Tag Archives: by Virginia White

Yellow Fever For All

Letter to the editor

To the Editor

Re: The Non-Viral Yellow Fever

Most of my experiences of being approached in a flirtatious manner, as an East Asian woman, have been from East Asian men.  The setting is commonly a college party in the Boston area.  These men seem to single me out as the only Asian woman in the room and thus make one of several assumptions:  They often assume that I would be the most likely to have something in common with them, such as the struggle of being a racial minority or a shared cultural history.  They think that because I appear Asian I have traits that they find desirable in a partner.  I have to say, as someone who grew up in a white household in white suburbia, this automatic attention is off-putting, largely because it is so presumptuous.  By distilling my experience and identity down to just my race, which they read in one look, these Asian men are just as insulting as white men who have yellow fever.  The way I understand yellow fever, and have experienced it, is when someone dates or flirts with exclusively East Asian women despite exposure to women of a variety of races and ethnicities.  The complexity of making assumptions about the people within your own race can be just as problematic and detrimental.  The stereotypical views about Asian women are just as pervasive in Western culture as they are outside of it.  Even if we are limiting the scope of yellow fever to Western culture, I have a hard time believing that only white men are complicit in perpetuating the stereotypes portrayed by the media and institutionalized throughout history.

Sincerely,

Virginia White

Less is More

Film Review: "Ida" (2014)

The 2013 Polish film Ida, directed by Pawel Pawlikowski and set in 1962, is both a coming-of-age story and a retrospective look at Poland’s complicated history.  The main character, Anna, is an adolescent girl about to take her vows to become a nun.  She is sent to visit her only living relative, Aunt Wanda, before committing to life at the convent.  Almost immediately we learn that Anna is Jewish and that her given name is actually Ida.  From Wanda’s home she and Ida, strangers to each other, travel together across the Polish countryside to unravel their shared past.  The story includes moments of anti-Semitism and weaves together the historical consequences of both Nazi and Soviet rule.  These larger themes are present throughout all aspects of the story, but for most of the film they take a back seat to the emotional transformation of the characters.  The film is a study of subtlety, in overall message as well as in its visual and auditory effects.

Ida and Wanda go back to the family farm to discover what happened to Ida’s parents and Wanda’s son.  Once there, they meet the farm’s current tenant, Feliks.  Wanda tries but is unable to obtain any specific information about why her sister died and where the family was laid to rest.  It becomes clear that while Ida is piecing together her identity by learning about a family she never knew she had, Wanda is seeking closure by learning about the family she lost.  As the two women travel on, they meet Lis, a young musician who takes a liking to Ida; his presence magnifies the differences between them.  Ida is constrained by her reticent personality and the routines she practiced while at the convent.  Her steadiness and rigidity is offset by Wanda’s recklessness, emotional transparency, and copious drinking.  Agata Kulesza, who plays Wanda, portrays strength and vulnerability from one shot to the next, from threatening police officers and verbally assaulting Feliks to lying naked in bed after a night of drinking and meaningless sex.  Wanda is free in many ways that Ida is not and yet unlike Ida, is weighed down by her past, specifically the death of her son and sister.  The director does not need to include inner monologues or flashbacks to explain the characters, but allows the audience to read between the lines.

After discovering that it was Feliks who murdered Ida’s parents and Wanda’s son, but who spared Ida because she could pass as a non-Jew, the two women retrieve their relatives’ remains and take them to a family burial plot.  At this point the two women come together in mourning.  After paying their respects the two women part ways; they go back to their respective homes and attempt to readjust to their former lives.  Wanda fails to achieve closure and ends up committing suicide.  Ida likewise cannot go back to her old life; having experienced the outside world she finds the routines of the convent ludicrous rather than reassuring.  She postpones taking her vows and once again leaves the convent, this time to go to Wanda’s funeral.  In Wanda’s home, Ida tries drinking, smoking, and dressing up for the first time.  She even sleeps with Lis.  Her actions pay tribute to her aunt’s lifestyle and show that she is interested in sampling a different life.  The symbolic weight of these mundane activities show once again how the film is capable of speaking volumes with simple scenes.

The entire film, shot in black and white, gives a melancholy feel and invites the viewer to take on a meditative state.  The absence of color reflects Ida’s simple lifestyle in the convent and the bleak political climate. The somber mood is made clear by the large sections of film with no dialogue.  Ida communicates largely through her dark expressive eyes and spends most of the film silently absorbing information and experience.   Although this could make Ida seem naïve, the actress, Agata Trzebuchowska, successfully appears reserved, making Ida’s character more nuanced.  The choice to minimize stimuli makes every instance of dialogue and every visual cue more poignant.  It allows the film to strike a careful balance between subtle changes and raw emotion.  Even though the material in the film is dark and heavy, nothing the characters do is overwrought.

This minimalist style holds true for plot.  The film lacks explicit explanations.  Instead, the director opts for understatements.  Any triggering action in the film, whether it be suicide, murder, or sex,  is alleviated by music and the absence of explicit visuals.  Instead of an action-packed film the director chooses to focus on introspection.  The shot of Feliks in the grave of those he killed, face in hands, is more powerful than any words. Even in this moment of revelation the film fails to explain every detail, instead focusing on the mood.  Why exactly Feliks kills Ida’s parents is unclear: was it to take over the farm or for fear that the Nazis would discover and punish his father’s actions?  This and other ambiguities make the film more powerful.  The narrative is more realistic in that it lacks tidy resolutions.  After a night of living like Wanda, Ida gets up and leaves Lis, still asleep in her aunt’s bed.  As she walks away from Lis, and any future she might have had with him, she also walks away from Wanda and rejects the kind of life her aunt led.  Ida dons her habit and walks towards the unknown along a plain dirt road.  Ida is, in many ways, just as alone at the end as when the film began but with many more lived experiences.  This final shot captures the disillusion of post-war Poland and the uncertainties faced by its people: life goes on no matter what.

 

 

One Woman Among A Million

Feature article

The Women’s March on Washington, which took place on January 21 of this year, was an event that drew people from all over the country.  It was a day dedicated in part to protesting President Donald J. Trump, the language he uses when discussing women, and the policies he promised to enact once in office.  The infamous words, “Grab ‘em by the pussy” struck a nerve with many during the campaign season and became a summation of Trump’s brash and unapologetic character.  My mother and I went down to Washington to express our disapproval of the values the new administration embraces.  My mother is a single parent and a proud Wellesley alum.  She strongly identifies with Hillary Clinton and has always believed and participated in civil disobedience.  I, on the other hand, am a first-time voter and very conscious of the effect Bernie Sanders has had on my peers, energizing their enthusiasm for politics; as a result I have not yet become quite so resolute in my opinions.  In my attempts to become an informed participant, I read many articles detailing the discourse surrounding the March, both those for and against it.

The March began as an idea on Facebook, ironically the same social media platform accused of facilitating the spread of misinformation that further divided members of the Democratic and Republican parties and aided a Trump victory.  Designed to echo the peaceful resistance methods of the Civil Rights Movement, the Women’s March was meant to unify women and feminists from diverse backgrounds against a common adversary.  For people blindsided by the election results and feeling compelled to act, the March offered the tangible and immediate relief of action.  Young voters, for whom this was their first election, could now participate in what was possibly their first protest.  Older voters who have been fighting sexism for decades could match a new face, an orange face, to an old problem.  Even so, there were many critics of the March who claimed that the issues on the table were not intersectional and failed to address the diversity of modern American identity.  People showed concern that the March excluded people who didn’t identify as female— a response to increasing awareness of transgender and gender non-conforming identities.  Following the conversations started by important social and cultural moments, such as #OscarsSoWhite, the release of “Master of None” on Netflix, Beyoncé’s “Formation” video, and Trump’s use of the phrase “bad hombres,” the call for representation was especially crucial.   For many, this March seemed to fall short of being as inclusive as it could have been.  On the other hand, the idea of a Women’s March became a catchall for minorities and anyone taking issue with Trump.  For this reason, it felt as though no two people were marching for the same set of reasons.  I see this as an example of American diversity, while others saw it as a hindrance to the success of the March.

Prior to the March many articles surfaced on social media about people abstaining from the March because it didn’t perfectly align with their needs.  Some of those people expressed their desire to have the March itself, and by extension all the participants, officially recognize and address their personal hardships, which could often be explained through categorical descriptors like race, economic status, and sexuality, among others.  This became manifest as many Marchers were accused of white feminism, a term that suggests white feminists fail to acknowledge that the difficulties women of color face are very different and disproportionately worse.  White feminism also points to the fact that the face of the feminist movement is too often white. For example, from what I could tell, Gloria Steinem’s presence was widely publicized and she was the most highly anticipated speaker that day.   Despite the fact that March organizers gave away posters depicting a Muslim woman, a Latina woman, and a black woman to those who came without signs, I couldn’t help but notice most people in the crowd were white.  Some protesters held signs that reminded Marchers that 94% of black women voted against Trump while the majority of white women voted for him.  On the day of the March I sensed many separate factions protesting under the umbrella ideas of equality and representation.

Even so, I think the large public expression of feminism seen at the March was a long time coming.  The trend of celebrities embracing feminism shows that the movement is now a part of mainstream consciousness.  What I find interesting is that in our current political climate no one can become a feminist slowly. To avoid being judged and criticized as fake or discriminatory, each participant had to be all-inclusive and well-versed in the vocabulary, history, and current concerns specific to any given minority group.  I think this is too tall an order for any person, let alone a group numbering several hundred thousand.  Generally, anyone who begins to think about social equality thinks first in terms of themselves, grounding their understanding in concrete examples, before shifting their perspective to others. This process takes a lifetime.  Complaints about the March, which minimized its valiant and in some ways successful attempt at fellowship, seemed to stem mostly from impatience.

I have three white female cousins from Tennessee, a place that does not generally support feminist thinking, and despite this two of them attended the March.  Although they are new to feminism, they are beginning to get involved.  Progress is progress.  To me, the March was about showing an impressive force of resistance against Trump, and that required bodies.  While not everyone there was satisfied or in complete agreement, still they showed up. On the March and the days that followed the cacophony of voices asking to be heard – including the voices of my cousins – is both overwhelming and encouraging. I think that is a step in the right direction.

Connect for a Moment

Blog Post

Since infancy, whenever I went out with my mother, others would see a young Chinese girl accompanied by a tall middle-aged Caucasian woman.  I am adopted (a result of China’s “one child policy”) but culturally identify 100% as an American.  In the summer between fourth and fifth grade my mother, after reading many parenting books, decided to bring me back to China.  Her reasoning was that it would allow me to get to know my birth culture and I would perhaps find comfort in the experience of being around people who looked like me.  We joined a program that lasted three weeks: two were spent in Beijing, where we learned to speak Chinese with other adoptive families and saw all the biggest tourist attractions.  For the final week each family split up and traveled to the child’s respective hometown, making sure to visit the local orphanage.

You’d think visiting the orphanage would bring up a surge of emotion and leave a lasting impression, but it was my daily interactions with the Chinese people that stuck with me.  Everywhere we went we were a spectacle.  The trip took place before the Beijing Olympics when China was still emerging from its long isolation.  A group of white people invited stares and questions.  Naturally the Chinese people, noticing the foreigners, would come up to us children and question us in Chinese.  I couldn’t understand a word they said and I remember being not only apologetic at their disappointment but also feeling confused and startled by their assumed familiarity.  This happened everywhere we went and was often only sorted out when our translator stepped in. On the streets, our group was constantly stared at and harassed by beggars who associated white skin with generosity and wealth.  This meant that we were treated like celebrities at the local restaurants; servers frequently brought out foods that were not on the menu.  The cooks clearly wanted to show us the best China had to offer and I could tell that they, like any Italian grandmother, took deep satisfaction in watching our eyes roll back in enjoyment.

Despite the many daily activities, I found time to swim at the local pool with Mimi, a Chinese-American adoptee friend I had made.  My mom later told me that a friend of our translator, not realizing we were in her program, examined us saying, “Those two children look Chinese and yet aren’t Chinese.” He noticed that Mimi and I were doing underwater handstands and splashing while the other children swam laps; In China, playing at our level of noise and spontaneity was restricted to toddlers and babies.  Together Mimi and I stood out more than I did by myself, even among Westerners.  As we rode the elevator back to the hotel room a middle-aged British man overheard our conversation and profusely praised our English.  Now I can understand his assumption: Asian-looking people you see in China are native Chinese speakers.  At the time his approval of my English felt odd and alienating; apparently I was an anomaly to everyone.

Once we had traveled away from Beijing, on our way to my hometown, I began to interact with other Chinese kids. The train we took was packed to bursting.  The strategy of the railroad company seemed to be to sell as many tickets as possible regardless of any fire code or number of seats available.  Although my mother and I were traveling alone we drew the usual crowd.  As it happened, this was a vacation week, so most of the passengers were school teachers and children going out to the countryside for a respite from the heat of the city.  To pass the time my mother had brought travel-sized Connect Four, a tic-tac-toe-type game, and since the concept was simple enough I soon found myself competing against all the other children who’d been drawn by the sight of the game.  After our translator explained the rules the parents would push a child forward to take on the American.  I won most of the time, since I was the most familiar with Connect Four.  Some parents took pleasure in simply watching the game play out, happy to be entertained during the uncomfortable ride; others expressed frustration when their child lost.  One man even dared to insult me calling me Japanese. It was in this environment that I felt the most comfortable.  I wasn’t being treated like a foreigner but like an equal.  No one was bending over backward to show us a good time or pestering me with questions I couldn’t understand.  There was no conversation: the onlookers were in rapt attention, their love of amicable competition transcending the barriers of language and culture.  All the parents, not least my mother, shared in the universal experience of rooting for their own child.  In rural China, where English was non-existent and white skin still exotic, I felt we were understood.