themediamademecrazy.com

i am currently in new zealand, a county rich in maori culture. maori means ‘of the same race’ that is to say that the polynesians who occupied the land centuries ago may have come from different nations and different cultures, but they are now of one culture in NZ. evidently, with the european settlers, NZ became one of the first major tourists spots, with maori opening their homes and the culture to travelers from distant lands.

200 years later, as globalization and capitalism have ransacked the world, the maori maintain a strong connection to their cultural heritage and continue performing for tourists. which then begs the question, what is the meaning of exploitation? if these people willingly open their homes for tourists, can it be considered exploitation?

the lets go guide warns the backpacker to avoid exploitative performances, but how do you know which is which? the first night in lake rotorua, we visited mitai, a cultural experience hosted by one of the tribes in the region. their land (12 acres, down from almost 200,000) features a sacred spring, a eating house and a hangi pit, where the food is cooked underground for hours before the feast. i was excited to visit this one as the guide said that this was one of the best cultural shows. while i sat there marveling at the haka and poi, i did not feel like i was exploiting the people. the tribe organized the show and were the only ones to profit from it. the performers were teenagers from the tribe and i really felt like i was simply watching an important part of the people, passing tradition from one generation to another. everyone looked like they were truly enjoying themselves, and it wasn’t work, just an opportunity to share what they knew with others.

the next night, we caught a “cultural show” at the hotel. the entire set was drastically different; while the mitai show featured (what i can only assume to be traditional) huts and weapons, the show at the hotel was performed in front of a poorly painted mural of the lake and a plexiglass hut that was half the size of the smallest performer. the performers seemed to go through the motions, rarely did they smile (save one young boy) or really seem to get into the affair. i felt bad watching from my comfortable seat drinking a glass of wine. i simply could not get into the experience. whereas we went to the tribal grounds to immerse ourselves in the mitai culture, the hotel simply pulled the maori out of their “natural environment” and dropped them into a hotel, demanding that they perform the same way that they would if they were at home.

in the end, i highly recommend the mitai show. at least i know that there isn’t some white man making a hefty profit off of my ticket.

I have recently been embroiled in a not-to-pleasant conversation about race. It has caused me to recognize at what point race became an issue in my life.

My family is of all different colors and race has never been an issue for me. I think my earliest recollection of recognizing my race was when I had to check the little boxes for college applications. I delighted in checking as many as possible. When I visited MIT, I was placed next door to Chocolate City, an independent living group. I had a blast and seriously considered living there. I moved into Senior House instead and never regretted it even though I did feel somewhat ostracized from the black community.

During my freshman year, things were difficult for me academically, and I began to think that the only reason I was accepted at MIT was my race. Although I blamed my inabilities solely on myself, I recognized the commodity of ethnicity. By getting into MIT, I became a ‘credit to my race.’

Even amidst this segregation, racism was never a talking point.

The day that I recognized, experienced, and emotionally suffered from racism took place years later, riding the train home from NYC. I sat on the commuter rail next to two white men; one was drinking a plastic wide mouth bottle of Budweiser and the other was working on two gin and tonics. The two men are discussing their sons…

BUD: My boy blah, blah, blah.

GIN: Yeah, my boy blah, blah, blah.

BUD: I was talking to Jim the other day and he was telling me about his son, how his son does blah, blah, blah, and I’m thinking to myself, ‘at least my son isn’t doing drugs and fucking niggers.’

I was shocked; I was appalled. I felt a soreness in my gut that wasn’t there before. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do; all I could do was sit there, helpless. I was a fully conscious, intelligent, grown human being and that was the first time that I felt slapped in the face by racism.

Since then, it’s as if I travel in a completely different world. My reality has changed. Even though I saw racism (I daresay I am a product of it), it wasn’t until this moment that I understood.

I began to think about other moments in my life; they came back like a flood of unexplainable pain. My first boyfriend didn’t want to take me to thanksgiving dinner because he thought his family might make inappropriate comments. My next boyfriend didn’t introduce me to his extended family, and vocalized that it might be a problem that I wasn’t white. Alternatively, my grandfather owned a chicken farm in Guyana and the locals used to hollar at me on the street, asking for a piece of white meat.

I took the black pill and the world has never been the same.

i just caught the mos def envoy denali commercial as part of GMC’s new ‘diversity campaign’:

Forbes Article: GMC’s Diversity Campaign

does no one find this offensive but me? mos, once the pillar of anti establshment, is now commodifying his place as a hip-hop icon to sell trucks for GMC? i’m surprised they didn’t have him peddling cadillac escalades. he doesn’t need the money, the article in forbes goes on to talk about all of the projects that he is currently involved in. GMC has also establshed a hispanic campaign, although i haven’t seen any of those yet. i guess its time to tap markets that have no problem spending money on useless status symbols. fight the power my ass.

what happened to rising above the fray mos?

i went to a beautiful african art gallery last week, Dafco’s on mammaroneck ave in white plains, NY. i walked in to find beautiful african masks, artistic pieces labeled according to their origin, fantastic african art. the owner of the store walked out from the back office and offered the history of the work and their cultural significance. it was moving.

as i walked to the back of the store, i looked over the entrance to the office. there, just above eye level, but only visible to those exiting the office, was a massive painting of a beautiful naked white woman.

a naked white woman. pink nipples and all…

i was shocked. here i am, reveling in african beauty, entrenched in culture and black appreciation and the owner of the store gazes at a picture of a naked white woman every time he comes out to greet his customers. i didn’t know whether to laugh or be absolutely disgusted.

i believe it was blackstar who admitted…

“I like girls with that light complexion… i’m a victim of 400 years of conditioning”

So I went to this show at The Mint last night and, well I starting getting very angry and depressed. Now that I think back over it, I was PMS-ing, so that probably had a lot to do with my emotional overreaction.

There were so many beautiful white women there that I began to feel, well…

Imperfect.

Welcome to LA where image towers over substance and I began thinking, it really doesn’t matter how much substance you have or what you have to offer, if your image isn’t perfect, you don’t have a chance. And my image will never be perfect because I’m not white. I guess I’ve been doing too much work in the area of race lately, race and beauty:

Race Ethnicity and Beyond

I became consumed by this last night, and began having overly emotional intelligent discussions, which often degrade into me hating society’s expectations and my inability to meet them. I began to bandy about the term “pretty white girl.’ I guess I’m writing this because I feel slightly guilty about it. I didn’t realize that “pretty white girl” could be a derogatory statement, especially when that’s what I wanted for the longest time.

Or maybe subconsciously I recognized that it was a derogatory statement, and I used it inappropriately in a bully fashion to hype myself up. Either way, it was wrong.

I realize now that “pretty white girls” recognize their position as such and what that means in our culture. Yeah, postmodern self-reflexivity! Funny how most of the things we desire most, are the things that other people are desperate to be free of. I think maybe I was just intimidated by them.

It’s a shame too because I started to have a potentially amazing conversation with a smart, sexy woman, who happened to be white. I think I opened with a confrontational statement, but that was the Jagermeister talking [smile]. Hopefully she’ll forgive me because I’m terribly interested in the experience of the Other.

NOTE: The Other is a psychoanalytical term which states that the Other is not the Self, which can exist with respect to all aspects of identity including gender, race, sexuality, etc.

Definition of the Other