Sorry American airport security, but why would you want to make the life of an innocent Canadian lamb needlessly difficult?
Pros of being sent through the ‘random’ search line/not being cleared from the automatic customs machines: Yay! I get to budge in front of everyone and not wait another 30 minutes!
Cons: Get your hands off me. I don’t care how hot and muscular of a Pinoy airport security officer you are. My butt is sacred.
“Do you want to go to a private room?”
Hells to the no! At least here in front of all these people you’ll have to keep your molesting in check. Oh well. When it comes down to it, I’d rather be ‘patted down’ than have unnecessary X-rays blasted through my body. I’ll leave the airport porn fantasies to other people.
Once you get this you have to say 5 nice things about yourself publicly and then send this to 10 of your favourite followers.
Tagged by ro-mantik
Sleuth – I have a really scary people-centric memory. I try to keep it hidden from most in real life, because people are naturally egocentric. They think that I somehow target them as an object of affection and start becoming scared of me. The thing is, I find it hard to forget details, emotions, or events related to their lives, because to me, everyone is honestly a special snowflake (feel free to throw up). Obviously, among those snowflakes, I esteem some more than others. My memory, mixed with my intuition, also makes it extremely difficult for people to lie to me over long periods of time. One inconsistent factoid is enough for sirens to start blaring in my mind.
Smell – On my recent roadtrip across America, I stopped for two nights in the house of a friend of a friend. The house itself was seemingly haunted and could only be described as ‘ratchet’ (raccoons living in the wall, decaying wood throughout the entire structure, garbage strewn all over the place, an ant infestation, etc…). However, the worst thing about my living situation was the fact that I was sleeping in a bed that reeked of body odour. Yes, he was a burly white jock. When I got home five days later, the shirt that I slept in still reeked of his stench. Despite the fact that I have light dusting of body hair, complete with a treasure trail, I got lucky with the scentless Asian genes. After going to the gym today, I stripped down to my underwear and took a prolonged nap before taking a shower. When I woke up, the sheets still smelled like ‘Spring Meadow.’
Soloist – I am a hopeless romantic and the notion of love is very appealing to me. I have never been in a serious relationship before, but I am quite a capable individualist. That lack of a partner, romantic or otherwise, never stopped me from going to the theatres or checking out a hip restaurant alone, despite my preference for one. I don’t know how I will view this (hypothetically) in twenty years if I am still single, but I would rather be alone with pets than ever settle for someone who I did not love.
Soul – I’ve always been a compassionate person. I am usually seen as calm and reserved, a trait seemingly reflected by my icy-exterior, but I am quite warm inside. Injustice, especially against those who are unable to fight back, ignites a forest fire inside of me. I find it hard to forgive people who have crossed my douche/insensitivity threshold.
Superficial – There are quite a few things I am not fond of in terms of my appearance, but there is one thing I wouldn’t switch out for the world. I love my dimples. To give you a reference point, mine are as deep as Mario Lopez’s when he smiles. It’s also a trait that also happens to join my mother, sister, and me together, so I appreciate that small, outward connection that we share.
Tagging… Oh my. I don’t think there are ten people I follow who haven’t done this challenge yet, but anyone who wants to do it should!
Are there any angry Asian-Dutch girls here? My name is Janet. I am a Chinese girl who’s born and raised in the Netherlands.
As an Asian minority living in a white community, I can relate to your personal stories. Since I was little, I’ve been called slit-eye and “poepchinees” (translated as “poop Chinese”, which is a normal Dutch word, sadly enough). When I was 11, I started my first day at a new school. Another kid on the playground yelled “Look, a Chinese. What the hell is a Chinese doing at our [white] school?” Such a warm welcome. One time, a random guy at a party asked me about Asian women’s sideways vaginas. I was angry, but my boyfriend at the time told me to “relax”’. He told me the guy was “not a racist and actually very nice”. Well, fuck you very much. Two guys once followed me down the street and kept shouting words like konnichiwa, happy ending and ching chong.
A lot of Dutch people think racism doesn’t exist in the Netherlands. They act like this country is “post-racial”. To them, every racist remark and microagression is “just a joke, lighten up”. Someone even said it’s “typical Dutch humor”.
There’s an old Dutch children’s song called “Hanky Panky Shanghai”. It’s basically a nonsensical song that mocks Asian languages. They might as well called it the Ching Chong Song. This video (1:14) shows little children internalizing “innocent” racism by singing it at a birthday party. The video is from 1997, but schools are still doing this. I would always cringe when they sang this at my elementary school. I didn’t understand why everyone (even the teacher) was mocking my language and my culture. The kids would pull their eyes back and say “This is how you talk right? And you don’t have to pull your eyes back, because your eyes are already slanty.”
Last year, a Chinese contestant on Holland’s Got Talent was ridiculed by the Dutch judge. This was exactly the racist shit I encounter every day. It made me angry that the Dutch media and people dismissed the racism. To them, it’s “an innocent joke”. This was it. Enough is enough. Then, a lot happened:
I wrote an article about dealing with racism as an Asian in the Netherlands, which got published in a big Dutch newspaper (NRC). I also created the platform “Number 39 With Rice”, a Facebook-page that attracted 4,000+ likes in a few days (it may not sound much haha, but The Netherlands has a small population of only 16 million people). My platform attracted attention from the media and I was invited to a very well-known Dutch television show to talk about racism (which garnered 1 million live viewers). It felt amazing to stand up for myself and others. A month later, 39 Chinese restaurants reacted to the racism by offering a 39% discount to their menu item number 39. The Asian-Dutch community finally spoke up.
After that, I’ve got a lot of hate mail from white people who told me to “go back to my own country if I don’t like it here”. I should be able to “take a joke”. Even a few Asians told me to shut up and not cause a “stir”. Fuck that.
My biggest inspirations were my Asian-American sisters, like AAGU, Fascinasian, Angry Girl Comics, Kristina Wong and Jenny Zhang from Rookie. Although the hate crime rates in the US are much higher than in The Netherlands, to me the US is a place where minorities can stand proud and fight back. I would love to study a semester in the US en meet Asian-American sisters who are also proud and loud. We don’t have Asian organisations in the Netherlands that speak up against racism. Growing up, I’ve never had empowering Asian rolemodels. I felt lonely and blamed myself for being “too sensitive” when someone called me slit-eye. And now, on my platform, other Asians tell me they admire my fire. I feels good to be a rolemodel and inspire others to stand up for themselves. No, you shouldn’t be silent when someone mocks you language, culture and heritage. Tell them they’re rude, or re-appropriate stereotypes by telling them “Yes indeed, my mother’s maiden name is Ching Chang Chong” or “That waitress in the Chinese restaurant is my sister” (something I’ve learned from Jenny Zhang). Be ahead of the game, show them how ridiculous stereotypes are and most of all: stand proud.
After everything I’ve done for the Dutch Asian community, there are still days where I feel powerless and just want to bury my head in the sand. It sucks to deal with racism. It sucks to think about it. Till the day I die, I will encounter racist assholes. My children will have to deal with them, and their children, and so on.
Most Dutch Asians would rather be silent, suck it up and “stand above it”. But they’re not standing above it. They’re ignoring racism and rather act as the “model minority”. Although they say they admire my guts, they do not want to stand up against racism. I feel different, as if I don’t belong with the white AND Asian people.
Yesterday, it hit me. I felt lonely as hell. I love my Dutch friends. But no matter how much they tell me they support me, they will never truly understand how it feels to be Asian in a white community. I have always been the only non-white person in my friend groups. I really need to go out there and find more Asian friends. I need my brothers and sisters. I can not fight this battle alone.
THIS. 100 times, this.
Dude, this is so well said.
— Tyler Knott Gregson (via jhbrd)
1. Accept that you will never really understand your INFJ. If it were possible for anyone to 100% understand any INFJ, an INFJ would have wrote a book on it by now. But the truth is, even we INFJs can’t completely understand ourselves, so we don’t expect you to. But we can tell when you’re…
Truths. Life ain’t easy for us, but we wouldn’t have it any other way
I wasn’t going to write this publically, but while I was doing food prep, the song that I associate with the star of this story came onto the radio. I took it as a sign.
Sasha and I met in the first year of university… The first day, in fact, when my Thai roommate brought her into our room for a thorough Febreeze-ing session. I quickly learned that she was the ringleader of her trio of privileged, Toronto private-school girlfriends. Although she lived three doors down from me, I did not think much of her during the first semester for a combination of reasons. I found her outward persona off-putting (I found it fake), she became fast friends with my Thai roommate who I found equally fake, I had this to deal with, and I was still acclimating to university life. Something about the way she expressed herself didn’t quite sit right with me, but I thought that perhaps I was projecting my ideals of behaviour too strongly. Like the waxing and waning of the tides though, my relationship with her slowly improved as time marched forward.
The Biology lab we had together in second semester served to cement our relationship as friends and friends we became. Over the next three years, few days passed where we did not communicate. I was the first gay friend she had; this was significant, given her pretty secluded, strict Christian upbringing. Exposure to me and my barrage of love interests during university ensured that she became extremely tolerant, if not completely accepting, of the fabled residents of Sodom. As our friendship continued, my initial misgivings about Sasha began to bubble again. I wondered about the emotional depth that she invested in our relationship and even asked her point blank about it. But after her denials of my misgivings, I always gave her the benefit of the doubt…
Then came the final semester of my senior year. A plethora of reasons had me jaded about school at that point, but I was also poisoned by my torturous living situation. I sometimes kid that I suffer from PTSD from those last two years of being stuck with the same toxic roommate, but most jokes contain some truths. It became so bad that I felt like my only option away from her was to leave university by withdrawing from all my classes, deferring my degree, and leaving the city for a semester. In the culmination of my unhappiness, I needed someone. The first person I called was Sasha. There was no answer. She texted that she was in class, and I followed up with a message that read, “I feel like absolute shit right now.” I never wrote things to her that read like that, especially not when they were accompanied by a call and no context. I didn’t expect her to leave her class to call me back, but when the clock ran one hour ahead, two hours ahead, three hours… I began to lose hope and the depression spiralled. Four years at this school. Nobody I felt comfortable enough discussing my current problem with. How pathetic, I told myself, as I started dialling back to Vancouver. As I was lying on my too-soft mattress nine hours later, my phone lit up the room, her name boldly announced on the screen. I looked over at it with empty eyes and let it run its course.
I was still foolishly optimistic the next morning. Maybe Sasha would reach out to me. This was my own test, in a way. I was tired of being the one initiating everything between us. One week passed. Nothing. Two weeks. Nothing. The weeks stretched into months of zero communication. The funny part? I actually swallowed all of my pride I had left between us and started talking to her. Every time, her first reply would read something along the lines of, “Where have you beennnn?” I couldn’t take these slaps to my face anymore. Sasha, if you had wanted to know where I’d been, all you had to do was reach out and show me that somehow, I had crossed your mind or that you had actually been concerned about me. I gave up. Three years later, I burned that bridge. I should have never doubted my initial instincts, even as she questioned how I could give up on ‘us’ so easily. Ironic, as she gave up just as easily after one short, half-hearted Facebook message.
So… Why this story? You remember how I met up with #3 for cake two weeks ago, post-romantic feelings? He knew of you, generally, and I told him this, “This year has been such a mess so far. There aren’t very many people in this world who make me feel secure, but he does, and I think that’s the best thing that has come out of 2014 so far.” We both trust our intuition, but after some experiences (Sasha being one of them), I do now more than ever. I dote on moments of transience and ephemeral beauty, but I hope those descriptors never come to characterize our relationship. I know that trying to keep someone too close can lead to an opposite effect, so I’ll try to never smother you. But know this: I am the antithesis to Sasha. I hope I will never make you question or doubt my sentiments. I never expected Sasha to leave her class when I needed her the most, but I will carve out a niche for you no matter how busy I get. As much as we both esteem pretty words, time will give mine substance and then they won’t just be words anymore. Always proud of you.
I recently finished an intensive summer Japanese course that jam packed one semester’s worth of material into ten days of class. Even though I eventually ended up with a decent grade, I would not recommend the experience to anyone unless subjugated to a completely immersive environment. Language learning is meant to be a gradual process of absorption and reinforcement rather than a forced drowning. I suppose my life was made infinitesimally easier by the fact that I had the same teacher over two semesters, so I knew her marking style and exactly what she expected (perfection). Having said this, I’ve also had the opportunity to observe my teacher over two semesters and one of thoughtsfromthewalkhome’s recent posts triggered something I’d like to share.
Learning Japanese from my professor has been an extremely interesting experience, as I’ve had the chance to see the concept of tatemae, or one’s ‘public persona,’ played out in real life. Though nice, polite, and helpful, my professor also holds a very strong professional distance that I’ve felt since the first week of class with her. How can I describe this… Her expressions are careful, her emotions are restrained, and she rarely lets her true feelings about anything shine through. These past ten days have finally shown me a part of my professor I thought I would never see though, her honne.
The first time started innocently enough. A few of my classmates and I were practicing for our oral exam before class began and we were throwing around random topics for discussion. At one point, the topic got to whether we liked Japanese anime. I proceeded to confidently yell out, “はい。私は処女が大好きです。” (Yes. I LOVE [female] virgins.) What I had been trying to say was, “はい。私は少女アニメが大好きです。” (Yes. I love love-centred anime.) I swear it was an accident. One long vowel and dropping a word can make all the difference, ladies and gentlemen. At that point, my teacher and I both nearly died- my teacher, from being doubled over with tears of amusement streaming down the side of her face, and me, from the mortifying embarrassment and realization of what I had just professed.
The second incident occurred when my professor was talking about the 2011 Touhoku earthquake. As a part of a continuing act of support, the department of East Asian studies at UBC paired up with the Japanese consulate to film messages of sympathy from current language students. My professor kindly requested us to participate in this venture, but in the middle of describing the earthquake and putting up PowerPoint slides of the disaster, she started dry heaving and turned away from the class. In the span of the next five minutes, she attempted but could not bring herself to continue with her speech. Instead, she turned away, wiped away her tears, and gave us slight bows coupled with utterances of “すみません” (sorry). From what I understood, she had no direct connection to the disasters in Northeastern Japan. What my classmates and I observed was a powerful display of what overwhelming love for one’s country looked like.
Seeing emotion from teachers is nothing new to me, but everything considered, these rare glimpses behind the professional façade of this particular professor just made her seem a lot more human to me. I suppose the way I delineated people as fake or real in the past could have been unfair, but then again, who knows. Maybe they were just fake for shits and giggles.