanted the stars and breezes. Oh, I can never be as good as him. He wanted fame neither before nor after death! What a selfless human being. How dare I want posthumous fame."

"...are you going to have your story published or not?"

Working in a book store I lay my hands on a lot of stories that won't ever be read, or, at least, read and recommended for future generations. I cannot tell you how many times I've accidentally seen my name written on the byline and shivered. What if my story is overlooked, overwrought with well-meaning but pointed criticism? Such as:  "Miss. Triunfo, though attempting to write a fantasy novel after the fashion of Tolkien, Le Guin, and Gaiman, has, instead, single-handedly murdered, with her trite tale, the very Respect the fantasy genre has had to build over decades. Any who wish to seek out fantasy literature as a prescription for under active bowel movements should read Triunfo's work, unless her work caused your under active bowel movements."

And I would say, "Is this the part where I wear white for the rest of my life? How about cutting off my ear?"

But this is just a dramatization. It is, right?

Sitting Upon the Throne

When I think of my heroes, my idols, not many come to mind. I have many people I admire, many people whose traits, accomplishments and ideas I would love to mimic in order to make my own, but heroes? Those people are just...unnatural. They seem so beyond my reach. I am not a god, and I don't really aspire to be one, but all the people that would be worthy of the title 'hero' they're all gods.

I am not a god.

I'm not smart enough to be a god. I'm not physically fit enough. I'm not ambitious enough. (What else are heroes supposed to be?) Oh, I'm not that good with witty banter! Even if I did have super powers I don't even know that I'd be agile enough to want to practice them. I barely use the muscles (brain muscles, too) I have now which apparently have the potential to do awesome things!

Then I sat on the toilet.

Haha. I know. When I titled this blog post 'sitting on the throne' you probably weren't thinking of its slang definition.

So, I sat on the toilet and thought, "WAIT A SECOND!- all my heroes are human. All humans have to go potty. And if they don't go potty they're covering up their BM problem!"

If there is any time when a person is simultaneously physically and mentally vulnerable it would be when he is sitting upon the throne. I don't think I need to explain why. I hope I don't need to explain why.

I mean, think about it. All your heroes have to go to the bathroom.

Iron Man has to go to the bathroom.

The Hulk has to go to the bathroom.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have to go to the bathroom.

Aang had to go to the bathroom.

Do Thor and Loki have to go to the bathroom? Do actual gods have to go to the bathroom?

The Capitol forces themselves to go to the bathroom so they can just eat and drink more.

But who likes to think of heroes, or regular people for that matter, going to the bathroom? That's so nasty. And yet, we all go. What else do we all do?

What was it Watson told Sherlock? "People want to know you're human."

Because as great and different as our heroes are, they wouldn't be considered heroes if they're...followers?- couldn't relate to them. An un-relatable hero is a dictator. We don't like dictators. So, yeah, now that I know my heroes are as human as I am (except for Thor and Loki) I have to discover what they did differently from those who aren't heroes.

Oh. Heroes who often appear or give speeches full of hope, love, peace and happiness were probably without, or had at one point doubted, hope, love, peace, happiness only to have it thrust back into their faces. Heroes can be made. Heroes can be unmade. Heroes can be shy or obnoxious. They can be anyone.

'In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, "Anyone can cook." But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist can come from anywhere.' -from Disney's Ratatouille

Sit on that throne.

Garden Variety

Fears will always present themselves and unlike gardens, there's nothing I can lay down underneath the nutritious dirt, no newspaper, mesh, nothing that will keep a weed like fear from growing. And so what if weeds start to grow? Is there nothing more satisfying than pulling them up myself, personally uprooting the little buggers with my own hands: you see, I own my fears, not the other way around.

Although, you know, I'm not even sure I know what I'm growing. I really ought to label all the rows.

Hopefully, I've planted a garden variety of dreams.

Hopefully, I'll have planted ripe, juicy  red tomato-y dreams, alongside practical, sturdy brown potato; only to be complemented by the deep, warm purple eggplant. I could hardly do without the smooth, cool green cucumber, and I find it hard to believe that anyone wouldn't want to plant tart, distinct white onions, or the nutty, sweet orange carrot. Will I have the fun blueberries, strawberries; the exotic mangoes and grapes?

Hopefully, my garden will have basil, cilantro, mint and rosemary, thyme, dill, chives and coriander--I don't even know how to use these herbs--for what's life without flavor? (Can I grow spices?) I think I've also planted tulips, roses, maybe I've built a pond with water lilies floating at the water's edge, and koi swimming underneath--what's life without fragrance? 

Hopefully, I'll have built stone paths, and small ledges with a seat or two interrupting the pattern. Maybe I've a gazebo where I've mosaic'd the wood, hoping visitors would reach out to touch and find its hidden surprises--a diamond or two in the rough.

Well, now, I can't feel half as afraid now, can I?

And even if I did plant an entire field of corn in the hopes of planting different fruits and vegetables, what's to stop a lioness from hunting in it? 

"Secondhand Lions"