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Archives for category: Brain
(This post was originally written for the Ethnic Aisle blog, but I just realized all my links in that post are broken, so here’s a corrected version. Please do check out the other hair-related posts on that blog,though!)
I have never been one of nature’s blondes, one of my aching desires as a kid. Before I come off like some Aryan Nation weirdo, I should mention that my motives were strictly pragmatic. See, my future career backup plan was to become a Spanish-language television personality.
Outlandish as it may seem, this vision was fairly sketched out. Ideally I’d host my own song-and-dance variety show—something Xuxa-esque, but weirder—but I’d have settled for a telenovela gig too. (This seemed less far-fetched than my other ambition, to one day make a living by writing things.) The overwhelming majority of women on Spanish TV, the ones who weren’t playing maids on the prime-time soaps, looked a lot like me—as in, they too were white as hell. Univision, the Miami-based Spanish television network we picked up at our house, was (and continues to be) a virtually Mestiza-free zone. I figured a Caucasian-looking halfie like me stood at least a semi-decent shot.
It didn’t seem like talent was much of a factor for getting onto Univision. I’m no actress, but neither are many of the ladies on the social mobility-bent love dramas I grew up watching with my mom. A fair complexion, a little surgical enhancement, and flowing locks seemed the requisite criteria for climbing the Latin programming pyramid, as a woman.
Oh yeah. You also had to be blonde.
Okay, so blondeness wasn’t exactly required. It was more like the silver bullet that could make even the most marginally negotiable amount of onscreen charisma sufficient for stardom.
It’s no shocker that I’m not the first person to make this observation. A Google search for “blondes latino television” pulled up this LatinoLA blog post that criticizes Spanish TV for perpetuating a “Euro-cute” ideal of beauty rather than represent characters who reflect the Mestizo majority of its viewership. That search also brought up a Yahoo! Answers forum that asks: “Why is Latin American television so blonde obsessed?”
I feel like, if you’re reading this, you probably don’t need a basic lesson on the history of Colonialism and the remaining correlations between economic stature and whiteness in Latin America, or the uneasy identity baggage of Meztisaje. If you do, the Internet is an excellent resource. At any rate, the answer to Latin American television’s blonde obsession can almost certainly be found within that complicated history. Just like back in the day, when flaxen locks meant you probably came from European stock and were on the side of the conquerers rather than the defeated, or a little later when they meant you were of the land-owning instead of the workers, or now, when it still means that you’re likelier to possess greater wealth and power than someone whose hair is not blonde, the reasons for the appeal are clear. Blondeness is power. It’s post-aspirational.
So, back to me. I am not a telenovela star. I used the funds I’d squirreled away for breast augmentation to pay international tuition fees, for better or worse. (Just kidding; I never possessed that kind of foresight). But I still watch Spanish-language television whenever I visit my folks back in the states, and it’s still more of the same: Euro-cute with a bonus for blondeness. At least no one can accuse Latin American television of ignoring minority populations.
As much as it pains me to admit this, I sort of felt for Mike Daisey last week.
The performer behind “The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs,” which was adapted for radio to become This American Life’s most downloaded episode to date, was revealed on Friday to have totally made up some of the most heart-wrenching details of his personal account of the goings-on at China’s Foxconn factory, where many Apple products are made. I first read This American Life’s retraction of the piece, then listened to the solemn retraction-focused episode that followed it and, I’ll admit, it was hard to hear the guy fumble against the pointed interrogation of my beloved Ira Glass. Daisey had lied, and he was embarrassed to have been caught. In a way, I could understand why he would be cautious to admit–to listeners, to Ira, to himself–that that was precisely what he had done: lied. Instead, he skirted around the issue of his crime–which involved deliberately misleading fact-checkers to pass off falsehoods as truths–by saying that the tools of the theatre are not the same as the tools of journalism, and that ultimately the truth he meant to convey, regarding the gravity of what he encountered in China, was still there. Okay, fine. I didn’t agree with the guy, but I could relate to his impulse to dig himself out of a self-created hole. After all, haven’t we all been there? I certainly have, and there’s nothing dignified about it.
A part of me could even understand Daisey’s impulse to fudge some of the details of his story for dramatic flair. Even as someone who IS a journalist and takes the profession quite seriously, I could understand, on some slimy and shameful level, his temptation to include those fudged details in his monologue’s adaptation for This American Life–one of the most beloved and highly-regarded entities of English-language reportage in the world. The exposure! The prestige! These are the things we, in creative industries and otherwise, find alluring.
What I cannot forgive is Daisey’s continued insistence that this impulse, which he acted upon, wasn’t wrong. Further to this, the faux apologies, such as this nugget from today’s post on his personal blog:
To radio listeners: I apologized in this week’s episode to anyone who felt betrayed. I stand by that apology. But understand that if you felt something that connected you with where your devices come from—that is not a lie. That is art. That is human empathy, and it is real, and even if you curse my name I hope you’ll recognize that and continue reading, caring, and thinking.
“I apologized…to anyone who felt betrayed.” How insulting is that? It’s like when Rush Limbaugh, a couple of weeks ago, fauxpologized to people who might–somehow, miraculously– be offended by his choice to call Georgetown law student Sandra Fluke a “slut.” As UC Berkeley linguistics professor Geoff Nunberg would point out on NPR’s Fresh air, “That’s the standard formula for these things — you apologize not for what you said but for the way you said it.”
The same is the case with Daisey, who continues to insult the intelligence of the thousands of listeners he duped by refusing to admit his wrongdoing. He is not sorry for lying to us, but sorry for our hypersensitivity to this deception. It’s a patronizing avoidance of moral responsibility, and that I cannot abide.
Has it already been a month since I last posted? Oopsies. South America must have messed with my sense of time. Worse, it almost convinced me to grow out my hair.
(Photographic reminder of why that would be a terrible decision:)
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Besides vanities, the month has involved a cat adoption, a 26th birthday, and many writings. Here’s a very small sample:
-On the marketing genius of the pop-up shop for the Globe and Mail
-On the strange process of heritage designation for the historic Paradise Theatre (spoiler alert: major bluff-calling is involved); a look into the surprisingly moving origin story of the Scarborough Civic Centre; all about the state of craft culture in Toronto, and a chat with a professional falconer (!) for Torontoist
-And on blood donation–specifically, how Torontonians DO NOT DO IT ENOUGH–for OpenFile
Again, a small sample. But a good one, no?
Regular updates to continue shortly.
XO
Photo by Flickr user CristianGs. As you can see by that watermark.
Last night Sol, our tour guide from a couple of weeks back, invited us out to her dad’s swank house just north of the city to eat asado. Asado is Argentine barbecue, a ritualized feast of a variety of God’s grilled creatures that puts our sad North American hamburger and hot-dog endeavors to total shame. Chorizo, pork chop, two kinds of beef and an exquisitely marinated chicken were all consumed in the same belly-expanding meal. Before last night, I would never have believed this was physically possible.
It was a fabulously Argentine affair, gabbing over Fernet with Cola about the Argentine economy (key word: INFLATION!) with J, Sol and two of her friends, Sabrina and (I think?) Natalia, whom she lovingly referred to as “las pendejas” (which in this situation roughly translates to “my bitches.” Argentines swear a lot more than Canadians do, and it’s usually pretty endearing). Anyway, I’ve eaten so much meat in the past three weeks that I feel the chemistry of my body has actually changed. I’m starting to smell like a bouillon cube.
Argentina is well known for its earth-shattering, grass-fed Pampas beef, but the truth is all meat in Argentina is cheap, plentiful, and of exceptional quality. Sol said that it’s actually rare to encounter bad meat, a legitimate challenge. For this reason, Argentines eat an absurd amount of flesh; fresh produce, though also abundant, is very much an afterthought. In fact, the very word used to describe salad items at many Buenos Aires restaurants translates literally to “garnish.” Go figure.
Sol sent us home with leftovers from the asado. “A doggie bag,” she joked, a concept she must have picked up in her dealings with foreigners as a tour guide. While no longer as unthinkably gauche as it once was, the practice of bringing home leftovers from restaurants and the like remains decisively outside the norm. I’m not sure her Argentine galpals caught the reference.
Argentines have had a rough go of it over the past several decades, between military dictatorship and, more recently, total economic collapse. But throughout it all, they’ve maintained a healthy appetite. While leafy greens might not be a national staple, even the most run-of-the-mill street food here is worthy of marvel. Lonely Planet did a roundup not too long ago of 10 non-steak edibles to eat in Buenos Aires, and I’d say they were right on the money with their mention of ice cream (also, the best I’ve ever had in my life), pizza (ditto), and dulce de leche. Apart from some horrible American tourists we encountered while waiting in line to eat at B.A.’s ancient and famous Cafe Tortoni (“Empana-what? Looked like Hot Pockets to me!”), all the foreigners we’ve encountered have been impressed by the offerings here–and rightfully so. But, even more impressive is that the locals know better than to take it for granted.
President Cristina Kirchner. Photo from somewhere on the Internet.
This morning, walking past a kiosko (that is, a street kiosk that sells magazines, newspapers, and smokes), I saw my first front-page headline pertaining to the falsification of the Argentine president’s cancer scare. A bit of background: la Presidenta Cristina Kirchner (whose late husband, Nestor, was the president before her) was diagnosed with thyroid cancer last year. This very legitimate health scare was played up by the prez’s PR machine and subsequently amplified by national media–as would be the case anywhere with that scenario, I suppose–to elicit sympathy and a sense of national solidarity. “Fuerza Cristina” graffiti multiplied on Argentine walls. When it unfolded last week that the thyroid removed from the president’s body turned out to be devoid of cancerous cells, however, there was very little fanfare. It immediately struck me as odd.
What if, say, Barack Obama had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer? Surely, the media wouldn’t let it go. But then, say, after his nationally-breath-held operation came through and it turned out that, Oops! The cells were healthy after all! wouldn’t there be investigation? Wouldn’t people insist that something smelled fishy? Of course they would; someone would immediately suspect a stunt at play. North American democracy is founded upon a healthy sense of skepticism. Not so in Argentina. The fundamental distrust of democratic governance held by the Argentine people, recently released from the throngs of a dictatorial regime, is apparently immune to bizarre marketing schemes that will play up a head of state’s potentially life-threatening illness only to overlook its subsequently positive prognosis. It’s easier, here, to simply put one’s faith in one’s leader. She’s strong and speaks for the people! is the prevailing rationale. It’s called Peronism, and it’s a curious beast.
The Peronist political machine relies upon a degree of personality cultishness that I’ve never experienced elsewhere. When I visited the Casa Rosada (presidential palace) last week, I was immediately stricken by the dozens of photo installations of the president, her late husband and their children, displayed along the entrance. These mini-billboards showed “day in the life” type scenes: photos of the president blowing kisses from outside a car window, presumably at a crowd of her loyal countrypeople; la presidenta mid-embrace with her children; “candid” shots of Cristina at speaking engagements, eyes welling with emotion before the masses. Why are images politically relevant? Well, they aren’t. Nothing about Cristina’s ability to smile at a camera suggests shrewd policymaking. Rather, the message is, “I am one of you. Love me.” And, it seems to work.
Back to the cancer thing. Why wasn’t this front-page news last week? Why has it been discussed on television broadcasts only as an afterthought? Why haven’t people been celebrating her–apparently, unexpectedly–good health? I can’t help but come to the conclusion that there’s a fear of throwing off a narrative of support and well-wishes coming from high up, trickling down to mainstream media. A populist head of state’s life-threatening illness is quite the unifier, after all. Why break the circle? It’s an idea that especially makes sense in the context of what I’ve been told, that the press isn’t completely, 100% free in Argentina.
Not to say that North American politics are any more civil, but it’s been fascinating to see a totally different kind of machine at play. Techniques of ruling also have their cultural differences.
The weather is beautiful and the people are nice, but I miss everybody.
A blurry live-action tango scene.
Buenos Aires is beginning to make sense. Maybe because today was the first time I got properly lost on my own, which is a fabulous way to get one’s bearings in an unfamiliar place. For the past 13 days (!) I’ve been relying on my travel partner for navigation. In a sense, he’s the orchestrator of this trip, and I’m the guest, so I follow. Besides, this is a working holiday for me; many potential brain-map-making hours have been spent drinking cortados in coffee shops while pounding away at my laptop about goings-on back home. This is no complaint, but it was an adventure to begin forging my own sense of geography earlier tonight.
Stationed on the southern-ish edge of B.A.’s “old money” Recoleta neighbourhood (note: the apartment sublet here was, miraculously, comparable in price to others in less quiet/chi-chi locations), I ventured for a 10k run to and from the border of Palermo, a gigantic expanse of parks and nightlife broken up into four real-estate subsections for easy marketing appeal. From my monthlong dwelling at the intersection of Ayacucho and Peña, I headed northeast along increasingly swanky territory along Ayacucho and onto Avenida del Libertador–Avenue of the Liberator–to make my way westward.
As a headphones runner, I had the latest record by Argentine electro group Poncho to keep me from bursting into an anti-exercise tantrum. According to the current Argentine edition of Rolling Stone (which I picked up at a nearby kiosko a few days ago) iTunes is relatively new to the country and, within moments of its inception, Poncho’s sole English-language single “Please Me” became its most-downloaded track, even surpassing Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep”–quite a feat, if you’ll ask anyone in the Western Hemisphere. In true tech-gen fashion, I discovered the tune by Shazaaming it at a Palermo bar earlier in the week, but it’s been apparently inescapable for months. ( In case you’re wondering, the entire album is brilliant.)
After I figured out how to return home, we ate what could almost be called a homecooked meal and drank Fernet and Cola, which I’ve discovered is the cocktail of choice for Porteños (the name given to people from Buenos Aires, a port city, which literally translates to “Port dwellers”). I learned about the concoction during a fabulous walking tour last Monday, which I’d recommend to anyone considering a visit to the city. Upon mention of the drink, a German tourist in the group made a horrible face and said that his experience with Fernet y Cola was unpleasant and headache-inducing, which naturally led me to try it a few hours later. Some loser on Vimeo described its taste as “mouthwash,” but my refined palate reads notes of Ricola cough drops and Sicilian mafiosos. It’s simultaneously classy and dirty, which is really the best any of us can aspire to. For my Toronto friends: Fernet Branca is apparently available at the LCBO, but at about 6x the Buenos Aires price. In other words: hit me up, for I shall be importing.
Fernet y cola was something that got consumed last night, as well, when we ventured to a hip milonga called La Catedral at the recommendation of a local friend-of-a-friend named Elena. Milongas are where tango happens, and el tango is just short of religion here. The dance originated at the end of the 19th century but waned in popularity during the mid-20th century, when newfangled rock-n-roll business decided to take over the public consciousness. The folkloric dance was further suppressed during Argentina’s most recent, and most violent, military dictarorship, which lasted from 1976-1983. But, after a long period of decline, tango is making a major comeback, thanks to a number of Bohemian and youth-centric milongas and–of course–a bounty of international tourists drawn to its undeniable sexiness. As my new friend Elena explained, “Es una obsesion.” Having experienced my own first tango lesson and show last night, I can understand why: it’s a dance that relies on intuition and reflex, a communication between dance partners, more than any other. Basically, the dance is foreplay on heels. I hope to get a second lesson tomorrow.
Beyond tango and exploration, today involved a visit to the MALBA–the museum of Latin American Art in Buenos Aires–where we experienced some amazingly trippy “physiocromic” (my own attempt at an English translation for it) work by the artist Carlos Cruz-Diez. Google the guy, as your mind will surely be blown. The following photo is from one of his less-impressive (but more interactively fun) pieces. Apologies for dorkiness (I is what I is).
[Final note: for more intelligent/comprehensive Buenos Aires recaps, follow this blog here.]
I’ve been in Buenos Aires for five days now, long enough to have run (and nearly perished during) an 8k race in 30 degree heat, acted a fool on New Year’s Eve (the 8k made me an absurdly cheap date), visited far-flung suburbs, and made new friends. The Spanish is beginning to flow more naturally now, which was the main objective of this trip; the Argentine idioms and ‘Y’s-voiced-as-’J's have worked their way in. Now, speaking of work…
Yeah. Back to that.
This was never intended to be a full vacation for me, and the freelance assignments continue to exist. Today marks my return to something resembling a disciplined work schedule, which is tricky given Argentine proclivities toward staying out until sunrise, not to mention my travel partner’s total holiday state of mind. No complaints, though; better to be here than not. Though, as I’ve hinted before, I appreciate being forced to keep one foot grounded in Toronto.
For some of us–maybe most of us–travel is an unnatural state. I’ve come across a number of serial wanderers in my lifetime, those shaggy-haired creatures who’ve long abandoned the idea of a permanent home base, can ask for directions in a dozen different languages and sport the distinctive curve of backpack scoliosis. While I admire their perpetual curiosity and adventure-seeking, I don’t identify with it. It may even be fair to say that being away from familiar faces and routines throws me into a state of existential turmoil. Surprise. But, really, so much of what defines us is what we’re tied to; away from all that, who are we? Here, I’m just an interchangeable Canadian tourist. That’s my label, and the nuances don’t matter.
That said, it’s affirming to feel stripped-down. Important to feel unimportant, maybe. I don’t feel at ease, say, stepping into a dance club where I don’t speak the slang or look the part, but that’s arguably all the more reason to take that particular plunge. We all owe it to ourselves to step outside of our cultural comfort zones, both at home and abroad. It’s like a ceremonial bullshit cleanse. So, I say: here’s to more of that in the year to come.
I arrived in Buenos Aires early this morning after nearly 24 hours of travel. I haven’t slept much in the past couple of days, and it’s beginning to show. I find myself repeating sentences that I’ve already said or written; a roughly 600 word article took me the better part of the day to write. But I wouldn’t dare nap, not here. Not now.
The apartment is in Recoleta, about a 10-minute walk from where I stayed during my last visit to B.A. That one was strictly work though, and minimal pleasure. This time, I hope to get in a fair bit of both.
This afternoon we walked past an embassy that I foggily remember stumbling past on my last night in town last year, during my one moment of fun. A late night at El Alamo bar with instant expat friends led to a long night of very 20-something adventures. It was a relief at the time, a moment of excitement in the middle of a period I don’t remember too fondly.
I bought new sandals for this trip. Attempts at chicdom. The 5-inch platforms need to be broken in; after an hour in them, my feet are temporarily ruined. But they make me feel elegant, and this city deserves the effort.
Buenos Aires has a choose-your-own-adventure vibe. As my friend Lisan said, it’s a cultural gray area somewhere in between Latin America and Western Europe, or maybe both and not both at the same time, like a Venn Diagram of identities. We look like everyone else here, more or less, and it’s nice not to be pegged for a tourist until I open my mouth and the gutter rust of my mother tongue stumbles out instead of spilling.
We drink totally passable red wine that cost $4 USD, which I first thought tasted like soap but now, a mug in, am beginning to appreciate.
“I think it’s good for my heart and shit, just to feel excited. And scared.” J said that, but I agree. My brain is still in Toronto, but my body is here. And my heart, I think. Another Venn Diagram.
