Oppression is a Double Bagger.

I talked to my long time friend Miranda this week. Here’s a snippet of our conversation:

Miranda: I find what you have to say on race fascinating.

Me: Thanks, Miranda!

Me Inside: Doy, yah. I’m fabulous. Where have you been?

Miranda: I don't think I'm as stupid and naive as a lot of others when it comes to that, but I can't possibly really know what it's like and for me it's really interesting and thought-provoking to know.

Me Inside: You’re not stupid because you are abso-fucking-lutely right to say I’m interesting!

Miranda: I didn't choose to be white, but I think a lot has to do with how people use it/abuse it or don't. Being fat mimics a lot of what you're talking about, it's something else I didn't choose, but is discriminated against all the time.

Me Inside: Ooooh, soap box time! Damn it, this box is too short. I’m still like, only 5’7” standing here. If only I have a couple of phone books. Who has those anymore?

Me: It all comes down to power and class. The latent current of power and oppression manifests itself through different methods. Those in power need a way to separate themselves from those without. The power system identifies the targeted populations by picking arbitrary shared characteristics, marginalizing the groups with identifying traits. For this country, classes are often separated by visual physical differences, such as skin color, body size, and clothing. In countries where looks are more homogeneous, the power manifests more in non-visible traits like political party and religion. The marginalized groups are prevented from the benefits of social institutes and services. I don't hate white people, I hate the white centered system of oppression.

Me Inside: Nailed that point pretty well. I should treat myself to a bubble tea today.

Miranda: I hate society's inability to accept differences in general.

Me: I don't even think society has an innate instinct to dislike differences. I think people use differences as an excuse to exercise power. Prejudice is a tool of oppression. Oppression is the abuse of power. For an oppressor, denying the rights of people is not enough because one will eventually question the merits. The marginalized groups must also be stigmatized, dehumanized, and out of mainstream in order to justify the actions of the oppressors. At the end, it’s not the color of skin that matters. What matters is which color has the power.

Me Inside: Oppressors are douche bags.

Thanks, M!

Capris or Shorts?

A couple of years ago, I was at REI, the hearth of Northwest white liberals. I saw, no kidding, zip off hiking capri pants. I wish I can find a picture of it to show how ridicules they were. I am quite impartial to the capri style, so my opinion (as always) is very bias. I’m a short person and capri pants make my look squat as a pumpkin, a cute one, but still a pumpkin.

The idea is you wear these pants when you start out on a hike in the morning. They modestly cover just past your knees. Later in the heat of the afternoon, you can conveniently zip off the lower part to make them shorts that hit just ABOVE the knees. Ta-da, shorts for a warm afternoon! Wow, a whole four inches. Good thing you’ve got those freaking awesome $90 zip off Capri pants, worth every penny. Because damn girl, your knees were getting really hot in there! Those four inches of extra air flow can make or break your whole hike.

Asian Characters for Tattoos

Tattoos of asian words. You’ve all seen them. Sporty Spice had a “Girl Power” tat and it was like totally cool when I was a Spice Girls fan back in high school. Okay, I’m still a fan. I do remember as a child I saw one my dad’s friends with the Chinese words for “marijuana” tattooed on his forearm. I asked my dad why his friend would have that tattoo. My wise father quietly told me that his friend thinks the words mean “Good Luck.”

Actually, he wasn’t using his quiet voice. When people around us don’t speak Chinese, he uses his big booming voice like we’re at some open air market. I think it’s a form of defiance and self pride when he spats negative comments extra loud in Chinese since “they can’t understand anyway!” This happens often much to my brothers’ and my dismay.

Back to the story, I was appalled that my father wouldn’t tell his friend the truth. My dad taught me to be a good honest hard working person. He is the definition of honor to me. But he went on to assure me that “It’s too late for the truth now.”


Sidenote: I knew what pot was when I was around 12. Somehow, that feels a little wrong.

Interracial Dating and Marriage. Post #1

Asian Chick-White Guy
There are lots of these combos walking around.

Asian Guy-White Chick
Not so many.

Asian American Men Beware!

First, a Korean American gunman at Virginia Tech in 2007. Now Jiverly Wong at the NY American Civic Association shooting.

Asian American men beware of backlash.

I worry about my brothers and father everyday. If they accidently glance at the gun section at Walmart while checking out the tennis rackets, people will be running out the store.

Today I feel lucky that I’m a woman because the backlash will miss me. Asian girls are all nice, demure, petit, good at math, and work as bank tellers. We don’t do anything bad. We make nice wives.

Crash my ass.

I hate the movie Crash. There I said it. Everyone loved it. I could barely sit through it. It’s a bad racist movie disgusted as a liberal conversation starter featuring white heroes and poor trapped black men. Stupidest movie ever. Harold and Kumar did more for social understanding than Crash can ever imagine.

Oh, same with Blood Diamond. I couldn't even finish that gem of a performance by Leo. Djimon Hounsou, why did you do it? Were you young and needed the money? I'm going to stick to that. You were desperate for a job. You are so much cooler than that colonial steeped farce of a movie.

I *Heart* Rice

Rice. I love you. I hate you. I can't live without you. I hate the way you stick to clothes. You fall from the table onto my chair, smashed up onto the seat of my pants. A thick film of paste, impossible to remove. Walking around with you stuck on my clothes is more embarrassing than living my worst hair day. I hate you when you dry up into little bullets that are as hard as diamonds on my socks. You reveal yourself the next morning inside my shoe, reminding me of our lifelong bond. I try to keep you off the floor, but always you sneak into the tentacles of the carpet. But I can't live without you. One week without rice, I start to get the shakes.

Why rice? Why do you torment me so?