Over Sharing

A friend of mine writes an intensively personal blog and I'm always amazed at how much he's willing to share over the internet. After all, anyone can read it. It seems so vulnerable to me, the sharing of personal stories and sometimes he writes gut wrenching bits that wow me. You can check it out. His name is j.beaman.

On the subject of "over sharing," J. talks about how the sharing of personal baggage actually makes it liveable. It made me think of certain post-structural theorist who say the same thing. In Excitable Speech, Judith Butler attacks the sticky issue of hate speech and how it's complicated by power (BTW, this is probably her most "readable" work. You don't actually have to have a background in post-structural theory to understand what the f*ck she's talking about). Gayatri Spivak also discusses it a lot in relationship to post-colonialism (I've never read anything by Spivak that was easy, but that's just me). Essentially, they posit that speech does carry with it a lot power, but through use and intelligently dissecting words and language, it's possible to either re-appropriate or to untangle the words from their power source. For example, the term "Black" has been reclaimed by the African American community to reflect their history and even show a connection towards a global identity. In the U.S., it's no longer a pejorative (or politcally incorrect) to use the term "black" when referring to a person of African descent. This is actually one of the foundations of post-structualism, but I digress.

What I really wanted to say was that I think for many of us, this happens naturally. We share stories that hurt us a little with people around us (someone was rude, your boss gave you a hard time, etc.) and it makes us feel a little better. We generally hug bigger secrets to ourselves because it leaves a big gapping hole in our chest to pull it out. We share these things only with the "inner circle" because it seems safer. They are less likely to turn it against us or are more likely to recognize the significance that these stories had in our lives, changing us profoundly. And in sharing, I suppose it actually makes the wound a little more manageable. I believe that talking can be a method of healing.

As I've gotten older, I've definitely gotten better at telling people about how my 16 year old boyfriend beat the crap out of me. I've done my work though, I've written countless journal entries, I've performed about it in theatre classes, I have an undergraduate degree in Women's Studies. But there is nothing like the look on people faces when I tell them about the time he grabbed me by the hair and slammed my face into the armrest between us in his car. And I would be less than honest if I didn't recognize that there's something narcissistic about the shock value. This is where the problem of "over sharing" comes in. You open the door and things aren't always pretty on the other side.

There's a certain amount of deserved attention when personal tragedies come out. But it's complicated, this business of sharing. You don't necessarily want sympathy, because their sympathy (or the need for there to be sympathy) makes it seem like you were pathetic at some point and no one in their right mind really wants to be pathetic. But then again, you were pathetic, that's what makes it a personal tragedy.

The first definition for "pathetic" in the New Oxford Dictionary is: arousing pity, esp. through vulnerability or sadness : she looked so pathetic that I bent down to comfort her."

And then you say things like "Oh no, it's fine, I'm over it." You say that so the tension between you and whoever you're telling is relieved and everyone feels a little better. Because if you're not "over it," then everyone will be awkwardly wondering what's supposed to be said. And I suppose that the sharing generally does feel a little like popping a pimple, a little release of pressure. Of something a little rotten coming out. And the more you do it, the less it hurts. It can be ugly business, this sharing.

Admittedly, it's generally very different for men and women. We come from a culture where sharing between men is faux pas. But even if it's more acceptable for women to share, there's still a sense of weakness that you can't escape. However unreasonable, however much therapy you'd gotten to understand that it was beyond your control, however much your life has gotten past that point, you still feel shitty, man or woman.

It can be a lot to put onto other people.

But I agree with J.. Sometimes you share because you have to; because you hope that one day you can tell the story and it won't bring with it a bunch of contradictory, inappropriate, overly psychoanalyzed, or just plain icky emotions. Or maybe you tell it because it's yours to tell. And sometimes, that feels good too.

Where Are You From?

Where are you from?

It seems like such a benign question. It's one of those questions you ask during the first uncomfortable minutes of small talk when you're trying to seem friendly but not nosey. "The weather's been [insert adjective] lately, huh?" "How do you know [insert friend/acquaintance/host of event]?" or "What do you do?" (although I think that this last one goes into dangerous territory requiring nuanced delivery as to not seem douchy or like you're trying to figure out how important they are). But "Where are you from?" is a loaded question when you're an Asian American woman. At best, it's some benign middle-aged couple who has an interest in traveling and Oriental art. On the other end of the spectrum, it's some rice chasing frat boy who has visions of school girl outfits. I'm not the first to talk about this phenomenon. Lela Lee came on the scene in 1998 with her short film "angry little asian girl, first day of school" and her blog and comic continue to be popular. Anna from Sepia Mutiny has a great post about her run-in's with other immigrants who "WAYF" her and how she bristles at the question. As for me, I think that having been in the restaurant industry for more than a decade adds a slightly different slant (pun intended) to WAYF situations.

Once, while I was a server at a trendy Pan-Asian restaurant I got the "Where are you from?" followed by "What is your name?"

"Karen."

"No, I mean your real name."

I did a double take. They were somewhere in the middle of the mal-intent spectrum. They were a group of middle-aged white folk, the men were slightly balding, their belts squeezing their middles upwards so that the crater of their belly buttons were slightly visible through their shirts. The women had their traveling clothes on, button down shirts in pastel colors, hair glued into place with aerosol hairspray.

Now, we're in an awkward situation. I could act like a human being and say "Karen" again firmly, but they're going to see how offended and appalled I am, and either be really uncomfortable for the rest of their dinner or decide that I'm rude and tip me nothing. Now, I want to own up to something here. I have another name, a Chinese name. It's on my birth certificate along with Karen. But the insinuation that "Karen" wasn't my real name, to assume that it was some sort of fictitious character made up to allow me to "blend in" with English speakers was appalling. I wasn't shaking my ass on a pole and telling them my name is "Cherry Blossom," why is "Karen" so unbelievable as a name? I couldn't force myself to give them what they wanted.

I'd like to say that I straightened my spine and asked them what the fuck their real names were, how the fuck their Winnebago handled and gave them some tips for getting rid of those extra 60 pounds, but I didn't. I smiled and with my best " I'm not a scary foreigner but just an LA Valley girl" voice and said, "Oh no, it's really just Karen."

I'm not saying that WAYF situations are always malicious or even insulting. They are mostly awkward and confusing, blended throughout with misunderstanding and feet in mouths. There's usually a little ignorance, but no purposeful inflection of pain. However, there is usually an imbalance of power (and I'm not even talking about the incendiary issue of American racial politics). I mean, when your boss, or teacher, or boyfriend's parents WAYF's you, there's power involved. You are limited in your response both by civility and by real consequences. This is true for every single customer that walks into the restaurant where you work. It's just part of the business. Not everyone gets to be satisfied with the interaction. There won't be any learning of racial sensitivity.

I've been asked "Where are you from?" dozens of times. You'd think that I'd be used to it, that I wouldn't bristle with resentment and drip indignation. Sometimes, I feel like I have grown kinder and more understanding. I even answered with sincerity when a man accosted me in Rainbow Grocery yesterday asking for advice on stir-frying. But there's this movie I play in my head, of my small fist connecting with sculpted jaw, of lips bouncing and jerking across teeth as spit flies out of mouth. I'm smiling and there is applause. I play this scene in my head whenever I remember the Marina scum frat boy who actually touched my face and asked "Where do I get a hot Asian babe like you?"

Good Eye, Klo, Good Eye

I manage a restaurant. And there was this line cook, who worked briefly with us, who said very solemnly to me once, "Good eye, Klo, good eye."

We had, by this point, figured out that he was a compulsive liar, knew very little about cooking (he'd asked one of the day cooks for a scallion cutting seminar), and made for staff meal, awful and sometimes inedible salads (think tablespoons of ground cinnamon dumped into delicate, fresh lettuce leaves). On this particular day, he was mangling molten chocolate cakes as he was cutting them out of the ramekins and while some were passable, some were not. The one I was looking at appeared as though it had not only been massacred with buckshot but a small land mine had also gone off to maim its face, leaving it sad, bleeding and asking for change in front of the O'Farrell Street Garage.

"I can't serve this cake," I said.
"Oh, what's wrong with it?"
"Look at it."

He looks at it, and he looks at me. And I'm starring at him, hoping that I won't have to actually explain that when people pay $8.00 for a dessert, they actually want it to not only taste good, but also look nice. There's an uncomfortable pause. Then, for a moment, I think he may actually be embarrassed that he put it in the window in the first place. I'm looking at him beseechingly, hoping that a glimmer of understanding will pass between us. Instead, he looks at me like I'm a genius and says, "Good Eye, Klo, Good Eye," and took it away to be replated.

Of course, this has been a continuing joke in the restaurant since he left (and really even while he was around). I've been told by a surprising number of people that I have a "good eye" both in jest and in earnest and I never know how to take it. Because it can mean a couple of different things. It can mean "You are very observant, pay attention to detail and diligent at your job." Or it can mean "You are a micro-managing, obsessive-compulsive psycho who should think about something other than what angle this fork is facing." I suppose both are true sometimes and I'm learning to live with that.

On some level, I actually do think that I have a good eye; not for things like interior design, which I am hopelessly bad at, or arranging flowers, which I really feel that I should be good at, but am not (I actually make the supermarket flowers look even worse than when they lived in plastic wrapping). What I realize is that my ridiculously long stint in higher education and my prim, proper and overly organized Chinese mother has given me tools to look around me and notice things. Now whether or not these things are interesting to anyone other than me is definitely questionable. I guess we'll see.