The ad hominem attack

This is difficult because when we talk about normative frameworks and institutionalized privilege, what we really mean is "white people have advantages."  Obviously, this is an unpalatable pill to swallow for white people.  This is why discussions of race escalate so quickly.  No one likes to be personally attacked.  However, when institutionalized racism works FOR you, an ad hominem attack feels very hurtful because it is unique or even unanticipated.  One is not used to being stereotyped, and it feels awful. For people who lie outside the norm, the ad hominem attack is always anticipated.  

Racism

So the most frustrating thing about racism is that the burden of proof is on the disenfranchised.  Here is my favorite tiny example of that in my actual life:

When I was in a summer English class at UC Berkeley, I said "make an inference" two or three times within the course of a conversation with my friend.  I strive to be a very precise speaker, not from any fear of discrimination, but because I love the English language.  

A classmate turned around and said, "I think that you mean 'influence.'"  

Since then, I deliberately emphasize the counterintuitive syllable of the word.  The common American pronunciation, "IN-frence," becomes "in-FER-ence" for me.

Let me break down why this is a small but significant act of institutionalized racism.

1.  The assumption was that I mixed up my L and my R, despite the fact that saying "make an influence" makes no grammatical sense in any context.  I am Chinese-American, and I "look" Chinese, although I am also told that I look like I am of mixed racial descent.

2.  Institutional privilege means that my classmate was completely sure that she was correct.  She also had a good intention: she was trying to help me by correcting me (even though she was wrong).

3.  Institutional disenfranchisement means that I was placed into a frustrating position: she was wrong to assume that I had mispronounced the word, AND she was grammatically incorrect.  

4.  So, even though I had done nothing wrong, I was now placed into a position where I had to bear a triple burden.  I would have to explain that I did want to use the word "inference," that she had made a mistake, and, and this is the worst and most paralyzing burden, I would have to phrase my explanation in a way that she could accept.  

In other words, pointing out her racism was off the table because her privilege allows her to write off my annoyance as a "race thing," instead of as a legitimate complaint about her very real mistake.  

She had the freedom to make a assumption based on my physiognomy, but I could not defend against that part of the assumption. 

5.  This bears repeating: I did not make a mistake.  She made a mistake.  But I had to contend with not only the burden of response, but with the catch-22 of responding.  

If I did not respond, she won because she would think that she was correct in both her grammar mistake and her condescending views.

If I did respond, see #4.  She still wins unless I can depend on her to be immediately reflective, which is, I feel, too much to ask of any human being.  I respect the hell out of people who are able to immediately see that they are wrong instead of looking for ways to rationalize or justify their mistakes.  It is rare and superhuman; I certainly find myself incapable of doing that.

In either case, I am placed, against my will, in a position to represent my race.   If I do not speak up, am I being stereotypically passive?  If I do speak up, am I being a stereotypically irrational and HYSTERical Asian GIRL?  It even ceases to be about race and my gender enters, like an unwelcome spectator bent on schadenfreude.

6.   She could walk away from that incident unchanged.  I could not.  To protect myself, I had to make the change.  I repeat:  The common American pronunciation, "IN-frence," becomes "in-FER-ence" for me.

Seven years later, the grammarian instructor of my English curriculum and instruction course complimented me on my use of "make a inference" because he hated it when people use "inference" as a verb.  I told that story, and everyone was shocked.  I was simply happy that the universe is full of circles.

Old Lady Post #1

I do not want to eat with you if you must take a picture of the food with your phone.

Reading

In reading Phil Jackson's Eleven Rings, I am realizing that I should let a book take me where it is going.  I often read with a purpose, and it is infinitely less enjoyable to read with a purpose than it is to read to go where the author wants to take me.

This is how I, as an English teacher, suck all of the joy out of reading.

This past year, 2012-2013, has been my least inspired year of teaching.  It was year six.  I want my seventh year of teaching and thirty-third year of life to be the best.

The key is something that I have long delayed because I am weak: discipline.  I now belatedly understand that my life, until now, has been an attempt to control everything in my life except for myself.  I do think that reversing the trend will be beneficial, and I also think that in another three years, I will probably want to change again.

This brings me to Eleven Rings.  First of all, I compose this post on my iPad, my keyboarding seems to want to title the book "Eleven Rongs."  I love that.  Secondly, my friends, knowing me, have misinterpreted my reading as "Elven Rings" and make the assumption that I am reading something Tolkien-related.  This is my reputation for nerdiness working for me.  Thirdly, I am really loving this book because I do not know what to expect.  I bought it for the drama of reading about Kobe v. Shaq, but I also bought it because I saw Phil Jackson on The Daily Show.  Jon Stewart was about to go on vacation, and he was totally scattered in the interview; I just remember how calm and serene Jackson seemed in contrast.

That was context.  I am loving that the book, so far, is a memoir that pulls together reflections on Jackson's mentors, spirituality, career, challenges, and protégées.  It feels like the universe is telling me that personal and career development happen in tandem, that I cannot, as I tried to do in the past, separate my personal growth from growth in my career (which largely defines me).  

This shakes out in mundane and boring ways.  I am getting up to work out at 8am in the mornings, three times a week this summer.  That has been lovely.  Physical discipline has really helped me hone in on my mental and emotional discipline.

Due to a hot mess of a recent dating experience, I have also decided that I must learn to overcome my deeply self-indulgent social passivity.  It masquerades as anxiety, but it really is my passivity.

Finally, Jackson listens a lot.  He reacts without being reactive - he quotes Adolph Rupp as saying "there are only two kinds of coaches: those who lead teams to victory and those who drive them."  That must be my teaching mantra next year.

Wife

It feels very strange to be pursued.  

I have a very difficult time saying "no."  Appropriately, I seem to attract men who have a very difficult time accepting a "no."  I do not understand this.  It seems like things escalate very quickly for me, and while this was perfectly fine when I was in high school and college, it is frightening now.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

We had an unrequited meet cute.  He saw me in a crowded bar.  I noticed his likeable face.  Our eyes never met.  I leave after an hour, afraid of new humans.  He feels regret.  

We see each other again at a different bar.  This time, we both know that it is a setup, the kind that is driven by a mixture of his regret and optimism.  He thinks that he made a mistake in his initial hesitation, should have talked to me earlier, should have just grabbed the first opportunity, life is too short for hesitations.  It seems to be just long enough for slogany life-hack clichés.  

I try to leave.  Again, I am afraid of human interaction.  Our mutual friend, poor girl, had to orchestrate another elaborate get-together just to get us together, and she is not having this, hell fucking no.  She secretly loves this.  Theatrically exasperated, she drags me to where he is talking to a guy, introduces us all, and leaves, trading me for his friend.

We smile.  It is uncomfortable.  

He is a finance guy.  I have no idea what that means.  This is true for me and funny to him.  We talk more.  He tells me that he knows my occupation.  I express dread at seeing that well-intentioned sympathy that collapses the faces of strangers when they know that I teach public school.  He adjusts his face.  I like that.  I like his face.  

He likes my jokes.  I think that he might also like my boobs.  We both seem to like to talk a lot.  He is kind, optimistic, and driven.  It becomes easier to meet his eyes, and we are laughing a lot.  

His family is wealthy.  Mine is rich.  We went to private school.  He went for high school; i went for primary.  After a while, we stop exchanging information and begin to explore each other through proxies like television and books.  He is excited that I am currently reading historical nonfiction about the father of Alexandre Dumas, and he loves The Count of Monte Cristo.  I am excited that he adores Game of Thrones, and he wants to help me like it.  Dragons!  We both like some other common things.

At this point, drunk acquaintance belchily informs us that we have been talking for too long.  There are other people, you know, get a room.  Neither of us has a witty riposte, so we just look at each other and smile without showing teeth.  Shambolic drunk relieves us of his presence; my social neuroses assert themselves.  It is time to flee.  We exchange information.  He asks if he can call me right away, if that would not be too desperate.

I want to tell him that I like his face, and that I am, for the first time in years, super-giggly about a boy.  

Instead, I tell him that it is not desperate, and I would love to talk or hang out again.  We make a date for the end of the week.

I have all the giggles in the car.  I do not want to go to work; instead, I would like to draw hearts around our names in my notebook.  I settle for Google-stalking him.  My face cannot stop smiling.