Tag Archives: by Amy Tso

Profile: Gretchen Brion-Meisels

Interview

Gretchen Brion-Meisels has known she wanted to be a teacher since she was eight years old. As she sits contentedly in her cozy office wearing a simple t-shirt, jeans and flipflops, she is quite possibly the most comfortable and friendly Harvard university lecturer you can meet. This comes as no surprise given that her work involves helping young people feel at home, safe and openly communicative in their schools and communities.

Brion-Meisels first started teaching through a program called Breakthrough by tutoring fifth graders for summer school. In fact, since a young age she found it more fun to play with younger children than her own classmates, in many ways. To this day, she prefers spending time with younger people, including her students.

After completing her undergraduate studies at Harvard, Brion-Meisels became a middle school teacher. Her first years teaching in Baltimore were challenging. She loved her students, but often found that the school felt oppressive. “The students were basically asked to check their lives at the door and come in for school,” she says. That first year, Brion-Meisels promised herself, “I would not keep teaching past the point at which I felt like I was dehumanizing kids.”

Today, Brion-Meisels teaches courses focused on the prevention of bullying and how to improve school communities for young adolescents. She contends that in order to understand youth and to find the best ways to help them, we must involve young people in finding the solutions to their success at school. That way education research would be different and more progressive for young people. Her research involves asking youth how they “define, choose and use” supports, and examining why students may not be using these support systems. One thing she has found is that adults may not always know what students need from the support systems.

In her teaching experiences, Brion-Meisels noticed how problematic and impractical it was to have a group of adults sit at a table deciding what types of supports students needed. She has a disapproving look on her face as she describes how many school systems are failing students and a deep conviction that adults and the administration need to find better ways to help students. Instead of pointing fingers, the leaders of the school should provide an inclusive and loving environment so that students are unafraid to seek help. Adults should be much more careful to ensure that their implicit bias is not hurting the children that they teach.

Brion-Meisels is an advocate of social emotional learning, a way for students to use the necessary skills and knowledge to identify and manage their emotions. This approach, often spearheaded in schools by counselors, helps students get along with one another, maintain healthy relationships and achieve positive goals. She believes that schools with strong multi-tier anti-bullying and anti-discrimination programs — including clear policies, supportive adults, strong relationships among all stakeholders, and supports for struggling students — are the most successful in providing a safe and inclusive community for students.

“The purpose of education is to give you the tools to improve the world and to improve yourself,” insists Brion-Meisels. For her, this means using her own education to further the education of others.

In Response to: “We Might Soon Resurrect Extinct Species. Is It Worth The Cost?”

Letter to the editor

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/20/science/revive-restore-extinct-species-dna-mammoth-passenger-pigeon.html?_r=1&mtrref=undefined&gwh=17EB1E6F90C17FB4504AC325AEE9118E&gwt=pay

To the Editor:

I agree that we shouldn’t resurrect extinct species as money is better spent on the conservation of existing species. I also believe that extinctions are not always our responsibility or the “past wrongs” of human history since they can occur naturally.

Species’ extinction can be an expected and possible consequence of the survival of the fittest. We may feel responsible for the disappearance of the dodo bird or the woolly mammoth because we have become the most dominant species on Earth. But in truth, species extinction has been occurring for thousands of years, long before humans took over the world. One of the main causes is climate change, the gradual warming and cooling of the Earth, which has already naturally occurred at least four times in history. Many species die out as they cannot adapt fast enough or at all to survive their changing environments.

However, we are responsible for the acceleration of climate change and hence, a more rapid rate of species’ extinction. Our money is better spent alleviating the effects of climate change on existing species, rather than funding de-extinction, especially since the Trump administration has cut back on environmental funds. We should continue to invest in he development of novel ecosystems, where features of the old, pre-human habitats are combined with the new and current human-altered habitats. This allows us to work with the effects of climate change while protecting the greatest number of species possible.

Just as we cannot stop climate change, we cannot stop extinctions. We have to let go of the past and understand that species’ extinctions are not always the responsibility of humans. This way, we can progress and focus on the conservation of existing species and our futures.

Amy Tso
Wellesley, MA
April 18, 2017

The Other Yellow Fever

Op-Ed

“Amy, he has yellow fever!” said my friend, with her hands up in the air.

“Yellow fever? He looks fine to me.” I said.

“No, I mean the Asian fetish kind!” she said.

Before coming to the U.S., I had never heard of yellow fever. It was one of the most unexpected things I learned in my first few months in college.

The expression “yellow fever,” or Asian fetish, is used to describe people, usually white males, who have a predilection for East Asian women due to the stereotypes of the hypersexualized East Asian female. Those with yellow fever believe that all East Asian women are shy, submissive, exotic and sexually open-minded. Where did this inaccurate notion come from?

In the 19th century, the first East Asian women to immigrate to the U.S. were Chinese prostitutes. The Chinese men who came before them provided cheap labour for the American railroad companies on the West Coast, and were not allowed to bring their wives. Anti-Chinese sentiment was high:  Americans did not want Chinese men to start families and permanently settle in the U.S. During the period that Anti-East Asian immigration laws were in place, only kidnapped or bribed Chinese women were allowed into the country to work as prostitutes for white American men. As time went on, the stereotype permeated beyond the West Coast as the media continued to disseminate images of Chinese women as prostitutes.

During and after World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War, increasing numbers of East Asian women were brought to the West Coast as war brides for American soldiers. This further perpetuated stereotypes of East Asian women as sex objects or women whose only objective in life is to serve men.

Like many of my East Asian friends, I have at times wondered whether it’s because of my ethnicity and the assumption that I am sexually subservient that I am attractive to a white guy, especially one who serially dates East Asian women.

A white male friend, to whom I was explaining yellow fever, asked whether it was the same as finding East Asian women attractive. I was appalled at his ignorance and inability to see from my perspective. This is why yellow fever persists; people, mostly white men, do not understand the difference. Finding someone attractive because of their physical appearance is dissimilar to finding that same someone attractive because of the ethnic stereotypes they are associated with.

It’s also our media that allows for the persistence of the hypersexualized portrayal of East Asian women. Hollywood films reveal us as sexy China dolls or Geishas who seduce white men. These women are depicted as cunning, sexually voracious, and eager to feed the men’s fantasies. There are dating websites are created specifically for white males to find an East Asian girlfriend or wife. The advertisements for these dating sites often show East Asian women with large breasts, little or no clothing and posed seductively. Little surprise then that the stereotype that East Asian women in general are hypersexual beings.

I had never heard of yellow fever before coming to the US. But didn’t the influence of American culture bring the hypersexualized image of East Asian women to Canada? Well, the first East Asians who came to Canada were not prostitutes but were either wealthy business people or middle-class individuals who brought their families over for a better life. And the war brides who came to marry Canadian soldiers during the war were all white Europeans.

I grew up in Vancouver, one of the most multicultural cities in the world with a large population of East Asians. Perhaps in cities with a significant number of East Asians, such stereotypes are broken down or never developed because of the daily opportunities to interact with East Asians. Cynthia Berryman-Fink, a Professor of Communications at the University of Cincinnati, found that increasing interpersonal contact between races in three mid-western colleges led to a decline in both general and specific prejudice. She also found that the more students from different backgrounds interacted, the more they cultivated a positive attitude toward one another. Thus, intercultural education and travelling can lead to greater understanding of different cultures and ethnicities.

As our world becomes more globalized and an increasing number of people become aware of the dangers of stereotyping, perhaps we will reach a time when we no longer associate any ethnicity with stereotypes and eradicate yellow fever.

The Fall to Freedom

Film Review: "Women without Men" (2009)

Women Without Men, directed by Shirin Neshat and released in 2009, is a film focusing on the gender-based adversities that four women face during the political turmoil in Tehran, Iran, during the 1950s. Although the women are from different social and religious backgrounds, they all seek liberation from oppression in a patriarchal society and the freedom to realize their desires.

Munis shows a deep interest in the political climate of the time and yearns to become more active in the fight against a foreign-backed coup. She spends her time glued to the radio listening to the news and refuses to greet the suitor whose visit has been set up by her fervently religious brother, Amir Khan, who rips out the radio cord in anger. Faezeh, a friend of Munis, is deeply religious and wants to marry Munis’ brother; however, she lets go of any hope after she is raped by two men from a teashop and faces shame. Zarin is a prostitute who is constantly berated by the madam of the brothel to greet her male customers. She hugs herself on the floor of her room, scrubs her body until it bleeds, and runs away from the brothel after looking at one of her customers and discovering he is faceless. Fakhri, the fourth woman, is fifty, wealthy, and married to General Sadri, who threatens to get rid of her for another wife if she cannot satisfy him. She leaves him and moves out to a property with an orchard, where Zarin and Fakhri also eventually find themselves after running away from their unsatisfying lives.

From the start, the film presents death as a way to achieve freedom. We first see a flash-forward scene in colour where Munis jumps to her death to escape Amir. This contrasts greatly with a dark, desaturated scene where Munis sits on the floor and is violently scolded by Amir, who threatens to break her legs if she leaves their home. The lack of colour in the scene reflects the bleakness of Munis’ life – a life where she is unable to act politically and fight for what she wants. These two scenes also show by the physical position of her body how Munis finds place of power and freedom through death. She sits on the floor at her brother’s feet while he shouts at her. Whereas before Munis dies, she is shown in a low-angle shot on a tall roof overlooking the city. She has chosen the freedom to break her own body rather than allow a man to do so.

Neshat chooses to present the rest of the scenes with Munis in colour: Munis can finally live out her heart’s deepest wishes in death. This is an example of the film’s use of magical realism to portray her after death. Here, Munis continues to listen to the radio, even in an environment meant only for men, and joins the communists in fighting against the tyranny of the Shah. After Zarin also dies, we flashback to the scene where Munis dies and narrates how death is release from a world where women cannot change their lives.

Much like death, letting go of the chador represents a liberation for the women from their past constraining lives. Before finding her way into the orchard, Zarin lets go of her chador and leaves it by the stream. She finds herself in a sanctuary of peace and reflection, where no madam is constantly calling for her to serve her body to a male stranger. Living with Fakhri in the home by the orchard, Faezeh also discontinues wearing her chador and embraces a happier life with Fakhri who makes her smile and provides her with a place of safety. When Amir visits Faezeh to propose she be his second wife (while his first wife will be her servant), he sees she is not wearing her chador and questions whether she is still religious. Faezeh stands up for herself and her new way of life, which no longer centers around having Amir as her husband. When Faezeh leaves the orchard on the long, dirt path, she is wearing a floral dress instead of the black chador that she wore on her way to the orchard. Before Munis’ body hits the ground in her suicide, we see her chador falling and landing first; she too has let go of her life of oppression.

The film makes use of the human voice to represent the world of chaos driven by men, and contrasts this with the use of silence that represents a world of freedom for women. When Zarin is waiting for customers in her room, the madam is constantly shouting her name. When she is walking alone after her bath, she stops by a group of women in black chadors mourning and wailing loudly. It is only when Zarin reaches the orchard where there are no men that she is surrounded by silence and peace. Throughout the film, the men, such as General Sadri and Amir, are always loudly talking while the women are in silence and in pain. For example, Munis is constantly chastised by her brother, Amir. Fakhri sits sadly at her table as General Sadri is noisily voicing his opinions in the background; she escapes this world of chaos by moving to the orchard as Zarin did. We see how silence also contrasts with the sound of the adhan, the Islamic call to worship, when Munis falls to her death. As she flees from the calls that remind her of pious brother, the voices stop. There is also the whispering of Faezeh’s name, which is followed by a voice that echoes her worry that people will found out she is not a virgin. The whispering stops when she finds inner peace and embraces her woman’s body as she looks in the mirror.

A life where women can live without men is portrayed as desirable in a country wrecked by political upheaval and unwilling to give women the freedom to make their own choices for their bodies and futures. The women and Iran serve as metaphors for one another; both are undergoing a period of oppression from which they try to escape. The women seek to live freely and in control of their own bodies, while Iran tries to fend off the control of foreign governments and the dictatorship of the Shah.  It is either through death or escape to the orchard, far from the chaos of political demonstrations and the violence of a patriarchal society, that the four women can finally achieve freedom.

Life in a Yukata

Feature article

I pushed aside the fusuma, the rectangular sliding doors characteristic of Japanese architecture, and peered inside the room. I was overcome, especially after a night of karaoke, by the peace and stillness. The walls of the expansive bedroom were beige. Two pairs of blue slippers for me and my friend rested by the door. A tiny brown table with two white square mats sat in the middle. I heard the gentle flow of a little waterfall and walked to my window where I gazed at a school of white and gold carp swimming leisurely in a pond. The room’s light fragrant scent reminded me of the times I spent lying on the couch in my grandmother’s living room as she rubbed her Chinese body oil, which always felt minty to my skin, into my back. I suddenly felt a sense of calm and familiarity in this room that had housed many strangers and was thousands of miles away from home.

I was in the mountains of Hokkaido, Japan, for my first hot springs experience. It was time for dinner, and my friend and I looked forward to changing into our yukata (soft cotton kimonos) for the first time. The word yukata refers to “bathing clothes,” and they were designed for wear before entering and after leaving an onsen (hot springs). We stripped out of our shirts and jeans, and then dressed in matching white and blue yukata with black sashes. Since my yukata resembled my taekwondo uniform, I tied my sash like I always did for my taekwondo belts, but loosened it for greater comfort.

Wearing the yukata was liberating as I realized how effortless I felt moving around without the nuisance of rough jeans, constricting bras, shoes that pressed my toes together and the itchy tags on most of my shirts. I felt as if I were enveloped in a huge, warm blanket, and exposing my body to a new culture.

I felt strange walking into the dining room, a larger version of our own room with many low brown tables, wearing just my yukata and no undergarments. My skin felt as bare as an oyster without its shell. As my friend and I sat on our knees in front of our tables eating shabu shabu (Japanese hot pot), I began to feel more comfortable in the yukata like all the other diners around me. The name shabu shabu was the Japanese onomatopoeia for the soft swishing of the chopsticks in our pot’s water. One by one, I grabbed vegetables, fish balls and thinly-sliced pieces of marbled beef with my wooden chopsticks and plunged them into the water, for a few seconds until they had cooked. Before each anticipated bite, I dipped my food in a soy sauce and then savoured the juicy flavours.

Next came the visit to the onsen. Upon entering the changing room, we carefully undressed, put our yukata into cubbies, and each grabbed a towel. It is disrespectful to be loud, to run and to tread around with outdoor shoes once one enters the changing rooms. Even the children who were hyper at dinner understood. We entered through glass doors that led to the onsen. To my left was a wall with a row of shower heads, each next to its own mirror, bathing products and a small stool. It is important for guests to clean themselves before entering the onsen, a place of rest and serenity.

I stepped into the 40 degrees Celsius water. Steam was drifting into the air and I felt as though I were a wrinkly piece of cabbage in a shabu shabu pot. At first, the water was too hot, so I lowered myself gradually. Once I was fully immersed, I folded my towel into a little square and placed it on top of my head as the other women did – to let my hair or towel touch the water would be rude. I feared making a mistake since I had learned all these rules last minute and felt that it would be easy to offend the Japanese people around me. But as no one was staring at us, my friend and I quickly began to unwind as the warmth of the water washed over us. Being naked in the onsen felt as freeing as being naked under my yukata. I had never felt so comfortable with my nudity. We blended in with the women around us; many had their eyes closed, some were sitting on rocks and everyone’s faces were slowly turning pink and sweaty from the heat. I felt as though I were truly becoming a part of the culture.

After the hot springs, I was glad to be back in the yukata; I had never felt more relaxed. I soon fell asleep on the thin cotton futon on the floor of our room, which was surprisingly a lot more comfortable than my own bed at home. I almost forgot that I had spent an entire day without wifi or any technology, far from the busy and packed city.

Wearing my yukata permitted me to welcome another culture. I had opened my body and mind to a side of Japanese culture that differed greatly from the nightlife of the brightly-lit cities and their prominently advancing world of technology. I realized that although the strict rules rooted in the tradition were initially daunting, they ultimately allowed me to feel a greater sense of peace and freedom that I had never experienced in my own culture.

Big is Beautiful

Blog Post

“Alooooooooha!”

I never forgot the booming voice of Uncle.

No, he was not my blood relative. But everyone in Hawai’i was either an uncle, an aunt, a brother, or a sister.

Little did I know that the second I landed in Honolulu I became a member of a massive Ohana, a family.

On past vacations, my parents, my brother and I would visit the most popular, and usually overcrowded, hotspots recommended by Google or a travel agency. This time, we decided to discover the archipelago on our own.

The moment I stepped off the plane, a wave of heat engulfed my body; warm weather existed! Most of us idealize Hawai’i as the perfect location for beach-goers to relax in the sun, and I was prepared to do the same: Flop on the sand like a beached seal, and then flip back and forth like a sausage patty being tossed on the grill, while soaking in the heat.

Upon entering the hotel, everyone was given a lei, a necklace strung together using freshly-picked flowers. I first marveled at the beauty and sweet odour of my lei, and then learned that it wasn’t meant simply as a fashion statement, but more importantly as a symbol of welcome. The two Polynesian women who were giving out leis further explained to me that it is part of their tradition to make everyone feel welcome in their home. I learned as well that the word “Aloha” was not simply “Hello,” but that it also meant “Peace,” and “I love you.” I was surprised that on the first day I would be invited to experience a new culture that was even more open and friendly than my own (and I thought Canadians were already the epitome of hospitality).

For the first few days, I broke the habit of saying “aloha” the way North Americans say “hello” in a cheery, upbeat voice; I learned to bellow the Hawaiian greeting and extend my “o” for at least 4 seconds. As I spent more time with Hawaiians, I came to understand the significance of saying the word with passion and love, qualities they communicate to everyone they meet. I love the feeling that one simple word can make me feel a sense of belonging and a connection to those around me.

The more I got to spend time with native Hawaiians, the more I learned that the hospitality and warmth in Hawaiian culture are more than just words.

On my last weekend, one of my new Uncles invited me to a luau, a tradition that involves a massive feast, chanting, dancing and storytelling. My family and I were excited to finally experience an authentic Hawaiian meal, after unsuccessfully trying to avoid American and fake Hawaiian food for days. Sitting at a long, wooden table covered with fresh purple orchids, we were served fish, rice, Lau Lau, which was a dish that consisted of shredded pork wrapped in taro leaves, and poi or mushed taro root.

As I was sitting there wondering if I still had room for seconds, Uncle told me to eat more and that fat is beautiful. I thought he was light-heartedly joking with me. The Western culture that I grew up with taught me through media that beauty is all that is skinny. So, I just laughed at his joke. As I went for seconds, he looked at me seriously and told me what he truly meant: Big is beautiful. He told me that for centuries, the Polynesians believed that the bigger you are, the more beautiful you are, and that it is essential to just eat what you want and be happy.

My Asian mother told me since the day I was born that fat is ugly. Throughout elementary school, I was told to eat less or I would retain my chubby figure into adulthood. For the longest time, childhood meant staring longingly at the snack cupboard and then glaring at my fat rolls, and so on back and forth. The realization that there is a culture that openly embraces bigger bodies helped me understand that the diversity of beauty expands beyond the super skinny. Beauty is a reflection of personal happiness, not size. Remembering the beauty of big families, big bodies, and big hearts allowed me to transform shame into an embrace of acceptance.