Safe (shopping) spaces {Crazy Ex-Girlfriend}

I once read an article about how relationships are often defined by gift-giving, and the more expensive the gift, the more valuable the gift is considered (more so by the gift-giver rather than the gift-receiver).  With consumerism being such an integral part of our social development, it's no surprise that our national obsession lies not in the Redwood Forests, or Democratic freedom, or even our star spangled banner, but instead in the aisles of our nearest superstore and the swiping of our AmEx gold cards.  I mean, if you haven't struggled under the weight of twenty shopping bags, or left your family on Thanksgiving night to pounce on Black Friday markdowns, are you even American?

Even worse, our consumerist tendencies send a dangerous message simultaneously reminiscent of the pre-Rosa-Parks era and a 1950s household (fitting, since this seems to be when the modern "throw-away" culture began to emerge).  It's no secret that TV ads are geared towards "shopping crazed" and "spendthrifty" women—although most of the women I've met don't love shopping at all (especially shoe shopping... I have never met a woman who genuinely likes it), and in fact, think of it as stressful and tedious.  

If a woman asks to go shopping, it's usually for one of two reasons: she wants to transform a lonely task into a social endeavor, or she believes that she has to stay up to date with the latest trends or be left in the dust.  I, for one, am never one to object an opportunity to shop, but half an hour, sore feet, dozens of chaotic clothing racks, and countless styles sold out of my size later, I realize what a grave mistake I've made (and will most likely make again).  Somehow, the elation and full wallet I usually enter the mall with always manages to be exchanged with fatigue and subtle regret by the time I leave. 

And when advertisements do happen to be geared towards men, this happens: 

you have to give these marketing directors kudos for creativity, though; they
are somehow able to include women in ads for even the most unrelated products!!

 

Here's the real kicker: not only are the advertisements gender-segregated, but the stores themselves are.  In men's clothing sections, the flooring is darker than in the feminine section (I watched a video on this once, and ever since I haven't been able to un-notice it).  This is to promote a sense of "gruff" manliness,  the kind that gives a "man's man" his "display of power."  More than that, the wall color and light brightness in the dressing rooms both tend to fall on the darker end of the spectrum for the ultimate male shopping experience.  And, is that musk I smell? Or perhaps it's just the ambiance from the brown leather seating in the corner...

While male shopping experience may reinforce macho male stereotypes, the same is done for the female shopping experience.  Lighter and brighter colors work to impose the stigma that women are dainty—dare I say, "easy, breezy, beautiful"—and are meant to exploit the feminine instinct to buy. 

The retail giants of our world further amplify gender stereotypes by slapping "feminine colors," a heftier price tag, and a "for her" label on its products, expecting for women to buy into it:

 Simple as that, the frontiers of American consumerism create clear boundaries between men and women.  We as Americans love our separation; we like our societal groups like the food in our microwaveable TV dinners—to never touch, thanks to modern convenience and capitalism.  It seems as if we're telling the same old story, but in a new context: first we separated our rich and our poor, then our colored and white, and now our pink and blue. 

that loving solution (that 70s show)

It is a pitiful truth that great projections of love, being especially conspicuous so near the holiday of St. Valentine, are plagued by fake lovers.  These fake lovers are adulterers, exploiters of our most trusting members of society, and overall, master manipulators.  

Dare I speculate that the growing number of these adulterers have put our nation in shambles; they are the cause for ninety percent of vengeful actions and result in millions of dollars worth of destroyed property (not to mention the physical engagements jealousy can bring people to act upon).  Even worse, philandering calls for the humiliation and defamation of the innocent party.  I think it is an agreeable assertion that "whoever could find out a fair, cheap and easy method" to solve this unbearable epidemic should experience little resistance in its integration.  

Well, after much reflection, I have come upon a most humble solution: a system to permanently mark our mates.  Now, I am not proposing something as barbaric as a cow or even slave branding, as this would be inconsiderate, especially to those who have skin sensitivities.  No, I am proposing for serious couples to have tattoos corresponding to their significant other.  This is a much more modest, yet modern and effective solution.  Aye, the greatest human enemy is shame, and if adultering acts were to be made with visible evidence that the man or woman committing the heinous crime belongs to someone other, shame would surely dissuade even the most unscrupulous lovers.  

I have recently consulted "a very worthy person, a true lover of his country, and whose virtues I highly esteem," a renowned psychologist, on this pressing issue and have received nothing but support for my modest proposal.   "Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern" of couples that have bitterly separated, yet each party still suspected of infidelity due to his or her tattoo.   To that I respond: do not fret.  The threat of this will only cause for more caution in entering new relationships that may yield these markings and will offer as a motive to couples to work harder at protecting their relationships.  

It is not enough to ask for a society that values trust, we must force this trust upon it.  We cannot change the American consumerist mindset that views everything as disposable, temporary... but we can create permanence in our relationships ourselves.

Finding X (finding Nemo)

Find "x".  This phrase doesn't just serve as race's stigmatized mantra, but also as my heritage.  That elusive "x" is attached to my identity—both literally and figuratively.

It represents thousands of years and countless generations that have overcome economic and political turmoil.  It represents my yéyé, who once headed a company, yet now struggles to remember his own address.  It represents my wàigōng, whose legacy lives far beyond the grave in all the lives he's saved.  It represents my father, whose calloused hands tell a story of his pre-American lifestyle; from the hard, physical work he did on a countryside farm to the quick-thinking he used while driving a military ambulance—unlike the busy streets of Beijing where he studied, or to the United Nations where he worked—he's truly done it all.  It represents my mother, who has a scar on her right hand from the time she had to build her own school, who raised her younger sister while their parents were working all day and night at a hospital, who tells hilarious tales of the time she gorged herself on crates upon crates of the most delicious grapes imaginable.  The "x" that appears on the top corner of all my papers, my birth certificate, my driver's license...represents more than just me.  It references all these people and more; it pays tribute to every sacrifice and accomplishment others have done to get me where I am today.

But it's more than even that.  In a paradoxical way, nothing represents my American heritage more than my Chinese name.  Like I said, "x" tells a story—one that wouldn't be complete without addressing my parents' immigration to a land "where it is possible to start anew; where it is possible to escape the rivalries of the Capulets and the McCoys."  It tells a story of the clash between stingy communism and careless capitalism...

It tells a story of how my mom cuts her own hair, a post-communist frugality present decades later.  It tells a story of the stoicism and the "I love you"s that are as wrapped up and hidden like the meat of homemade dumplings.  It tells a story of my frigid house temperatures in the winter ("just wear more clothing!") and sticky uncomfort in the summer (apparently air conditioning is for wimps).  It tells the story of Sunday Chinese school, piano lessons, and my father's obsession with succeeding in the American school system.  It tells a story of the (truly inedible) "brownies" my parents used to make without sugar because "American food is always too sweet." It tells a story of the plastic utensils my parents use and reuse.  It tells a story of eating bacon with chopsticks.  It tells a story of the empty pickle, yogurt, and cashew containers under their new identities:  sugar, sponge, and soap containers.  It tells a story of adversity.  It tells, or rather, shows, me that if my parents can start from nothing—little money, minuscule social awareness, and limited communication skills—there's no reason why I can't succeed, too.

My name gives me both the confidence of historical backing and the optimism for future endeavors.  It builds the framework of my identity and is the linking bond that reaches across thousands of miles (specifically, 7,100) and back thousands of years (specifically, 4,087).  I haven't found "x;" it's found me.

I really, really, really like this gif for some reason

A Man's Best Friend (Friends)

***I decided to attempt to mimic Wallace's writing style here... unfortunately, blogger does not have a footnote feature :(

Consider the Pets.  Consider the dog, or cat, or goldfish, or lizard, or hamster.....

They may not grow up in the depths of the ocean, only to be snatched out of their homes and held captive, awaiting death at the hands of a kettle— in fact, the pets we have in our homes most likely have never known living in the wild at all (and no, an afternoon in a gated, suburban backyard does not count as the "wild").  Surely, our domesticated bundles of joy would never be found on our dinner plates, only on our windowsills looking longingly out, or in our cages, clawing at the bars.  Perhaps our friendly companions have more to do with our food than we originally thought...

Let's take a look at the hamster (they're totally overshadowed by dogs and cats and deserve some of the spotlight too).  My family has had 4 before (two at first, but they died within a couple years and were promptly replaced); they were the first and only pets at my house.  From the moment my brother brought them through my front door and I looked into their endlessly black, beady eyes, all I could think was "What was he thinking?" My family... we aren't pet people.  Between the grooming, and strange smells, and the pure maintenance a pet requires, my sibling's (and my) pleads for a pet were always met with a scoff or an eye roll.  Eventually, though, our hamsters grew on us.  Even though, all night long, the sounds urgent sounds of spinning hamster wheels would fill the house; even though we had to buy another cage to separate our two hamsters because "the stresses of captivity" caused for them to "[tear] one another up" to the point that one of them (we called her blackjack) became blind in one eye (Wallace 670).  

living together in close quarters was no party for our hamsters

I watched the hamsters scale their "three-story" cages to the very top, only to make the drop all the way down to their bedding.  Were they trying to find escape, or simply on a suicide mission?    I watched them, notorious for their performances on the hamster wheel, run until they couldn't keep up (often, they would literally flip head over heels), only to pick themselves up and start all over again.  Then follows the trite hamster-on-its-wheel metaphor, the one that pokes fun of those who keep running, only to stay in the same place.  Perhaps, though, the goal has never been to run towards something, but rather, away from something—captivity. Or, even if it is something they are running towards, maybe it's their native homes in Syria, or Siberia, or Greece, or Rome... after all, we all get a little homesick occasionally, and a living room in Troy, MI doesn't exactly mimic the sandy, dry atmosphere they are used to.  I'm not trying to be dramatic... but the more I remember them, I can't help but wonder if they endured pure misery, just for my family to get a few moments of entertainment from them. 

I can't be the first one to have stumbled across this train of thought, but is often not talked about for one simple reason: thinking about the experience pets must endure is unpleasant and interferes with our happiness (and as the hierarchy of the Animal Kindom dictates, our happiness should be valued above all else).  So, we turn a blind eye as we sign up for an invisible fence, or pick up some catnip, or flush yet another goldfish down the toilet.  

Worse than all of this, we make a spectacle of all this misery we put our pets through.  We may not live in glass homes, but apparently, it's fine for our pets to.  Not just glass, though, we will settle for anything, really: plastic, glass, metal bars.... as long as it lets our pets "watch...while [we] point"  (670).  Even when our actions are made with good intentions, to give them a home and loving family, we're displacing our pets from their own homes.  Sure, many pets are born into domestication (especially hamsters), but home is where the heart is... and I doubt that the fluorescent lights and plexiglass cases of PetCo screams "home."