Двое меня! И не разделяйте!
читать дальшеI originally wrote this for the April 15 Southeastern Writers' Association newsletter. Thought it might have some relevance here (a lot of Sanjaya references): The Continued Division Over Diversity Raven Woods Let’s face it: If you are an American and own a TV set, you no doubt have made a ritual, at least at some point, of setting aside every Tuesday and Wednesday night as American Idol night. I know I have—or maybe should say did, until this past week, when the controversy swirling around the unlikely head of a likeable young East Indian contestant named Sanjaya Malakar came to a head with Malakar’s unlikely (and, some are saying now, unfair) elimination. It has been no secret, of course, that from the get-go, young Malakar seemed an unlikely candidate for the title, even with his good looks, winning smile and unique voice, which many fans like myself did enjoy (yes, I was “Sanjay-ied”) for its pleasant, jazzy tonal quality, even though his performances, barring a few in recent weeks, were mostly panned by the judges. From the beginning, however, Malakar’s ethnicity became an unlikely central focus in the controversy. Of the many issues that Malakar’s presence on the popular show brought to a head, one of the most frequent to rear its ugly head in the media was (and continues to be) the question of ethnicity. Over and over I saw headlines, blog postings, and Internet chatroom discussions posing the question: Is America ready for an Indian Idol? There were forum discussions that blasted this kid as “a terrorist” and as the embodiment of “the anti-Christ” (yes, I have seen all of this in print). I saw a post on one American Idol forum that stated, “He has no business on this show. He belongs to the people responsible for 9-11.” (Never mind, of course, that India is a Hindu and not a Muslim country, or that Malakar himself is a U.S.-born citizen, a kid from Seattle who has never even seen the country of his father’s origin). The fact that this seemingly innocent young man’s very presence on the show has elicited such strong reactions boils down to something very basic, and ugly, that continues to brood quietly beneath America’s illusion of political correctness and tolerance. “I just don’t think America is ready for this,” noted one particularly pessimistic Idol fan. “We’ve barely resolved our black/white issues.” It is the very same issue that Sacha Baron Cohen so brilliantly forced to the surface in his satiric masterpiece, Borat. And now, with the Virginia Tech tragedy all over the news, a massacre committed by an Asian-American student who apparently had been tormented by bullying and abusive treatment, it begs the question to an even deeper extent: Is America truly stepping forward to embrace its diversity, or are we continuing to secretly take five steps back for every one forward? I suppose what puzzles and bothers me most about this issue is that, as a writer of Native American descent and a teacher of literature in the classroom, it leads me to wonder if middle America is, in fact, a place where multi-cultural literature is ready to be accepted or consumed by the masses. Lately, as I have recorded and observed some of my own students’ reactions to the literature I have made part of my classroom curriculum, the answer to that question remains, at best, a perturbed and cloudy preponderance. In seven years of teaching, what I have found with most of my students is that stories and novels that do not mirror their own cultural frames of references and experiences make them somehow-well, to put it kindly, uncomfortable. And I have found this not only true with Caucasian students, but my African-American students as well. And I would say this probably has to do with the fact that the culture among blacks and whites has been integrated for so many generations that, while it would be presumptuous and false to say we’ve finally arrived at complete harmony and understanding, it goes without saying that African-American and Anglo-Americans have finally arrived at a point where we are pretty much the same on a cultural level. Which is to say, despite all obvious differences, the Anglo and African American citizens of this country still retain basically the same value system, insofar as religious and cultural identity. Or, to explain the concept more succinctly, I will borrow from a noted Native American commentator who once said, “The difference between the black man and the Indian is that the black man wants the same things that the white man has. He wants to be accepted by the white man, whereas the Indian just wants to be left the hell alone.” The irony in this statement, of course, is that during the late nineteenth century, while hundreds of reservations and boarding schools sprung up in a misguided attempt to acculturate the American Indian, African-Americans were still denied many of the basic privileges of American life and citizenship. However, I think much of this cultural identity clash is what makes multi-cultural literature such a touchy subject in the classroom. I have found that students will readily embrace African-American works and most of the writers from the traditional American and English literature canon, but balk-visibly-when asked to read Latino, Native American or Asian literature. It’s not that they refuse to read it, of course. They will do what it takes to get the grade. But I have noticed that, invariably, class discussions will dwindle. Everyone squirms and looks uncomfortable when called upon to discuss. Puzzled looks and small frowns often permeate the classroom as I attempt to break down and frame complex cultural references into a digestable, ten-minute lecture. Pop quizzes often deliver a surprising and disturbing number of zeros. And often, not so much because the student didn’t understand what he or she was reading, but simply never picked up the book. “I just couldn’t get past the cover,” one student confessed to me, on explaining why she continuously failed the reading quizzes I gave for Ruben Martinez’s Crossing Over, a well-received expose on the Mexican migrant experience that was the required conclave book for that semester’s incoming freshman comp classes at Georgia College and State University, where I was teaching at the time. I thought that student’s confession a rather odd excuse. Sitting alone in my office after she had left, I spent some time gazing at that cover. It depicts a rather sad and world-weary Mexican man with his innocent, wide-eyed son, both gazing outward as if to see past what the horizon has in store for them; the tired and jaded father who knows the score; the innocent and still-hopeful child who hasn’t learned the score-yet-but most likely will, soon enough. For all its implied message of hopelessness, the cover seems innocuous enough. A man of obvious mestizo blood and his young son, a little boy. The student’s words kept coming back to me: “I just can’t get past this cover.” I wondered what there could be in such a cover to inspire such strong revulsion. That answer still eludes me. In class, discussions of the book almost invariably deteriorated into debates about the Mexican immigration experience. “They should all be shot and be done with,” was a common rallying cry from the good ol’ boys who made up 57% of my student body. It became useless and pointless to ask if reading Martinez’s haunting narrative had at least altered this view in some way. Had it made them look at the American experience in a new light, or at least led to a new way of looking at things? The obvious answer, aside from pitying a few of the characters, was that no. Their stance had not changed. I honestly had to ask the question, how much of this was due to Martinez’s failure as a writer to succeed at the task he set out to accomplish, and how much simply my students’ refusal to hear what he had to say? I think it was a little of both. Granted, Martinez’s narrative is often preachy and over-zealous in his determination to hammer home obvious points of guilt. This made the students uncomfortable, for most of them are only eighteen to nineteen years old, barely into adulthood, and in no position to take on the guilt and blame of their parents’ and grandparents’ generation. In fact, the general summing up of their sentiments on any racial or ethnic issue in America is invariably a quick “I didn’t create this mess. Why am I being blamed for it?” Indeed, perhaps too many ethnic and minority writers make the mistake, whether intentionally or not, of playing the blame game. In most cases, they are on the penny. But it creates problems in the classroom where, as mentioned, being able to fully appreciate the literature often involves an understanding of vast and complex cultural issues that enable young readers to see the work in its context. I have found this to be true, for instance, when teaching the works of Sherman Alexie, one of my favorite writers but nevertheless, one whose prose often becomes bogged down in a myriad of cultural references that have no meaning for the average, middle-class white kid from Alabama or Georgia who is just trying to get through one more required class so that he or she can graduate. It’s a concept that puzzles and bothers me as a writer. When I was the age of most of these students, it was the most fascinating experience in the world to be able to pick up a book and learn about worlds and lives that I could never experience on my own.But what I’m seeing today is, sadly, an increasing lack of tolerance and curiosity. An editor once told me, “People aren’t interested in experiences that don’t relate to their own.” Maybe I’m still, despite so much evidence to the contrary, an optimist. I don’t quite buy that America has no interest in ethnic writers or ethnic literature. Otherwise, no such works would ever get published. However, it still seems true that, for many Americans, the ethnic experience is best taken in small, prescribed doses. It’s why African-American, Latino, Asian and Native American writers still have their own “sections” at Barnes and Noble, rather than being on the shelves with the mainstream bestsellers. It’s why literary curriculums continue to only offer up multi-cultural lit as the occasional spice to sweeten the pot; why we set aside certain months to “celebrate diversity” rather than incorporating it as part of day-to-day living. Several weeks ago, when Sanjaya Malakar still seemed an inevitable force onIdol, he was quoted by People Magazine as saying, “I want to be proof of the melting pot that America is.” Sadly, as America has proven this week, the melting pot remains more fiction than fact, a product of willful idealism that has more to do with what “ought to be”than what “is.”
Readers have left 3 comments.
2007-06-04 23:31:03
Great, it made it here! keep them coming, Raven. Always love to read your posts.
Written by Pooja L
Quote
(2)2007-06-10 07:52:12
I have a very simplistic response. Theres just too much. There is too much of everything now a days. Too many pressures in everyday life. Too many people. Too many topics and worldwide problems. Too many people are just trying to get through another month to survive. Im just saying...for me, theres not enough room on my mental plate to dive into this subject. It seems you wanted to focus on one nationality but with that came a whole slew of other problems. To read one book implies there will be another and another and another. I miss the good ole days where you were given a book to read and didnt feel you had to read 50 more books to be considered unbias and well read enough to have (whats considered now) an informed opinion. Sorry but for me... Its just too much*
Written by Loreen
Quote
(3)2007-06-11 00:47:35
Thank you Rave...great blog!!
well we are definitely ripe for change her in America
aren't we! It's about time...Sanjaya can make and is making a shift in the cosmos!!
Thank God for Sanjaya!!!!
Written by Karen Virginia
When he began his journey on American Idol, it was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, feelings become events. Head and heart, I have learned, are contrary historians. The problem was America, or, Americans, at least. They wanted to define him, to wrap him up as they did each other, but they could not seem to get past "weird" and"strange" and "goofy." His ways knocked us off balance. A single word seemed to hover above all of us - HUH? We did not know what to make of him. He gave us something to talk about. He was entertaining. At the same time, many held back. Because he was different. Different. They had no one to compare him to, no one to measure him against. He was unknown territory. Unsafe. They were afraid to get to close. He was hard to put into words. He was unusual. Some think he was put on this world to teach us a lesson. Was he? Or is he merely a mirror in which we see everything wrong within our world, within ourselves?
I have to say, I was pretty damned impressed with what he did on British Invasion Night. Before that round, I kind of had a rather matronly sympathy toward that poor little boy who was taking such a pounding and looking so sad, but that night...
You gotta understand what I think of when I think of the British Invasion. It was a time of civil unrest, of rebellion, a time when disenfranchised youth began to protest the destructive constraints of the people around them, a time when a rebellious new breed wore their hair long in defiance and sang openly about sex ... and a time when fangirls screamed so loudly and cried so fervently in the presence of their rock gods that they could barely hear the music.
On British Invasion night, we had Lakisha strutting around in diamonds. Blake did some nifty arrangements and a few cool dance steps, all the while dressed like a guy on a golf course. Melinda, as much as I love her, actually really annoyed me; "As Long As He Needs Me" is a song from a Broadway musical. At best, it's a song a woman sings for the abusive criminal who will eventually kill her, and Melinda treated it like a straight love song. At worst, it was a cop-out, and almost a complete repudiation of the theme. Jordin had a really lovely vocal.
And in to all this comes Sanjaya. He's on the ropes, he's been told for four straight weeks that he's in the bottom two (and probably lied to about that every single time.) Everybody just assumes that he's the next one out, and the other contestants are probably all sitting around high-fiving each other for making the tour... because EVERYBODY knows that Sanjaya is the one who will not make that final cut. He's too timid, he can't sing loudly enough, his stage movement is awkward, his spirit is almost entirely broken...
And Peter Noone did something. I don't know what, or how, but that man lit a fire under our little Papaya and coaxed him into taking some drastic risks. Forget decorum. Forget sounding pretty. Forget being terrified of his own shadow. He was a British (India) Invasion, and he'd just taken over. He traded in his soft, smooth tone for a gravelly growl that could actually be heard above the orchestra, he ran around that stage like he owned the place, he flirted with Paula, he flirted with the camera, and all of a sudden I believed this kid had some genuine passion and - as this is what the song is about - he, the boy wonder everybody accused of being either gay or asexual, exhibited some very apparent and voracious sex drive. It was like watching a whole different person. That was the night he went from meek little whipping boy to counter-culture hero.
In a night where my favorite contestant was showing that she did not know what the play Oliver! was about, did not know what the British Invasion was about, Sanjaya WAS the British Invasion. He was rebellion, he was protesting the constraints and abuse of those around him, he wore his hair free, sang about sex... and oh, look, there's the crying fan. Serendipity. Obviously, this simply had to happen.
That was the first night I voted for anybody this year. I did cast votes for folks besides Sanjaya that night. I felt like, if I was going to support my guilty pleasure, I was somehow morally bound to vote for "the good people" too, so Melinda and Blake and Jordin got a little love from my telephone - but mostly, it was about saving Sanjaya, putting him on the tour, rewarding him for this remarkable change in outlook and performance strategy. It was about applauding a guy who put out a gut performance when he absolutely, positively had to have it.
The next day, Ryan turned to a boy who had been made to feel crushingly guilty for advancing FOUR STRAIGHT WEEKS - and that's not even counting the whole heartache of being in a room of celebrating winners, weeping for his sister who had failed to make the cut. He turned to a boy who had been uncomfortable with his own success the entire time, and said, "Sanjaya, you are safe." No cliffhanger. And Sanjaya gave a jaunty little grin and sat, even as many people around him (especially the ones like Haley who were probably counting on him to be their human shield) reacted in shock.
He knew he deserved to stay, and I did, too. That's the week I really became a Fanjaya.
This post has been edited by abrahammy07
Readers have left 3 comments.
2007-06-04 23:31:03
Great, it made it here! keep them coming, Raven. Always love to read your posts.
Written by Pooja L
Quote
(2)2007-06-10 07:52:12
I have a very simplistic response. Theres just too much. There is too much of everything now a days. Too many pressures in everyday life. Too many people. Too many topics and worldwide problems. Too many people are just trying to get through another month to survive. Im just saying...for me, theres not enough room on my mental plate to dive into this subject. It seems you wanted to focus on one nationality but with that came a whole slew of other problems. To read one book implies there will be another and another and another. I miss the good ole days where you were given a book to read and didnt feel you had to read 50 more books to be considered unbias and well read enough to have (whats considered now) an informed opinion. Sorry but for me... Its just too much*
Written by Loreen
Quote
(3)2007-06-11 00:47:35
Thank you Rave...great blog!!
well we are definitely ripe for change her in America
aren't we! It's about time...Sanjaya can make and is making a shift in the cosmos!!
Thank God for Sanjaya!!!!
Written by Karen Virginia
When he began his journey on American Idol, it was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, feelings become events. Head and heart, I have learned, are contrary historians. The problem was America, or, Americans, at least. They wanted to define him, to wrap him up as they did each other, but they could not seem to get past "weird" and"strange" and "goofy." His ways knocked us off balance. A single word seemed to hover above all of us - HUH? We did not know what to make of him. He gave us something to talk about. He was entertaining. At the same time, many held back. Because he was different. Different. They had no one to compare him to, no one to measure him against. He was unknown territory. Unsafe. They were afraid to get to close. He was hard to put into words. He was unusual. Some think he was put on this world to teach us a lesson. Was he? Or is he merely a mirror in which we see everything wrong within our world, within ourselves?
I have to say, I was pretty damned impressed with what he did on British Invasion Night. Before that round, I kind of had a rather matronly sympathy toward that poor little boy who was taking such a pounding and looking so sad, but that night...
You gotta understand what I think of when I think of the British Invasion. It was a time of civil unrest, of rebellion, a time when disenfranchised youth began to protest the destructive constraints of the people around them, a time when a rebellious new breed wore their hair long in defiance and sang openly about sex ... and a time when fangirls screamed so loudly and cried so fervently in the presence of their rock gods that they could barely hear the music.
On British Invasion night, we had Lakisha strutting around in diamonds. Blake did some nifty arrangements and a few cool dance steps, all the while dressed like a guy on a golf course. Melinda, as much as I love her, actually really annoyed me; "As Long As He Needs Me" is a song from a Broadway musical. At best, it's a song a woman sings for the abusive criminal who will eventually kill her, and Melinda treated it like a straight love song. At worst, it was a cop-out, and almost a complete repudiation of the theme. Jordin had a really lovely vocal.
And in to all this comes Sanjaya. He's on the ropes, he's been told for four straight weeks that he's in the bottom two (and probably lied to about that every single time.) Everybody just assumes that he's the next one out, and the other contestants are probably all sitting around high-fiving each other for making the tour... because EVERYBODY knows that Sanjaya is the one who will not make that final cut. He's too timid, he can't sing loudly enough, his stage movement is awkward, his spirit is almost entirely broken...
And Peter Noone did something. I don't know what, or how, but that man lit a fire under our little Papaya and coaxed him into taking some drastic risks. Forget decorum. Forget sounding pretty. Forget being terrified of his own shadow. He was a British (India) Invasion, and he'd just taken over. He traded in his soft, smooth tone for a gravelly growl that could actually be heard above the orchestra, he ran around that stage like he owned the place, he flirted with Paula, he flirted with the camera, and all of a sudden I believed this kid had some genuine passion and - as this is what the song is about - he, the boy wonder everybody accused of being either gay or asexual, exhibited some very apparent and voracious sex drive. It was like watching a whole different person. That was the night he went from meek little whipping boy to counter-culture hero.
In a night where my favorite contestant was showing that she did not know what the play Oliver! was about, did not know what the British Invasion was about, Sanjaya WAS the British Invasion. He was rebellion, he was protesting the constraints and abuse of those around him, he wore his hair free, sang about sex... and oh, look, there's the crying fan. Serendipity. Obviously, this simply had to happen.
That was the first night I voted for anybody this year. I did cast votes for folks besides Sanjaya that night. I felt like, if I was going to support my guilty pleasure, I was somehow morally bound to vote for "the good people" too, so Melinda and Blake and Jordin got a little love from my telephone - but mostly, it was about saving Sanjaya, putting him on the tour, rewarding him for this remarkable change in outlook and performance strategy. It was about applauding a guy who put out a gut performance when he absolutely, positively had to have it.
The next day, Ryan turned to a boy who had been made to feel crushingly guilty for advancing FOUR STRAIGHT WEEKS - and that's not even counting the whole heartache of being in a room of celebrating winners, weeping for his sister who had failed to make the cut. He turned to a boy who had been uncomfortable with his own success the entire time, and said, "Sanjaya, you are safe." No cliffhanger. And Sanjaya gave a jaunty little grin and sat, even as many people around him (especially the ones like Haley who were probably counting on him to be their human shield) reacted in shock.
He knew he deserved to stay, and I did, too. That's the week I really became a Fanjaya.
This post has been edited by abrahammy07
Кого кого завербовали?? Дорогая редакция New York post не очень-то в фактах разбирается, как обычно
