There's a lot of contentious issues being tossed around in the world of US politics right now (as always). The biggest one at the moment is health care, and that's certainly what's been getting the most press recently. I have been watching, reading, and listening about the health care debate, and I am getting pretty annoyed and angry. This has nothing to do with my views on the actual issue (I am in favor of a more socialized version of health care, but am undecided as to whether a program styled after the Canadian single-payer system, the British NHS, or, as I learned about earlier today, the Dutch government-mandated bare minimum coverage from private insurers would be best for us to adopt) and everything to do with the nature of the debate taking place.
I think it's great when people get angry and impassioned about politics. This is our country and our lives, we should be impassioned about it. And regardless of your political views, there's been plenty in the past decade or so to be angry about. So if you feel compelled to speak with passion about one of the issues on the table, such as health care, great! However (here comes the title of this post), do your damn homework first. I am sick and tired of hearing people full of passion but lacking any sort of knowledge on the topic. Death panels? The NHS would've killed Stephen Hawking? Are you people shitting me? There's two possible explanations for the ridiculous, juvenile, and counter-productive level of debate going on about health care recently that I can think of.
First, it is possible that a large number of American citizens are idiots, or crazy, or crazy idiots. Certainly there's a lot of cynics or comics playing the cynic out there who have claimed this one for years (probably as long as there's been American citizens, and before that about citizens of any and all nations, states, nation-states, tribes, clans, etc.). So this theory would roughly go that stupid ideas and claims are being spontaneously generated in the vacuum-like minds of stupid people. It's tempting to think this way because it removes all blame from the process. "Oh, people will be people, stupidity is part of the deal, let's accept it." I call bullshit on this explanation.
The second, more probable option, is that a relative few intelligent, powerful, and prickish folks feel that they are entitled to lie, mislead, and misdirect normal people to support ends that are inimical to the average person, but beneficial to the select few. Yes, I'm pointing the finger at some politicians here. And yes, I'm pointing at some heads of industry. But I'm pointing the biggest finger (the middle finger, baby) at the media. The journalists. The so-called "4th branch of government" who needs to learn to do THEIR damn homework, grow a backbone, and start placing a little more emphasis on journalistic integrity.
The most egregious offender that I've seen is Fox News, although they're not the only ones culpable. The people who stand to make money off of Fox News know that sensationalism, anger, and fear mean big money. So they play into the feelings of paranoid alienation that plague angry white men and pander to their need to blame shitty education or job prospects on some shadowy (read: black) other because hey, it puts money in the bank. And we all get taken for a ride. Do you think the pundits who rule the Fox kingdom can truly be as odious as they seem? I doubt it. They just know where their next paycheck is coming from. That kind of cynical "vitriol for cash" mentality keeps journalism at its basest, lowest form.
And they're not alone, they're just the most obvious offender. All of the media has been fanning the flames of this absurd "birther" movement. It's crazy, and all the coverage of it detracts from actual political reporting. We have actual issues to deal with, like the economy, like getting a better health care system, like the fact that we still have our armed forces to look after. We need journalism that reports hard truths, well-researched facts, and does so in a way that is unbiased and not sensationalized. We need information to come not from the source with the best marketing or the most cash, but from the source with the most untainted, empirical approach possible (true impartiality is impossible, but we could still make great strides in this direction).
When journalism does its job for once, and gives people facts instead of puffed up talking heads to listen to, then maybe, just maybe, the public will be able to do their damn homework and participate in civic debates that are productive and that serve the best interests of the citizenry instead of serving the unfounded fears of a hostile, vocal minority that have been whipped into a frenzy by greedy, irresponsible leadership.
(No links this time, but google the Stephen Hawking thing, it's unreal.)
Showing posts with label Racism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Racism. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tales From The Lebowskis - Can't Say That Anymore
Around 1999-2000, my immediate family was in the process of moving from our old house to our new house. Because the old house was sold about a year before the new house was finally done being built, we had to make certain arrangements to have living space in the meanwhile. Luckily, my maternal grandparents, David (aka Jaja) and Mary (aka Nonnie) Lebowski kindly and generously let us share their house until ours was finished. I got to live in my uncle's old room in the basement (David "Blaze" Lebowski, Jr., not Stephen "Hulka" Lebowski), which was pretty sweet, while my parents and my sister, Meghan, occupied spare bedrooms on the main floor. There were aspects that took getting used to, and it was probably easier on me than others since Nonnie treated me like gold and I was in the basement, removed from most of the drama anyway, but all in all, it worked out really well.
One evening, all six of us were seated around the kitchen table eating dinner. I forget what we were talking about specifically, but I guess it came out that my father, Steven Thirty, had done something helpful or kind. Nonnie, wishing to show her appreciation for my father's good deed, told him:
"Well, that was awfully white of you, Steven."
Normally Meghan and I were pretty good about not actually laughing out loud and embarassing our elders for a remark like that. But this time the defenses were down, and we both nearly choked laughing at Nonnie's politically incorrect remark. My mother just looked embarassed. Jaja kept eating, absolutely unfazed. Nonnie, meanwhile, looked confused and a little hurt, and couldn't understand what was so funny. My father, with trademark patience, explained to her the racial connotations of her statement.
Nonnie was shocked. Surely we understood she meant white as in pure, like snow. His soul was glowing white, and this had nothing to do at all with skin color. My father continued explaining that today, a comment like that would be taken as having a racist meaning, even if she didn't mean it that way. Perturbed, but determined to salvage the conversation, Nonnie switched topics and started telling us about her latest night shift at the local convalescent home she worked at part time. It was pretty standard for the most part. But then, she started telling us about an orderly who she spotted catching a nap in a side room. This orderly was a big black man. She told how how:
"I walked right over to that big jungle bunny and told him 'quick, wake up before the supervisor sees you!'"
Again, Meghan and I couldn't hold back our laughter. My mother was laughing too this time. Jaja, still, continued eating without missing a beat. Again, Nonnie looked confused and hurt. While my father explained that "jungle bunny" was considered a racist term now, she explained how she was trying to help him out by waking him up before the supervisor could catch him. Surely we didn't think she was racist or disliked this man because he was black. My father (who, by the way, Nonnie adored. If she thought me golden, he was platinum) told her that he knew she was just trying to help, and that it was only the choice of words that was an issue. He told her he was sure the orderly appreciated her helping him not get caught. Finally Jaja spoke.
"He probably thought it was awfully white of you."
One evening, all six of us were seated around the kitchen table eating dinner. I forget what we were talking about specifically, but I guess it came out that my father, Steven Thirty, had done something helpful or kind. Nonnie, wishing to show her appreciation for my father's good deed, told him:
"Well, that was awfully white of you, Steven."
Normally Meghan and I were pretty good about not actually laughing out loud and embarassing our elders for a remark like that. But this time the defenses were down, and we both nearly choked laughing at Nonnie's politically incorrect remark. My mother just looked embarassed. Jaja kept eating, absolutely unfazed. Nonnie, meanwhile, looked confused and a little hurt, and couldn't understand what was so funny. My father, with trademark patience, explained to her the racial connotations of her statement.
Nonnie was shocked. Surely we understood she meant white as in pure, like snow. His soul was glowing white, and this had nothing to do at all with skin color. My father continued explaining that today, a comment like that would be taken as having a racist meaning, even if she didn't mean it that way. Perturbed, but determined to salvage the conversation, Nonnie switched topics and started telling us about her latest night shift at the local convalescent home she worked at part time. It was pretty standard for the most part. But then, she started telling us about an orderly who she spotted catching a nap in a side room. This orderly was a big black man. She told how how:
"I walked right over to that big jungle bunny and told him 'quick, wake up before the supervisor sees you!'"
Again, Meghan and I couldn't hold back our laughter. My mother was laughing too this time. Jaja, still, continued eating without missing a beat. Again, Nonnie looked confused and hurt. While my father explained that "jungle bunny" was considered a racist term now, she explained how she was trying to help him out by waking him up before the supervisor could catch him. Surely we didn't think she was racist or disliked this man because he was black. My father (who, by the way, Nonnie adored. If she thought me golden, he was platinum) told her that he knew she was just trying to help, and that it was only the choice of words that was an issue. He told her he was sure the orderly appreciated her helping him not get caught. Finally Jaja spoke.
"He probably thought it was awfully white of you."
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tales From The Lebowskis - Great Jaja Adventures, Vol. 1
Let me start by squelching some hopes. This post has nothing to do with the cult classic (and personal favorite) film, The Big Lebowski. As those of you who have been following my blog are aware, I post under a pseudonym. Many of you probably think this is silly, and some of you have in fact told me so. That's OK. I have my reasons, and they're good enough for me. Since I am not consulting the individuals involved in today's (and future) tales, I figured I would extend them the same courtesy and conceal their true identities. My mother's maiden name is not Lebowski, but it's close enough and certainly indicates the correct ethnic heritage that her surname carried. And it is a total geek bonus for an Urban Achiever like myself to take this name on.
Anyway, that explained, I would like to introduce you to what will be a continuing feature of Shorts Below Freezing: Tales From The Lebowskis. My family is insane. I know that everybody says that, it's a painful cliche (accent mark, get on there. Come on, please?) at this point. But my family, at least the Lebowski side, is insane in the way that actually makes for pretty good stories. This is the first of many tales from the Lebowski family, and the first of several starring my great grandfather, Great Jaja. Jaja is a Polish word for grandfather, FYI. I will warn you, some of the language used in this story is, um, not politically correct. Great Jaja came from a different time, and the stories would lose their potency if the language was changed. If certain profanities or ethnic terms offend you, my apologies.
This first "Great Jaja Adventure" takes place in the late 70's or early 80's, probably in the 1978-1981 range. Any Lebowskis reading this, leave a comment with the proper year if you know it! Racial tensions were higher then, and stereotypes about people of color were a bit more freely expressed and accepted, especially by individuals who were a bit older, from working class roots in a town with about five (5) black residents, all of whom were related. This is the backdrop for the first Great Jaja Adventure: A Trip to the Springfield Bus Station. Readers of this blog are probably already aware of the unique character and charm of Springfield today. Subtract 30 years.
Great Jaja had volunteered to accompany my aunt, his granddaughter, Patty Lebowski to the bus station to pick up her older brother, his grandson, my uncle, Dave Lebowski, Jr. who was returning from a semester at college in Albany. Patty was, at the time of the story, in her late teens, possibly as old as 20 or so. She recalls being a "cute little white girl" at the time. This is significant because it is part of the reason she felt very uncomfortable upon their arrival to the bus terminal. They were the only white people there, the only non-black people in fact. Today, this may not matter much. To them, then, with the pervasive sense of racism in the culture at large, it was a big deal.
They were early, and Patty wanted to find a seat and remain as inconspicuous as possible while they waited (you know, like how if you put two polar bears in the corner of a photo full of panthers, you might not see them (yes, you would)). This was fine, for a few moments. But then Great Jaja had an announcement to make, ostensibly to Patty, but loud and unspecific enough that the message was fair game for all to hear. "I gotta take a piss," he informed Patty/everybody. "OK, fine, go!" she hissed in a stage whisper, hoping to let the attention of the room fade from her as quickly as possible. "Alright, goddamnit," he chuckled as he waddled to the men's room. Waddled, by the way, is fairly accurate. The older men in the Lebowski family seem to develop a distinctive swaying walk as they age, I believe due to pain in the knees and hips. It looks kind of like a penguin waddling, but slower.
Great Jaja vanished into the men's room and a minute passed. Two minutes passed. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Patty grew more and more anxious, assuming that something awful must've happened to her grandfather. Fifteen minutes. Here she was alone, the only white person left in the Springfield Bus Terminal, a cute, defenseless girl. She'd be completely alone and vulnerable. Twenty minutes. She steeled her nerve and resolved to ask a stranger to go in and check on him. But before she could, out waddles Great Jaja, laughing loudly with a huge black man a full head taller than him, and probably 1/3 his age. "Jaj! Where the hell have you been!?" Patty demanded of him. "Oh, Jesus Christ, I bet you thought I fell in!" Great Jaja replied, loudly. Patty did not think this was funny. "Jaj, what happened? You were in there for like 20 minutes!"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, I went in there to piss and wouldn't you know it, god damn zipper got stuck. I was in there yankin' on that thing trying to get it going and god damn it wouldn't go. Next thing I know that big ol' darkie come in and I say to him, 'you look like a strong young buck, come over here and give this a tug.'"
Let's pause here for a moment. In the middle of a public restroom, at a bus terminal, this senior citizen approached a total stranger and said, "you look like a strong young buck, come over here and give this a tug." While gesturing towards his crotch.
My aunt was similarly incredulous. "You didn't," she uttered, dumbfounded. "Oh sure," he continued, "he had to work at it, but we got it alright." "Jaj," Patty intoned, "what were you thinking? I mean, weren't you worried something... bad could've happened?" "Oh Christ no, I had my ass up against the wall. He couldn't get to my wallet."
That's it for this installment of Tales From The Lebowskis! Stay tuned next time for Great Jaja Adventures, Vol. 2: Tree Hunting!
Anyway, that explained, I would like to introduce you to what will be a continuing feature of Shorts Below Freezing: Tales From The Lebowskis. My family is insane. I know that everybody says that, it's a painful cliche (accent mark, get on there. Come on, please?) at this point. But my family, at least the Lebowski side, is insane in the way that actually makes for pretty good stories. This is the first of many tales from the Lebowski family, and the first of several starring my great grandfather, Great Jaja. Jaja is a Polish word for grandfather, FYI. I will warn you, some of the language used in this story is, um, not politically correct. Great Jaja came from a different time, and the stories would lose their potency if the language was changed. If certain profanities or ethnic terms offend you, my apologies.
This first "Great Jaja Adventure" takes place in the late 70's or early 80's, probably in the 1978-1981 range. Any Lebowskis reading this, leave a comment with the proper year if you know it! Racial tensions were higher then, and stereotypes about people of color were a bit more freely expressed and accepted, especially by individuals who were a bit older, from working class roots in a town with about five (5) black residents, all of whom were related. This is the backdrop for the first Great Jaja Adventure: A Trip to the Springfield Bus Station. Readers of this blog are probably already aware of the unique character and charm of Springfield today. Subtract 30 years.
Great Jaja had volunteered to accompany my aunt, his granddaughter, Patty Lebowski to the bus station to pick up her older brother, his grandson, my uncle, Dave Lebowski, Jr. who was returning from a semester at college in Albany. Patty was, at the time of the story, in her late teens, possibly as old as 20 or so. She recalls being a "cute little white girl" at the time. This is significant because it is part of the reason she felt very uncomfortable upon their arrival to the bus terminal. They were the only white people there, the only non-black people in fact. Today, this may not matter much. To them, then, with the pervasive sense of racism in the culture at large, it was a big deal.
They were early, and Patty wanted to find a seat and remain as inconspicuous as possible while they waited (you know, like how if you put two polar bears in the corner of a photo full of panthers, you might not see them (yes, you would)). This was fine, for a few moments. But then Great Jaja had an announcement to make, ostensibly to Patty, but loud and unspecific enough that the message was fair game for all to hear. "I gotta take a piss," he informed Patty/everybody. "OK, fine, go!" she hissed in a stage whisper, hoping to let the attention of the room fade from her as quickly as possible. "Alright, goddamnit," he chuckled as he waddled to the men's room. Waddled, by the way, is fairly accurate. The older men in the Lebowski family seem to develop a distinctive swaying walk as they age, I believe due to pain in the knees and hips. It looks kind of like a penguin waddling, but slower.
Great Jaja vanished into the men's room and a minute passed. Two minutes passed. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Patty grew more and more anxious, assuming that something awful must've happened to her grandfather. Fifteen minutes. Here she was alone, the only white person left in the Springfield Bus Terminal, a cute, defenseless girl. She'd be completely alone and vulnerable. Twenty minutes. She steeled her nerve and resolved to ask a stranger to go in and check on him. But before she could, out waddles Great Jaja, laughing loudly with a huge black man a full head taller than him, and probably 1/3 his age. "Jaj! Where the hell have you been!?" Patty demanded of him. "Oh, Jesus Christ, I bet you thought I fell in!" Great Jaja replied, loudly. Patty did not think this was funny. "Jaj, what happened? You were in there for like 20 minutes!"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, I went in there to piss and wouldn't you know it, god damn zipper got stuck. I was in there yankin' on that thing trying to get it going and god damn it wouldn't go. Next thing I know that big ol' darkie come in and I say to him, 'you look like a strong young buck, come over here and give this a tug.'"
Let's pause here for a moment. In the middle of a public restroom, at a bus terminal, this senior citizen approached a total stranger and said, "you look like a strong young buck, come over here and give this a tug." While gesturing towards his crotch.
My aunt was similarly incredulous. "You didn't," she uttered, dumbfounded. "Oh sure," he continued, "he had to work at it, but we got it alright." "Jaj," Patty intoned, "what were you thinking? I mean, weren't you worried something... bad could've happened?" "Oh Christ no, I had my ass up against the wall. He couldn't get to my wallet."
That's it for this installment of Tales From The Lebowskis! Stay tuned next time for Great Jaja Adventures, Vol. 2: Tree Hunting!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Landmark Characters in Video Game Racism: Vol. 1
Welcome, reader, to the first in a continuing series of entries about racist or stereotypical characters in video games. As those of you familiar with gaming know, characters are have not always been presented in the most nuanced of ways. This series will commemorate some notable examples. So sit back, get ready to laugh, feel uncomfortable, and reminisce.
Our first entry harkens back to the days of the Nintendo Entertainment System. Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! is a game that many of my generation remember fondly for its simple-yet-addictive gameplay, its notorious difficulty at higher levels, and most of all, its colorfully racist characters. Of them all, one stands out above the rest, a boxer whose stereotype was so blatant that he had to be toned down in the transition from the arcades to the home console. Meet Soda Popinski.
Soda Popinski, a champion boxer from Moscow, U.S.S.R. boasted a 33-2 record, with 24 wins by K.O. He was 35 years and 237 pounds of pure Soviet muscle (and moustache). Soda had a habit of drinking bottle upon bottle of soda (hence his name), even sipping during his fights to power up. But Soda Popinski had a secret. That wasn't his real name, and that wasn't soda. His real, original name? Vodka Drunkenski.
That's right, folks. That bottle labeled "POP" was falsely identified. That's vodka. He is drunk. He is Russian. Because, didn't you know?, all Russians are drunks. I will say, to his credit, Vodka is a high-functioning alcoholic. He's only lost twice (before Little Mac came along, of course) in his boxing career, which is pretty good for a guy who downs vodka like water, especially in the middle of matches!
So here's to you, Vodka Drunkenski, A.K.A. Soda Popinski. You introduced a whole generation of kids to the "Russians are drunks" stereotype through punches, blocks, and star uppercuts. And you fit in just fine here, because your shorts are quite short, and parts of Russia do indeed fall well below freezing.
I WANT YOUR INPUT!! Please submit suggestions for future entries in this series! I've got a few ideas, but I want even more. Email me or comment and let me know who YOU think deserves to immortalized for perpetuating stereotypes about various races and nationalities!
Our first entry harkens back to the days of the Nintendo Entertainment System. Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! is a game that many of my generation remember fondly for its simple-yet-addictive gameplay, its notorious difficulty at higher levels, and most of all, its colorfully racist characters. Of them all, one stands out above the rest, a boxer whose stereotype was so blatant that he had to be toned down in the transition from the arcades to the home console. Meet Soda Popinski.
Soda Popinski, a champion boxer from Moscow, U.S.S.R. boasted a 33-2 record, with 24 wins by K.O. He was 35 years and 237 pounds of pure Soviet muscle (and moustache). Soda had a habit of drinking bottle upon bottle of soda (hence his name), even sipping during his fights to power up. But Soda Popinski had a secret. That wasn't his real name, and that wasn't soda. His real, original name? Vodka Drunkenski.
That's right, folks. That bottle labeled "POP" was falsely identified. That's vodka. He is drunk. He is Russian. Because, didn't you know?, all Russians are drunks. I will say, to his credit, Vodka is a high-functioning alcoholic. He's only lost twice (before Little Mac came along, of course) in his boxing career, which is pretty good for a guy who downs vodka like water, especially in the middle of matches!
So here's to you, Vodka Drunkenski, A.K.A. Soda Popinski. You introduced a whole generation of kids to the "Russians are drunks" stereotype through punches, blocks, and star uppercuts. And you fit in just fine here, because your shorts are quite short, and parts of Russia do indeed fall well below freezing.
I WANT YOUR INPUT!! Please submit suggestions for future entries in this series! I've got a few ideas, but I want even more. Email me or comment and let me know who YOU think deserves to immortalized for perpetuating stereotypes about various races and nationalities!
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