Desicritics Author: smallsquirrel

What I Learned in China

smallsquirrel — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 11:09:26 EDT

Watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics in Beijing brought back a lot of memories for me. Long ago, in what seems like another lifetime, I was once engaged to a Chinese man. All those endless rows of Chinese men beating their drums in perfect synchronization, tireless, faces showing what seemed like rehearsed emotion, reminded me of my strange adventures with that culture.

I met this man, we'll call him Zhong, in graduate school. We were peers. We dated and eventually planned to marry. During our relationship I tried very hard to understand his culture. He was from Beijing. Both parents were very successful. What I knew about China then I could fit in a single paragraph.

We eventually traveled to China so I could meet his family. I remember once Zhong had stringently told me that foot binding was a myth. It was "made up by the stupid Americans to shame China." So imagine my shock when his aunty answered the door to the family home tottering on teensy nubs. I learned later from a family friend with a penchant for chatter that she had been married off as a young girl to a successful Army man. As a symbol of his wealth, so that she would be forever reliant on servants, her feet were broken after the marriage, folded over on themselves and bound tightly in cloth. Not two months after they were wed, the aunty's husband was killed and she was shipped back to her family... crippled. When I tried to ask Zhong about the aunt, he ignored me. When I persisted, he wheeled around and hissed at me that we would never speak of it again.

This was my baptism into China.

China is an amazing place, full of beauty and preternatural grace. Walking through the streets of Beijing I felt as if I was in a movie. But just under the surface something was lurking. It made me uneasy. Now this was thirteen years ago, and I am sure that some things have changed. But I cannot imagine that the strict structure that girds that culture has shifted much at all.

I noticed that everything in China seemed to have a purpose. Nothing was random. No one said anything in an offhand manner. Words were measured. Even emotions seemed calculated. I started to be able to place a finger on what was causing the nagging doubts I had been feeling about my engagement. I wondered, also, when I would be given the script so I could at least play my part competently. It never came.

I did come to learn that everything in China revolves around appearances. I finally understood that I would need to ask Zhong to brief me on how to act before every meeting with a family friend or relative. The instructions would go something like: "Wear something conservative. Mention your Master's degree but only after he mentions his PhD, so he knows so are inferior to him. And make sure you look down when you talk to him. Also tell him that you like to garden and other simplistic tasks." Um, I hate gardening. No matter? Oh right, I have to create an image.

At one point we had to go visit an old friend of Zhong's father. I found out on the way there that he was a former ambassador. He would be serving us a certain kind of tea, which I despise, but I was to drink it. I was to drink two cups, actually, and praise it. I was to say the bare minimum, and I was to answer all the ambassador's questions in a deferential manner. Under no circumstances should I talk plainly with the man, and I should not mention my degree in Political Science. My hands should remain folded in my lap.

We got to the ambassador's house, and it all went wrong from the start. I am a terrible liar, and so when the ambassador asked me what my undergraduate degree was, in I stumbled. As a result he came to know I was a student of politics. Even though he seemed very friendly and eager for honest discussion, I tried to keep my views very benign. Then I excused myself to use the restroom, as I had begun to feel quite sick.

As soon as I was done spilling my guts into the toilet and tried to gracefully recover, I realized that the toilet would not flush. I was horrified. I stood in silent panic for what seemed like eons. I tried it again, begging it "please please please flush, dammit!" but nothing was happening. Finally I peeped my head out the door and whispered for Zhong. He could not hear me. But the ambassador saw me, and came to my aid.

"Oh!" he said jovially "the flush is broken, you must do this..." and began to fill a bucket with water. Zhong glared at me as if I had done this all purposefully. I stood by in horror as the ambassador worked to flush my vomit down the toilet, all with the same demeanor as he had when we had earlier been discussing the former Soviet Union.

In the taxi on the way home the only words that were spoken to me were: "Do you have any idea how much you have shamed me? My family? I cannot look at you. Do not speak. I asked you very simple things and you cannot even do that much."

Later I did not even bother to argue when his parents insisted that the whole "Tienanmen Square fiasco" was mostly invented by the American media. Interesting view, considering that the family's apartment was close enough to the Square that they would have heard the whole "misunderstanding" clearly. They actually would have been stuck inside because of police barricades in that whole area. Never mind that we all saw it live on TV. But we never spoke of that again, either.

The list of things I was never to speak of grew to epic proportions that month. Human rights, alternate sexuality, my views on democracy, my views on anything, really, except scholarly insights into neutral topics like linguistics. I was not even allowed to have an opinion on cooking, since each time I ventured into the kitchen I made terrible blunders. For example, once when chopping vegetables to help with the evening meal, I was met with strange sideways glances from Zhong's mother. When I was done, I noticed that she shooed me out, and threw the carrots away. When I asked Zhong what had happened he informed me that "everyone knows that the carrots for that chicken dish must be julienned. You made slices. And they were uneven."

When we returned home I broke the engagement. It was better for everyone. I simply do not know how to beat my drum exactly in rhythm with 2007 other people.

Movie Review: La Finestra di Fronte (Facing Windows)

smallsquirrel — Mon, 7 Jul 2008 10:32:59 EDT

La Finestra di Fronte (English title: Facing Windows) is a 2003 Italian film that flew under the radar of many, including myself, until recently. The movie opens with a scene in a bakery in the 1940's. Something is happening, there is a struggle, someone runs into the shadows. Then the film starts.

Set in a typical Roman middle class neighborhood, Giovanna lives with her husband Filippo and their two children. They are walking through the city and arguing. And it is not your typical marital fight. They actually just do not seem to like each other very much. But then they run into an old man who is lost and confused. Filippo wants to help him, and Giovanna wants to get home. Eventually they agree to drop him by the police station on the way back.

From here nothing goes as planned. Filippo wants to watch the football match on TV, and the old man ends up spending the night, much to the annoyance of Giovanna. She's scared for her children, and this old man seems more confused than ever. But he seems to have a name. Simone.

The rest of the movie focuses on how life gets derailed, in big ways and small. It is a film about what happens when you do not follow your passions. About how your soul can get trampled by the day-to-day, and about how we sometimes crush another's dream without meaning to. It is about how nothing is as it appears on the surface, and about the choices we make in life... both easy and monumental.

I won't uncover the rest of the plot of this movie, because I genuinely recommend watching it. It has some surprising plot twists that are worth following. The acting was particularly good, especially for an Italian film, which are sometimes hit-or-miss. And the writers have done a good job building characters that have layers. You really can't put your finger on any of them.

For example, the film takes its name from the fact that Giovanna and Filippo's apartment faces that of a man named Laurenzo. Laurenzo is a very handsome single man who leaves his blinds open, and Giovanna and her girlfriends like to look at him and wonder about his life. He seems oblivious to the world around him - but again, in this movie nothing is at it seems.

Or Giovanna. She seems harsh, even with her kids. She seems to lack patience and always appears on edge and ready to burst. Fifteen minutes into the movie you're ready to dislike her wholly. Then you start to understand that under her hard exterior, there is a much softer woman lurking around. And then you start to empathize with her. Her life is not easy.

I particularly enjoyed this movie because it had some wonderful typical Roman dialog. You won't catch it on the subtitling because of the translation, but it involves the use of phrases like "gata morta" (translation: dead cat) to mean "dead end." There were also many times during the movie that the plot changed just when it was veering close to predictability.

Its a thinking movie. Don't watch it expecting a laugh. It kept me awake for hours after, but it was well worth it.

Easy Warm Summer Vegetable Salad

smallsquirrel — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 00:15:17 EDT

Summer is my favorite time of year to cook. There are plenty of great vegetables available, and it's so easy to throw together a nice and easy salad.

This colorful salad is great served warm when it is first made, but it gains flavor as you let the leftovers (if there are any!) sit and marinate in the fridge. You can easily double the recipe, and it is guaranteed to spruce up any picnic!

I do not have a lot of exact measurements because I never learned to cook using them, so please don't get mad at the approximations.

This recipe takes about 20 minutes to make.

What you'll need:

-1 large red pepper
-8-10 baby red potatoes. you can use baby white ones too in a pinch.
-approx 1/2-3/4 lb of fresh string beans
-a lemon
-extra virgin olive oil
-spring onions
-salt
-black pepper
-a light vinegar (either rice wine or white wine. don't use balsamic as it is too dark and will discolor the potatoes)
-your favorite herb (I prefer basil for this, but you could use oregano or whatever you fancy!)

Set a medium sized pot of water to boil. Add the whole potatoes to the boiling water. When they are fork tender, take them out, cut them in half and place them in a large bowl. Do not over cook them!

While the potatoes cook, roast the red pepper. You can do this in your broiler, if you have one, or take a fork and hold it over the burner on your stove. It will take about 7-9 minutes to properly char the pepper. It should be well burnt on the outside. When it is done, slice in half and place inside a clean paper bag and close it. Or put inside a bowl and cover it. After about 5 minutes take the pepper off and the burnt skin will come off easily. Scrape out the seeds, cut into strips and set aside.

In a large bowl put about 3 tablespoons of vinegar, the zest of about 1/2 the lemon (be sure not to get the pith!!!), some salt, black pepper, and about one tablespoon of chopped fresh or dried herbs. Also squeeze some of the lemon juice into the bowl. Then while whisking, add about a 1/2 cup of olive oil. Taste it. If it is missing something, add it! It should be tangy/lemony and herby. It has to be strong enough to light up the veggies, so don't be shy! Pour contents over warm potatoes and toss.

Clean the string beans and chop them in half. Put them in the boiling water you just took the potatoes out of. Do not over cook them. I usually leave them in for about 4 minutes tops! They should be bright green and crunchy. Drain and add to the potatoes.

Clean and slice one green onion and add to the bowl. Add roasted pepper strips, toss and you are done!

Rachael Ray Serves Iced Coffee and Jihadi Donuts

smallsquirrel — Sat, 31 May 2008 00:02:11 EDT

I am no fan of Rachael Ray. Let's get that out of the way up front. I am much more solidly in the Anthony Bourdain camp. I do not do cutesy, especially when it comes to cuisine.

But when I read this article I nearly lost my mind.

Rachael Ray is now shilling for Dunkin Donuts here in the States. And apparently for one of her commercials, her stylist added a silk black and white paisley scarf as a wee fashion accent. But then Jewish blogger Pam Geller comes on the scene and accuses Ray of wearing a keffiyeh and being a "jehadist tool."

What the f**k?

I wish I could use nicer language, but really! I just can't. Ray as a jihadist? This woman could not find her way around a political debate with a map and Kissinger as her personal guide. She would quickly change the topic to EVOO and making "easy peasy fruit stacks."

Geller's outcry was followed by equally ridiculous ranting from Michelle Malkin. Malkin went on to bring up beheadings and hostages in what can only be described as typical far right-wing posturing at very best. She also said that wearing keffiyeh has now been adopted by left-wing icons and calls it "hate-coture." (insert eye-roll here) It is hard to take this seriously coming from a woman who has found it acceptable to justify racial profiling. And she's a minority. Can we say self-hatred?

Anyway, Dunkin Donuts did the only thing it could do and yanked the commercial.

Oh Jesus! Can we give this a rest please? Seriously. First of all if you look at the item in question it's nothing more than a damned scarf. I might be wrong, but I don't think that a keffiyeh even has fringe, does it? This is a simple scarf.

The woman did not march onto the set with an "I heart Hezbollah" t-shirt. She did not promote a new breakfast sandwich with all proceeds going to the PLO. No, the woman wore a scarf.

How far is this ridiculousness going to go? OK, well here we go. Let's make a list. No red because of the Bloods, no blue because of the Crips. Holy people of many religions wear saffron so that is out. Black is symbolic of evil, so scrap that. Green is symbolic of envy and that is one of the Seven Deadly Sins... nixed. No short skirts as they are too provocative, no long skirts because they are too puritanical. No suits because they are elitist. Better avoid ethnic wear altogether because someone will feel left out.

But let's take this even further. What's with the anti-Arab sentiment? As far as I know, the keffiyeh is worn by all sorts of Arab men, and it's worn to protect them from the heat and sun. OK, right, so Arafat was also famous for wearing one, yes. But Palestinians are not the only Arabs. And even if they were, not all Palestinians are terrorists. So how is that characterization even acceptable? And is that what we do now? We don't like something so we link it to terrorism? Yeesh!

All this hyper over-reaction makes me nutters. It is one thing to react strongly to overt displays of offensive behavior. But to come out with both barrels smoking over something that is not even riding the line of acceptability is one thing that is seriously messing with.. well, everything. People are so angry. So reactionary. So partisan and ready to posture and find fault.

I am sorry to get so existential here, but all I can wonder is "where the hell are we headed?" Sadly, I think the answer is "to hell in a hand basket."

Just be sure to accessorize appropriately.

A Parting Wish for India

smallsquirrel — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 09:47:44 EST

I know all too well there are other problems. There is starvation and corruption and dogs loose on the streets. There are farmers with debts and incursions from China and children sold for sex and labor. There is pollution and trash piling up, and goondas stealing all the land. There is forced segregation of the sexes at schools of higher education in the “name of Culture” in the South, as the reservation debate rages on in the North.

But what is it that makes my eyes well up with tears whenever I turn on the news? It is the treatment of women in India that makes my every nerve and fiber twitch with anger.

A woman, 9 months pregnant, brutally attacked by the auto driver who was to take her to hospital. A man who saw fit to rape her so brutally that even as she was having contractions to bring forth her child, he continued on and the child was killed in the process. A woman raped by a scorned boyfriend while in hospital for cancer and in the 3rd month of her pregnancy. A tribal woman stripped of her clothes in the street and beaten, even as television cameras look on. A woman and her two children surrounded by rowdies and harassed. The 35 year old man who tries to save her is later attacked and set on fire. He dies of his injuries. A woman and her elderly uncle go to the Sun Temple and on the way home goondas pull her off the bus and rape her while a bus full of people do nothing to help.

Shall I go on?

My husband, close to tears a few years ago because a patient of his in the ICU was just 19. Burned by cooking fuel. No chance of survival. The parents took her home to die. The attacks on the trains, buses, back alleys and M.G. Roads all over India. The savagery committed at home.

The man who looked at me, 8 months pregnant and barely able to walk, stared at my breasts and laviciously licked his lips and stared at me with a threat in his eyes. All this just in front of the hospital. The man who shoved his crotch in my face repeatedly on the train in Mumbai. The man who forcefully grabbed my breast on a footpath and knew he would get away with it, lost in the crowd.

You have a problem here. You can call me a stupid foreigner. You can bitch at me and tell me to go home. You can tell me that it is no better where I am from. These things will not change the reality that women in every village, town and city in India are suffering greatly. You can regale me with fake statistics about men having it worse, or probable statistics about misuse of laws. But at the end of the day, what is being done to stop the brutality? I cannot take it any more, the horrible stories coming at me every day on the news crawl, never pausing, never stopping… “woman raped, woman kills self over dowry harassment, woman murdered by husband, child gang raped… “ and so it goes. On and on every day.

We all stop watching the news. We all ignore the screams of the woman next door as her husband beats her for the third time this week. We are all secretly relieved when the rowdy on the street passes us by and instead targets the college girl wearing tight jeans. We all cringe when we are stuck in the back of an auto past sundown and traffic stops and the men in the Qualis next to us lean out the windows and ask us “how much?” We all have days where we cry in the shower so no one hears us as we scrub and scrub to remove the shame laid on us by the filthy stares. We all know that no matter how well we choose our outfits, no matter how large our dupatta might be, that there is a good chance that we will be groped on the way to get some vegetables at the market. Every single woman I know here has a similar story to tell. I dare you to find me a woman over 20 in this country who has not been molested in some way. It will not happen. It is, sadly, an impossibility.

This has to stop. This cannot go on. This is killing the very souls of all women in this country. It is not a problem unique to India, but for some reason it is more of a problem here than I have ever encountered anywhere else. You can hate me for saying it. You can call me names. I don’t much care. At the same time you do that, you look inside yourself and tell me what I have said is not true.

At the end of the day it is your India, your women, your mothers and daughters who are suffering.

A Farewell Ode to India

smallsquirrel — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 10:58:53 EST

My time in India is winding down. Two years have flashed by in what seems like an instant. My apartment is looking woefully bare, and we're down to sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Once the shippers come next week we'll really be in trouble - living out of suitcases and sitting on the floor. Doesn't sound too bad until it's your bum on the hard tile floor all day long trying to keep your seven month old from smacking her head because the rugs were all long since packed away.

We always knew we would go back, but I really did everything I could to make India my true home while I was here. I did not spend my time with American or European expats talking about home and griping about India. As a matter of fact, I really don't know any expats. Anyway, I made my way through my time here as basically any Indian would. I found the most economical places to shop because I was not on some big, imported salary. I spent time with my husband's family. I made some amazing friends whom I will carry with me, even when we're separated by worlds, and I started to dig into a culture that was once a mystery to me.

In some ways it is an even bigger mystery to me than when I started.

But now I can get through crowds without being jostled more than the desis. I know where to get the best vegetables in the area. I can make aloo palya better than my indian-born cook. I can navigate the minefield of a typical conversation with almost any auntie and in the end we're all smiling because I managed to not divulge too many private things unintentionally, but she comes away thinking she got all the best dirt. I can wear a salwar kameez without looking like a circus freak, and a saree without falling on my face and unraveling the whole lot. And the crowning glory is that I can use a squat loo, even on a moving train.

So what will I miss about India? The list is long and varied. I will give some of the highlights.

1. The amazing, rich, fertile sense of history in the people, architecture, languages, surroundings. You can see it etched into people's faces. There is a pride here that I have seen glimpses of in other places, but nowhere does it shine through like in India. People here bounce back. I will not romanticize poverty, because it is crippling, yes. But there is a will to live and thrive and succeed that reaches epic proportions in this country. It should be celebrated.

2. The trees that arch over the oldest streets and carpet the pockmarked roads with beautiful flowers. Magical petals of crimson and orange and violet and magenta all swirling underfoot.

3. Darshinis. Oh how I will miss the masala dosas, the rava masala dosas, the idlis, the filter coffee, the vadas. Bajjis. All at outrageously cheap prices! Yes, the chutney might be crap or it might be fabulous. Yes, you might get a half chili in your vada which burns your palate for the next 5 mintues. Or your dosa might be roasted to hell and dripping with ghee. But admit it, it still tastes damn good doesn't it?

4. It is IMPOSSIBLE to be visually bored in India. You can be overwhelmed, disgusted, enthralled, confused, or any number of things. But your eyes will never lack things to take in and ponder here.

5. Colors. In any other country I would never wear an outfit with lime green and orange together. Magenta and electric blue. Orange and pink. Oh the color combinations. So cheerful! So unabashed! When I am back to my world of blacks, petal pinks and subdued florals I will undoubtedly pull out my desi-wear and yearn for a time to wear it again.

6. The monkeys. Yes, laugh at the firang if you must, but I love animals. So the arrival of the monkeys on my balcony is something that still makes me shriek with joy even after all this time. I have named the troupe that comes by our house, and they seem to know me too. I feed them ground nuts out of my hand... the youngsters anyway. Not regularly enough so they rely on me for food though. I will really miss old Mr. One Eye.

7. The neighborhood dogs. Hilarious prankster Jingo and his brother, mom and dad. Rani, Patches, Mr. Pointy. And the feral cat Mr. Scruffy who used to live under our car. Now he's gone on holiday. I do hope someone else tracks his whereabouts.

8. The calls of the wallahs on the street. Begins here in my neighborhood with "so-POY!" (soppu, which means greens in kannada) at 7 am sharp and continues with the general vegetable carts, the ubiquitous paper man, the tender coconut juice wallah, the fish guy, the boys with houseplants, and so on. I will miss the convenience of knowing that if I can drag my ass out of bed I can get amazing produce at my very doorstep.

9. The daunting complexity of getting one simple thing done. Yes, it is a unmitigated pain in the rear end. But it provides for riotous stories. And you meet unforgettable characters. Never a dull moment, even when you're just going to get a gas cylinder.

10. The fact that people here surprise me every day. Just yesterday I went into a shop and looked at baby clothes. We haggled on price and he refused to budge cause I guess he figured I am a foreigner with more money than the locals. I tell him I only have 500 rupees in my pocket. He tells me to bring the 50 rupees back to him later. I tell him I have no idea when I will be this side again. He seems very unconcerned and packs up the baby dresses and wishes me a fond farewell. He is genuinely and frankly surprised when my husband brings him the 50 rupees 20 minutes later.

So that's the abbreviated list. I will miss India a lot, but I will be back.
I am forever changed by India.

Jai Bharat!

Dark and Ugly - The New Face of Advertising

smallsquirrel — Fri, 21 Dec 2007 12:57:03 EST

I have been noticing a rather disturbing trend in television and print commercials and it seems to simply be getting worse.

I began to notice it about a year ago when that horrible claymation Veneta Cucine ad came out. I felt something was terribly wrong with it, but I could not put my finger on what I found particularly disturbing past the wretched bungling of the pronunciation of the Italian word for kitchen. Anyway, one day it hit me. The whole family - mom, dad, and both children are white, wearing western clothes and have fairly European features. Then enters the maid.

While all the characters in the ad are a bit out of proportion, this woman makes Pam Anderson look flat chested. She is about 50 shades darker than the rest of the family, wearing a saree, and even in claymation is made to look very, very unsophisticated.

And take the new Vodafone ad for call blocking. The TV version shows a guy a and girl going out together, and the girl is plagued by a guy that she wants nothing to do with. So she uses this feature to block the call, problem solved. But in the billboard ads, the guy that the girl wishes to avoid is clearly darker than the guy she wants to contact her. Same with the ads featuring two women. They put Xs over the mouths of the characters to signify the "bad" ones, and lo and behold, the bad person is darker!

It is so blatant, that I really cannot believe my eyes sometimes. The perpetual screening of whiteness cream ads is bad enough (might I ad that the current one for Set Wet fairness cream features WHITE PEOPLE that are still not white enough for the intended audience!). But this is simply too much. What are the advertising people thinking? Are people actually noticing this rampant parceling of dark skinned people as lesser, or is it just flying over everyone's heads? And if that is the case, is it just because this kind of discrimination is so normal that it is just ignored now? And Vodafone is a Eeuropean company. Surely they are not airing these same ads in Europe. Shame on them for doing so here in India.

Is It "Eve Teasing" If It Constitutes Assault?

smallsquirrel — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 08:55:17 EST

India has a law against what is referred to as "Eve Teasing." From what I understand, if I say a man has said something (sexually) offensive to me, he is arrested with no questions asked.

Where to start.

As a linguist, I am fascinated at this name. First, Eve was a biblical figure of temptation. So this actually implies that women are tempting men to the behavior in question. And next, why would anyone include the word "tease" in an anti-harassment law? You cannot outlaw teasing per se. And shouting obscenities at women and threatening them really does not constitute teasing. But by calling it that you immediately downgrade the importance of it to something akin to what an immature 10 year old boy does to his peers on the playground. And maybe that is what some men think of this behavior - immature teasing.

There is something much more sinister happening here. Women are molested and sexually assaulted by the thousands every day on the buses, trains and streets of India (and other countries too, but right now my focus is India). Men rub their crotches against women on buses, grope them mercilessly on trains, and grab at their breasts on the street. Think I am exaggerating? Try a Google search. It happens more than once in a while.

I, myself, one day was minding my own business on MG Road on a crowded Saturday and a man forcibly grabbed my breast and squeezed. I snatched his hand away and meant to beat him senseless, but he got away and was quickly lost in the crowd. Same in Mumbai but much, much worse. While walking from the train out of the station I think my behind and my breasts were groped about 30-odd times. Hard to tell because those stations redefine the word 'crowd'. And once while I was sitting on a packed train, a man who was standing pushed his crotch very, very close to my face. When I pushed him away he apologized and said the train had lurched, but then later he gave me a nasty leer just to make sure I knew it was not an accident.

Anyway, what has happened to me is mild compared to the humiliation some women endure. It is sick, it is frightening and it is not, not, NOT "teasing."

But I will tell you this. I think women need to toughen up. Do I think shouting "hey baby, shake that ass" should be illegal? No, I do not. Why? Because they are just words. They are obnoxious ones, agreed. But they are not threatening. Yes I understand that in some situations they might be. And yes, some words are threats... you whisper in some poor girl's ear that you want to "do her good" or some other such horrifying nonsense, and that can (and should) be construed as a threat to rape. It should be illegal. But "hey sexy" is not a threat. It's annoying, but it's simply teasing.

Men need to clearly know the difference. If you outlaw everything, they will try harder to get around the rules. And sadly there are cases here of women using the "Eve Teasing" law to unfairly get even with men who continue with unwanted advances or do not reciprocate their feelings. Do I think that happens often? I do not know. I would doubt it. But any unfair use of it weakens the meaning for real victims. This is not a means to get even. This is an important tool to stop the abuse and subjugation of women.

Most importantly the boundaries need to be set, and then ENFORCED. Women need to learn how to defend themselves. We need to learn to let the small stuff roll off our backs, and when to react to something offensive. We need to educate men. We need to hold the police and government accountable for our safety. We need to stick up for ourselves when we feel uncomfortable. We need to learn not to overreact, because that weakens our position in the end. We need to find our voices, and we need to help our quieter sisters find theirs. We need to build our self-esteem so that we do not sit by passively when we notice our sisters being abused simply to spare ourselves the same abuse. We need to learn to ask for help if we need it, and conversely we need to give it when asked.

I sincerely applaud the work of the Blank Noise Project. Education is very, very important. But I have some concerns. Look at the banner at the top of their website. I agree with most of the items they have next to the word NO. But no looking? No staring? This is excessive. People look, and they stare. And looking/staring is not harmful. Yes, I agree that sometimes a look can make you feel dirty. And I do agree that leching is different from looking. But ladies, I will let you know now. You will never, and I mean NEVER stop men from noticing your body. But you can control how you feel about that. If your self-esteem is high enough, no simple look will produce that horrible stomach churning. It will take something a lot more serious.

And while being asked out on a date by a man that you don't fancy might be annoying, it is not eve teasing. We need to stop muddling the issue. Being dismayed is not being harassed. If the man follows you and continues asking, or calls you names if you reject him, then it is a serious problem. But you cannot fault a guy for asking (once).

There is a fact we need to understand. You cannot make something like a look equal in seriousness to something like groping. Do I like it when a man stares at my breasts? Hell no. But I also realize that men are visually stimulated. If they stare for a long time, or have a conversation with them, I cue them to look up. Do I humiliate them? Usually not. Why? Because men are more likely to take it to heart and not repeat the offense if they are not made to feel humiliated. Make them see you as human and not an object. Then they will stop staring inappropriately.

I could go on and on. But let me be clear. I am in no way blaming the victim. Sexual harassment should be taken extremely seriously. All I am saying is that us women have to take control and use that control judiciously and in our favor.

Market Day, Beijing, China

smallsquirrel — Fri, 14 Dec 2007 05:46:17 EST

We took a taxi to the market, and on the way we passed a group of people dressed in 50's attire from the U.S. and dancing in this little plaza. The men were wearing jeans and leather jackets, with their hair slicked back. The women all had on various kinds of swing skirts, saddle shoes and bobby socks. It was a disorienting sight, and I turned all the way around in my seat to continue watching them through the back window of the cab.

The market was set up inside a park. All around the periphery men were selling brightly colored birds in very small bamboo cages. I stopped to look at the birds and noticed they were all completely still...none of them singing or making any sound at all. I remember being saddened, but something drew my attention and we were off into the crowds.

Everything seemed to be on sale here. It looked as if some people had emptied the contents of their lives into crates in the hopes of making just a few yuan. A lone sock, a dirty plastic bowl, a magnificent jade bracelet that was obviously very old. There was no rhyme or reason to what would be found at the next stall, or around the next corner. Maoist memorabilia was placed next to dried fruit. Expensive and precious antiques were sold by the same man who was peddling Nike knock-offs.

I came upon a very old man who was selling glass eggs. I smiled at him and said good day. He asked me if I was Russian and I told him no, I was American. He seemed to think that was funny. His eyes were barely open, but every now and then I could see them darting around, noticing everything. I asked him how much for the green one. He told me some outrageous price...and I laughed, said "Wo bu yao nege..." (I don't want that...) and began to walk away. He called after me, yelling out numbers...so I went back. This time he was talking too fast, using words I didn't understand. It was my turn to laugh. I told him to speak very slowly please, and looked at me kindly and apologized. I bought the egg for more than it was worth, but he gave me two of them in the end.

Before I left, the old man showed me that the eggs were particularly beautiful when placed in a glass of water. They lost their opacity and sparkled with amazing clarity. It seemed odd to me then...when would I ever find time to stare at a piece of glass submerged in water? Yet months later, on a depressing late winter day I found myself smiling in anticipation...with a glass of water in one hand, and a magical egg in the other.

World AIDS Day - Don't Forget The Crisis

smallsquirrel — Sat, 1 Dec 2007 09:14:06 EST

I remember when I first started hearing about AIDS. I was probably in high school. We all thought it was something only gay people got. There were all kinds of asinine rumors like that. Stupidity. Then the movie Philadelphia came out, and we all started to wise up. The newspapers and TV stopped referring to it as the "gay plague" because, as it turns out, straight people were getting it too.

And the world was forever changed.

Now we're still facing a crisis. And I think it's worse, really, because nobody seems to be scared of it anymore. There are drug cocktails that will prolong your life. You don't see too many people walking down the streets covered in Kaposi's sarcomas anymore. It's all been sanitized. Made to look so much more easy to deal with. And it is great that we have made huge strides in treatment. But this also means that many local clinics, such as the Whitman-Walker clinic in my former home of Washington D.C. are losing funding. People in the US don't see AIDS as a crisis anymore.

Tell that to one of my friends who has been living with AIDS for years now. Tell him it's not a crisis when he gets pneumonia and almost dies - again. And because he's been too sick to work regularly, tell him it's not a huge issue anymore when he doesn't have enough money to pay his mounting hospital bills. Or when he falls on the floor at 2 AM, too weak to stand up, and there is no one there to help him up.

This story repeats itself all over the world. Children by the millions all over Asia and Africa are AIDS orphans. The dad contracts AIDS from a prostitute, brings it home to mom, and they both die. Sometimes the mom has kids that are also born with AIDS. There is no sex education in these villages, and no anti-retroviral medicines that would easily stop the mother from passing the virus on to the child during the birthing process and prolong her life.

Or the medicines are available but there are complicating factors. Take life here in India for example. No one wants to talk about sex, so it goes to figure that very few are willing to talk about how to prevent sexually transmitted diseases. Or the fact that they might have them.

Look at what happens when they do. I remember seeing on the news the plight of one family who had AIDS. The mother went to the maternity ward to deliver and they placed her in the isolation ward and every single doctor in the place refused to attend her birth. The woman's husband delivered the baby then was made to take the sheets outside and burn them. No one came to examine the baby, and of course you can imagine that nothing was given to the mother to prevent her from giving the baby AIDS during the birthing process. We've all also seen the plight of village children forced out of school because no one wants an infected child next to their child despite any and all precautions taken.

AIDS is still a very serious threat to the daily lives of millions upon millions of people all over the world. THERE IS STILL NO CURE FOR AIDS. IF YOU GET IT, YOU WILL DIE.

What can you do? Give money to a reputable organization, either locally or globally. Even better, volunteer your time. Don't be afraid to talk to your doctor about your past sexual history, and make sure to get an AIDS test if you have ever had unprotected sex. And most importantly, use a condom.