Brown lady at the counter: you are so pretty! you look like a picture.
White lady nearby: you are. I'm thinking national geographic.
I have a vendetta against the idea of"national geographic" aka "exotic" prettiness. Well meaning people, don't make me make you feel awkward by attempting to compliment me with this idea. That the mere paradigm shift of finding beauty in someone without apparently nordic ancestry can be considered worldly, adventurous, cool, rebellious taste makes the rest of white people seem unfairly stuffy. Not to mention that I resent my image being used as a marker of taste, cool or otherwise. That my image can only be beautiful in a way that serves the viewer either objectifies me or suggests a wishful master-slave mindset, which can be synonymous. And since I am neither an object nor a slave probably means the viewer resents me for being who I am where I am. In other words, people who think I'm exotic think I don't belong.
Unless they think that the state of not being in one's native place, being unusually juxtaposed with one's background, is beautiful. In which case, I'm still offended because a brown person among white people is out of place but a white person among brown people is usually construed as worldly, adventurous, cool, rebellious and all you've done is ghettoize me.
I don't really agree with the brown lady's beauty standards either but at least her compliment was really a compliment and not backhanded white supremacy. She proved that by following her compliment up with defending me.
So, what beauty standards do I endorse? That would be inner beauty. What's inner beauty? I'm gonna go with my mom and with Dumbledore and say that inner beauty, which I'm going to say is also eternal beauty, is a well-organized mind. Given my tendency to talk about religion, anti-rationalism, and social justice, maybe you expected this to be focused on the heart. Anyone who gets a Dumbledore citation, though, might guess that your heart should help you organize your mind. I think my heart is where my inner child lives and though I will never shut her out, she is reactionary, fickle and all ego and as an adult, it would be blind or lazy of me to not have learned better about some things.
As I tried to say from the beginning, though I'm not sure I said it the same way, this blog has been mostly about figuring out my organizing principles. I think I like this way of saying it better.
Showing posts with label socialization. Show all posts
Showing posts with label socialization. Show all posts
Monday, June 25, 2012
Friday, September 16, 2011
The Miseducation of Me
Yesterday, I started working as a clerk at the public library. In a library, organization is very important. Things are classified a certain way and need to be kept accordingly so they can easily be located when needed. When something slips through the cracks of the obsessive structure of order, due to human error or subterfuge, it is tracked down and the situation is cleanly rectified.
Having studied post-colonial and vernacular English Literature, Gender Studies, and Philosophy in college, I am not trained to put things in a preordained order. I'm trained to question order. I'm trained to analyze, deconstruct, and reassess as exhaustively as possible and I am trained to defend as innovative a reassessment as I possibly can.
I wasn't really made for that sort of training. I'm a South Asian immigrant, I am a Muslim, I am a woman, and I am poor. College was a training that mostly sees the world for its disorder and dissonance. Despite the questioning of order, believe it or not, it is hard to avoid Western, patriarchal*, elitist values, since they are the values that get an American college its credibility. I at least attended a Catholic University that wore its Christian values on its sleeve and did not worship secularism.
While college helped me see my place in society, which I had previously felt I was lacking and that I needed to work hard and be creative to earn, it is a place in society where I increasingly feel like I am trespassing, a place I cannot earn no matter how hard I work. But it's a place that is rightfully mine. My college degree mostly made me painfully aware of the possibility that I struggle in futility. This is not something I am willing to easily accept.
Questioning order is infinitely constructive for the privileged, for people that order benefits. But of course they are the least likely to do so. That leaves it for those who order has forsaken. But after a certain point, for those that order has forsaken and has left to question it, all order becomes an enemy, life becomes meaningless and their questions become a threat to no one but themselves. This becomes a sort of order itself, created and supported by human error and subterfuge. It is unsettling to realize that you are not of the former group, though you've been a confident, straight "A" student your whole life, when you are in the middle of college.
I have to believe that order can be good. I have to see it. When a library patron is scanning a shelf that I ensured was organized, when someone comes in for something and I know exactly where it is, when I can learn from my mistakes rather than feel like everything I do is a mistake, it helps me feel that I can earn my place as a positive aspect of a constructive order.
Obviously, I don't think the objective way that libraries are ordered is a way that people can be ordered because people are not objects and what is just for objects is not just for subjects. Order should contain justice because a belief in order requires a belief in justice. This belief in justice is apparent in religion, and so religion has been called "The opium of the masses," and "slave mentality," Marx and Nietzsche respectively, for it's support of unjust order through a belief in cosmic justice. But that's what's called "blaming the victim," in my book, and it's ridiculous to blame disenfranchised people who can empower themselves by believing in any greater order.
So as it turns out, not all minimum wage jobs are soul-crushing.
*You can be a patriarchal feminist. You probably are one if you think matriarchal societies and lesbians are all feminists. Chew on that now.
Having studied post-colonial and vernacular English Literature, Gender Studies, and Philosophy in college, I am not trained to put things in a preordained order. I'm trained to question order. I'm trained to analyze, deconstruct, and reassess as exhaustively as possible and I am trained to defend as innovative a reassessment as I possibly can.
I wasn't really made for that sort of training. I'm a South Asian immigrant, I am a Muslim, I am a woman, and I am poor. College was a training that mostly sees the world for its disorder and dissonance. Despite the questioning of order, believe it or not, it is hard to avoid Western, patriarchal*, elitist values, since they are the values that get an American college its credibility. I at least attended a Catholic University that wore its Christian values on its sleeve and did not worship secularism.
While college helped me see my place in society, which I had previously felt I was lacking and that I needed to work hard and be creative to earn, it is a place in society where I increasingly feel like I am trespassing, a place I cannot earn no matter how hard I work. But it's a place that is rightfully mine. My college degree mostly made me painfully aware of the possibility that I struggle in futility. This is not something I am willing to easily accept.
Questioning order is infinitely constructive for the privileged, for people that order benefits. But of course they are the least likely to do so. That leaves it for those who order has forsaken. But after a certain point, for those that order has forsaken and has left to question it, all order becomes an enemy, life becomes meaningless and their questions become a threat to no one but themselves. This becomes a sort of order itself, created and supported by human error and subterfuge. It is unsettling to realize that you are not of the former group, though you've been a confident, straight "A" student your whole life, when you are in the middle of college.
I have to believe that order can be good. I have to see it. When a library patron is scanning a shelf that I ensured was organized, when someone comes in for something and I know exactly where it is, when I can learn from my mistakes rather than feel like everything I do is a mistake, it helps me feel that I can earn my place as a positive aspect of a constructive order.
Obviously, I don't think the objective way that libraries are ordered is a way that people can be ordered because people are not objects and what is just for objects is not just for subjects. Order should contain justice because a belief in order requires a belief in justice. This belief in justice is apparent in religion, and so religion has been called "The opium of the masses," and "slave mentality," Marx and Nietzsche respectively, for it's support of unjust order through a belief in cosmic justice. But that's what's called "blaming the victim," in my book, and it's ridiculous to blame disenfranchised people who can empower themselves by believing in any greater order.
So as it turns out, not all minimum wage jobs are soul-crushing.
*You can be a patriarchal feminist. You probably are one if you think matriarchal societies and lesbians are all feminists. Chew on that now.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Am I a Social Schizophreniac?
When academics say that growing up with a mixed cultural background
is like having schizophrenia, I always thought the statement was a
little dramatic. Over the past few years, I've begun to see their
point.
I was raised as a Bengali, by immigrant parents. My mom, like many moms, strongly believed in socializing my sister and I. Until very recently, there was nothing that mortified my mother like a socially inappropriate blunder made by one of her children. Given that my mother is also kinda prude, I'm going to blame British imperialism for this one.
The thing is, my mom isn't exactly an anglophile. In fact, she has no respect for the British. She sums up her feelings about them by reminding me that, when they engaged in hand to hand combat with Hindus, they dipped their bayonets in cow fat and when the adversary was Muslim, pig fat. It wasn't enough to colonize or kill Indians, the British wanted to spiritually taint them for standing up for themselves. It is one thing to subject people to your rule and entirely another to poison them spiritually.
So, I was socialized with a British value of socialization, and the rest of my home socialization is largely reflective of Bengali social practices, right? Wrong. I have always known Bengali social practice is highly influenced by Islamic social practice and the Islamic Empire (two separate sets of ideals) but I am still learning the extent to which colonialism had its hand in the mix. For example, there is a theory that the custom of female leadership and scholarship in Islam may have been lost in interactions with the Western world.
Until recently, I was able to maintain my Bengali socialization at home while socializing myself to school and work environments with simultaneous adeptness. By the time I visited Bangladesh and realized how Americanized I am, I had solidified my doubts over the value of my mother's social values in my own life. (Though my family was hardly lower middle class at it's social "peak," another value to which my mother ascribed, that may have also come from India's days as England's crown jewel, as Jane Austen can tell you, was a reverence for the upper class.) However, I had also already gone away to college and realized that in my sheltered childhood, I had, ironically, failed to become American enough.
Though my mother's value of proper social behavior instilled in me a heightened awareness of social norms and a desire to shirk them, if need be, as quietly as possible, this happened at such a young age that socialization and social values are so deep for me that it's difficult for me to recognize anything more than a vague conception of them without very deep contemplation. When they are in flux, I am divided between existential crisis and maintenance of my social status quo on top of being divided between the conflicting social values I encounter. On the other hand, only the instability I experience in it has lead me to realize that appropriate socialization is an integral part of me that allows me function normally.
So I suppose a lack of appropriate socialization, then, is a mental illness? I really need to read me some more Michel Foucault, apparently.
I was raised as a Bengali, by immigrant parents. My mom, like many moms, strongly believed in socializing my sister and I. Until very recently, there was nothing that mortified my mother like a socially inappropriate blunder made by one of her children. Given that my mother is also kinda prude, I'm going to blame British imperialism for this one.
The thing is, my mom isn't exactly an anglophile. In fact, she has no respect for the British. She sums up her feelings about them by reminding me that, when they engaged in hand to hand combat with Hindus, they dipped their bayonets in cow fat and when the adversary was Muslim, pig fat. It wasn't enough to colonize or kill Indians, the British wanted to spiritually taint them for standing up for themselves. It is one thing to subject people to your rule and entirely another to poison them spiritually.
So, I was socialized with a British value of socialization, and the rest of my home socialization is largely reflective of Bengali social practices, right? Wrong. I have always known Bengali social practice is highly influenced by Islamic social practice and the Islamic Empire (two separate sets of ideals) but I am still learning the extent to which colonialism had its hand in the mix. For example, there is a theory that the custom of female leadership and scholarship in Islam may have been lost in interactions with the Western world.
Until recently, I was able to maintain my Bengali socialization at home while socializing myself to school and work environments with simultaneous adeptness. By the time I visited Bangladesh and realized how Americanized I am, I had solidified my doubts over the value of my mother's social values in my own life. (Though my family was hardly lower middle class at it's social "peak," another value to which my mother ascribed, that may have also come from India's days as England's crown jewel, as Jane Austen can tell you, was a reverence for the upper class.) However, I had also already gone away to college and realized that in my sheltered childhood, I had, ironically, failed to become American enough.
Though my mother's value of proper social behavior instilled in me a heightened awareness of social norms and a desire to shirk them, if need be, as quietly as possible, this happened at such a young age that socialization and social values are so deep for me that it's difficult for me to recognize anything more than a vague conception of them without very deep contemplation. When they are in flux, I am divided between existential crisis and maintenance of my social status quo on top of being divided between the conflicting social values I encounter. On the other hand, only the instability I experience in it has lead me to realize that appropriate socialization is an integral part of me that allows me function normally.
So I suppose a lack of appropriate socialization, then, is a mental illness? I really need to read me some more Michel Foucault, apparently.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The New Old Me
“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”- TS Elliot.
In high school, I was exposed to this quote in a science class, and in that context, I interpreted it in terms of scientific exploration for the purpose of learning more about the human condition. Basically, I took it to mean that you cannot know yourself unless you know the world you live in.
With a bachelor's degree in English, I can think of at least 5 other ways to interpret this quote. Now, sitting in my high school bedroom, with a bachelor's degree in English, one of the interpretations is particularly compelling because it explains why my entire college career felt like an existential crisis.
When my mother explains my initial college dropout to her friends, she explains that Geneseo is too far away, so I couldn't endure the transition. Believing she meant I was overcome with homesickness, I disavowed her explanation, knowing there was more to it than the distance. And besides, that made me sound like a wimp. More specifically, it made me sound like the stereotypical, domestically inclined, Bengali, Muslim woman the American feminist in me adamantly resisted. Though breaking that stereotype is important to me, my resistance was not just a matter of principle. I knew that in America, the woman I aspired to be required not just competence but prowess outside the confines of domesticity.
When I graduated high school, I was confident I could achieve my desired manner of prowess. In high school I was widely known and well liked (enough to be voted class president) despite being pretty nerdy and definitely not classically popular. I was perfectly happy with the place I had cultivated for myself and believed it could be replicated in the world at large.
However, in my belief, I failed to take into account the reality of my situation. In high school, when I wasn't in school, I was always home or with my family. For me, unmonitored outside world interactions were limited to school hours and school activities, limited internet, books, TV and a handful of birthday parties my parents reluctantly gave me permission to attend. I was actually jealous when my peers started working because I felt even further behind in "real" life experience. I worked to gain experience by joining as many after school activities I could possibly interest myself in. Unfortunately, my opposition gave me a false sense of accomplishment and lead me deny my home life as a major element of my identity. It wasn't until I lived away from my family again that I understood the extent of my social impediments or their consequences.
However, in my belief, I failed to take into account the reality of my situation. In high school, when I wasn't in school, I was always home or with my family. For me, unmonitored outside world interactions were limited to school hours and school activities, limited internet, books, TV and a handful of birthday parties my parents reluctantly gave me permission to attend. I was actually jealous when my peers started working because I felt even further behind in "real" life experience. I worked to gain experience by joining as many after school activities I could possibly interest myself in. Unfortunately, my opposition gave me a false sense of accomplishment and lead me deny my home life as a major element of my identity. It wasn't until I lived away from my family again that I understood the extent of my social impediments or their consequences.
Sitting in my room today, I am not nearly as inclined to escape it as I one was. This is not because I've become complacent. Just moments ago, I realized my college years were spent in frustration and self-hatred because, after my initial failure, I was forced out of any notions of worldly experience. This lead me to question the viability of my identity and aspirations outside the sequestered world of my high school years, since they had been conceived within it. Could I still be who I happily was and follow my dreams? Or did I have to be whoever I had to be and do whatever I had to do to survive in the "real world"? Unschooled in the former and afraid of the latter, I avoided answering questions I could barely formulate and lost myself in the world I had once myopically believed to be my own.
In the world beyond my parents' house, I have learned a lot. As a teenager, I invested a lot of emotional and ideological energy against my confinement, not just to break a stereotype but again, because I didn't want to be a confined woman. That sense of rebellion became as much a part of me but so did my confinement. However, because I was in denial that my confinement defined me, I could hardly lay claim to my rebellion against it. Out in the wider world, I had to face the harsh reality that my confinement had defined me to a point of stultification in a world without forced restraints. Struggling against the identity formed in my sequestered upbringing, however, increasingly distanced me from the positive outcomes born from my confinement--my desire to grow, my sense of purpose, and my motivation.I have to accept that, no matter what happens, a part of me will always be a girl who lived a sheltered life.
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