Filling in the Black Hole

Unedited Version of Op-Ed in the Emory Wheel Friday April 28

The DUC’s “black hole” is an area in the lower tier of the cafeteria where black students often sit together. But it is more like the elephant in the corner of the room that everyone knows about, but no one openly discusses. Or so I thought until I read Stephen Benz’s article, “Blacks Students Discuss Roots of Race Issues” (April 21).

But before I could commend my peers for bringing the “black hole” topic to the discussion table, The Wheel acknowledged this past Tuesday to misreporting the event, mentioning self-segregation among blacks as the prevailing theme in the dialogue when it apparently was not. Through this misreporting, the original article did more than falsely tease readers with its headlines; it has left many with superficial answers for the intriguing question the article originally raised: “Why are all the black kids sitting together in the cafeteria?”

While I will not declare that I have all the cookie-cutter answers to such a complex question, I believe that as an Asian-American, standing in the middle of our multi-racially complicated society, I hope to offer some concepts that would be useful to understanding race. If we want to comprehend the “black hole” and other forms of self-segregation we must first have a better understanding of “double-consciousness” and “racial pride.”

Double-consciousness, a term coined by W.E.B. DuBois is used to describe an individual, most likely a person of color, whose identity is divided into two separate, contradictory identities. In The Souls of Black Folks, he writes that it is a “sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of the world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”

This concept is relevant to our discussion of the “black hole” because this grouping is all about identification and for many people of color, they begin defining themselves in terms of race. Why? Because the rest of the world does. Blacks are not seen first by their class or celebrity, but by their race. For example, Denzel Washington tells a story where a woman next to him clutches her purse in fear of theft as he is on his way to making millions of dollars in his next movie.

In the midst of all too many negative media images and messages of blacks as well as various racist encounters, many blacks self-segregate not only because they desire to protect oneself from further offense, but also to find support from their peers. By interacting with one’s racial peers, blacks find people who understand and sympathize with their struggles rather than questioning its existence.

An added bonus is that these “kids in the cafeteria” may hold the answers to questions about self-identity, something many of us often try to seek out in a university setting. Thus, the “black hole” is more than just a coping mechanism in relation to racism; it is also a tool of unlearning the internalized stereotypes about his or her own groups and redefining a positive sense of self.

Thus, I’m not sure the “black hole” is as big of a problem as people say it is, or even a problem at all.

I can already hear the shattering of our childhood dreams where hundreds of black, white, yellow, and blue children are joined by hands, singing Kumbaya. Despite my optimistic viewpoint for self-segregation, I also believe it is not contradictory to our college brochure ideals of diversity. But for genuine diversity to occur, there must also be a renewed sense of racial pride…for whites.

Though whites make up the majority on this campus, they have often been the minority in discussions similar to the one reported and in classes that discuss race relations. In Susan McMillan’s article, “Participants reflect after year of studying past racial issues” (April 25), she quotes Associate Professor of Political Science Rich Doner as saying, “…white folks, even the ones in these dialogues, are rarely ready to explore issues of racial insensitivity and racism.” In order for our community to celebrate diversity, we must collectively look at our crayon boxes and realize that white is a color as well.

Yet, it is obvious why whites do not want to be involved in discussions like this. For one thing, whites have the privilege to think of race as an intellectual exercise rather than an issue that pertains to every second of their life. For another, whites do not want to attend, and understandably so, a dialogue that identifies the victimizer as white. And while there are issues regarding white privilege and white guilt that needs to be talked about, I believe white pride needs must first be addressed.

But by this “white racial pride,” I do not mean a term created by the Ku Klux Klan or Strom Thurmond. Instead, whites must begin discovering their own identity, whether that may mean Scottish, German, New Yorker, or Southerner. They must also see their own color as essential in the overall struggle for full economic, social, and political equality.

Many racial groups advocating for black rights in the early 20^th century failed until an integrated group of whites and blacks came together to form the NAACP. Many boycotts during the civil rights movement failed until a group of black and white “freedom riders” challenged segregation through the Deep South in the 1950s.

If we want to see clear progress regarding race-relations, whites must develop their unique racial pride and join the conversation. At the same time, people of color must discover, develop, and embrace these newfound allies as well.

While my hope lingers on for a larger and more honest conversation about race, a good first step is to critique the original question at hand for it is just as easy to say “Why are all the white kids sitting together in the cafeteria?”, though we rarely comment on that. Instead, I urge us to ask a new question: “Can we sit together and talk?”

Disappointed

Though my facebook profile says moderate, do not be fooled. I only say that because I like to initiate political debates rather than respond to them. In actuality, I am starting to learn what a bra-burning, Bush-hating liberal I am. Or have been.

Up until this point, my silence and objectivity regarding Bush in the past six years have only been the surface to a large dislike for our president. But living in the South among conservative Christians as my best friends, it is hard to let that out without receiving backlash. (By the way, despite their frequent complaints that the college environment bashes their conservative viewpoints, I often feel the same way when talking to them).

Yet, amidst Bush's plummeting approval ratings and even the separation from key Republican leaders as they try to make their own political run, I am beginning to connect with Bush. Much of America has apparently lost patience with the president, providing little positive results with several issues, most notably the war in Iraq. And while I have agreed that the war was a mistake since we went in, what is happening now is a country beating a leader when he is down, crowding around him without any expectations of how he can improve. From countless "letter to the editor"s that describe Bush as ignorant and stubborn to many of his own friends questioning his tactics, there is only one word to describe the majority feeling towards him: disappointment.

I do not know how many stories we can tell from our past, but there is nothing much worse than knowing people are disappointed in you, whether that be a close friend or a nation that "elected" you.

And in some minute way, I feel his pain, for recently, I have heard a large amount of the silent and sometimes, not-so-silient faces of disappointment pointing in my direction. Some of it is warranted. Some of it is not. From an exposed sin to forgetting my mother's birthday, and from a lack of investment of relationships to unexpected future plans that surprise others, I am beginning to feel the brunt of disappointment from more than one angle.

Though there has traditionally been more pain felt for the disappointed than the disappointer, I will argue that the disappointer has it just as bad. Let's take a look at an example. Hypothetically, I hit Mary in the face out of anger, and I feel horrible about it within minutes. Though Mary's face heals, the relationship is still broken. And in that moment, it is almost like the punch transferred more than a blow to the face; it transferred power. For now, the power to release Mary's vengeful thoughts and my self-hatred and self-disappointment is in her hands. This power is none other than grace.

And in my starvation state for grace from my peers, I am starting to realize that I have the same power to offer it across the board, even to a president who has made several mistakes in the past six years. Whether or not he wants grace is not the issue. Because whether he wants it or not, he still needs it. As do I.

Mediocrity

Something about a blank page scares the crap out of me, as the groundbreaking ideas and funny stories fall by the wayside to a blank page. I neither feel capable to write anything worthwhile or creative. And if all I can create and write is something mediocre about uninteresting events, why do it anyway?

I don't really call it writer's block as much as I call it a fear of being like...well you. Whether if it's a poem, essay, or a blog post, I must hold my own attention, but too often, my own writing are as interesting as CSPAN. I was never a fan of reading, so for the sake of humanity, I cannot subject my readers to the same pain.

But now that I have successfully not posted for a solid two weeks or so, I am sure that there have been less readers of my blog, so that this post is essentially written to no one but myself and the single man 300 miles away from me who is surfing through blogs.

I have no realization to reveal, no sin to confess to, or a girl to complain about. I simply come back to the blog world from a vacation in the real world reporting that in the midst of my mundane life, I find it romantic and beautiful. I find sneezing in allergy season an epic battle between myself and nature. I find online poker as stimulating as sex, or at least I make the same faces that porn stars do when I win. I love seeing my name in articles of the school newspaper though few people read it and those who do, do not seem to care. I like arguing with my friends, choosing not to talk to others, and walking through everything in between.

And like any good movie, I have forgotten to do everything else except to bask in the story. I have stopped analyzing my life in specific details as to report it in a 10 page research paper to post on this blog, and began to start living. But that is not to say I have retired from writing, but all the more, have found the importance of it. For in these scribbles on a webpage, I am beginning to understand the importance of memory in these writings, where I can come back to this time and remember when life doesn't have to be perfect neither destructing to be written about and celebrated.

When I think back on my life, the picture stamped in my memory of my mother cooking pork chops on a Saturday afternoon as I tiptoe above the kitchen counter was mundane and boring at the moment, but now, has become a reason, if not the essence of the smile that I hold now. So I raise my glass and say a toast to a mundane life and mediocre writings where the celebration of life nevertheless exists and makes possible for memories to hold its place as well. For it is in the act of remembrance that we make the events great.

Patriot Games

I am not a patriot by any means. The only reason my family put up a flag after 911 was because we didn't want to be seen as un-American and therefore, terrorists. I am so unAmerican, I decided to take American studies to reconfirm in me how much America sucks. But after hearing this story , the little red white and blue in me rose up like morning wood to take the stand. In one of many cases, a middle school in Colorodo has disallowed all patriotic clothing, including camouflage pants. More stories like this, and I might just becoming a flag-waving, wall-building American myself, just to be different and rebellious. Soon, I might join Foxworthy for a Blue Collar Comedy Tour and do bad Asian redneck jokes. I tried doing some.

If you've taken a six pack of beer with a serving of dumplings to a funeral, you might be an Asian redneck.
If you think fast food is killing a dog on the sidewalk and eating it, you might be an Asian redneck.

And that's why I'm a journalist, and not a comedian.

Softball Madness

So I'm just going to say it. Watching 12 hours of softball last weekend was tough, considering the scorching heat that gave me my first ever sunburn as well as it being 12 hours of softball. But by the end of that marathon, ther eis something very attractive about women who get dirty and play sports for a few hours, yelling out "get em" and "two out two out!!" It's really got nothing to do any particular body part and with the caps on and the sweat over their skin, I can barely make out their faces. It must be some kind of kinky aspect of our brains where we like it if the opposite sex does something not associated with it. Apparently, men baking is hot. I do not see it. But women playing sports...I mean, even Rosie O'Donnell was somewhat attractive in A League of Their Own...if the television was off.

Let's hope I won't go gaga this weekend as I cover another game or two. This time-men's baseball. Wish me luck.

Hell Week runthrough

For now, the rush is over. For now, I can at least hope for a temporary schedule that will allow me to go to bed before bad infomercials, ugly CNN anchors, religious thieves, or Mcdonalds late night runs urge me to stay awake. For now, I can hope to wake when the sun comes out, and not be tired at noon. For now, I won't have to snap at every little thing that comes my way like that damn woman in the cell phone voicemail who tells me to press five if I want to leave a callback number or another bandwagoner who doesn't read any news, but wears an anti-bush tshirt because everyone else is doing it. For now, hell week is in the past and in the future, but not in the present.

Wait, You're Human? Me Too!

Unedited version of my editorial piece in The Emory Wheel

As the Republican Party is split over a controversial immigration debate, the rest of the nation stands confused more than divided. The protectionist flag-waving Americans want to build a 700-mile wall to block foreign lawbreakers. The free-market politicians want a hardworking labor force strong enough to do our dirtiest jobs.

So which one is it? When I look at Narden Garero crossing the border, am I supposed to dehumanize him into a brutish menace or count him as another blessing from the skies? For history has taught us that how we define a group of people has a direct effect on how we act towards them. Before we approach the discussion table then, my only hope is to view them as neither a threat nor perfect, but human.

One of the most influential activists and scholars, W.E.B. DuBois, wrote in his compelling book, The Souls of Black Folks, “Between me and the other world there is ever an unmasked question:…How does it feel to be a problem?” A hundred years after its publication, America is asking the same question to undocumented workers.

In a meeting last Friday with Mexican President Vicente Fox, President Bush said, “I believe these programs will help us rid the society and the border of these coyotes.” Creator of the more stringent border security bill and Republican senator, Bill Frist, said he intends to “make America safer from foreign criminals and terrorists.”

When we are being asked to cope with “coyotes” and “foreign criminals,” it is no surprise that we are willing to call their crime a felony (same for murder and rape). They have essentially become a powerful, inescapable mental image of invaders that undermine the authority of the American law, threaten national security, and destroy American jobs and culture.

But before we transform immigrants into hazardous parasites whose goal is to seek and destroy, allow me to debunk a few myths. First, undocumented workers pay taxes. Many pay real estate taxes, either as homeowners or as part of their rent. In addition, three-quarters of undocumented workers pay payroll taxes, contributing as much as $7 billion in Social Security funds that they will never claim.

Secondly, they are in many cases, not stealing anybody else’s dream or job. Immigration lawyer, Geoff Tobias said in an interview with CNN, “We’re talking about 18-dollar-an hour welding jobs…many American companies would seize to exist without the immigration labor force.” For example, Tom Wolfgang’s trucking company had to downsize 20 percent because he couldn’t find enough workers.

Finally, the building of a 700-mile wall makes it seem as if immigrants are prancing along an imaginary line with incompetent Border Patrol agents. But the reality is that it is a long and arduous journey. After raising $2,000, immigrants embark on “El Tren de la Muerte,” or “The Trail of Death,” battling bandits and enduring hunger and thirst on a 1,200-mile journey. Many not only fail to pass the border, but some do not even survive.

In the same respect that these immigrants crossing the Mexican border are not the villains of our American narrative, we would be lying to ourselves if we said they are your cookie cutter American citizen. Evidenced by the various protests in the streets of Denver, Los Angeles, Phoenix and dozens of other cities, reports indicated that American flags were outnumbered by those of Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador and other countries.

Though America may have been their home for the past five years or 40 years, it i impractical to believe that their love and pride in a country they shared memories of births, weddings, and graduations would simply be abandoned by the wayside. They struggle with an unfamiliar language and strange customs, not to mention that American patriotism may be the most foreign concept of all.

For now, my goal is not to urge people to advocate the Specter bill or the Frist bill, though my leanings may be obvious. But I do believe it is essential to define them as human before we decide on the fate of 11 million people. This first step to humanize is the least we can ask of our politicians, the media, and ourselves.

Knock Knock

Who's there? The sun. The sun who? The sun who you need to deposit an hour of sleep.

Daylights savings time does not make any sense at all. Sure, the nature types have said they like the spring daylights savings time because it offers more sunlight. And the can't-get-out-of-bed-and-hit-the-snooze-button-nine-times types like the fall daylights savings time because it is an extra hour of sleep. But what's the point? I feel like a kid who hides his action figures and other collectibles in order to have the simple joy of finding it again six months later. But all it makes me is bitter and bitter with no one to hit.

So I'm running on the treadmill scanning my eyes to watch another story about steroids on ESPN and wondering if Anderson Cooper is homosexual. But then another subject interrupts my line of vision and it is the gym employee who is running to the clock to do something with it. And by the time he turns it over to find the knob, I scream so loud it has the power to do nothing. But my 165 bpm heart is shouting, "No, don't you change the time." He had the power of God in those minutes, if I can even call them that. In essence, he became the 21st century Marty McFly free from a flux capacitor and Parkinsons. With no one to fight in this battle against breaking free from the daylight, he became my scapegoat.

So when he walked behind me on the treadmill, I allowed my legs to spread apart in my jog. And sometime between the moments of 11:35 and 12:36, I farted.