the subtlety of discrimination

james posted this great essay that a korean-american woman wrote about growing up in whiteytown, and it made me think more about racism.  (and what we call racism.)

the other night, I was at a canadian pakistani business council meeting, and talking to people/men about their experiences. a man with big kind eyes, magnified by his glasses, gave me his business card and talked about how difficult it has been for him to get work.  he has a lot of business experience in a variety of industries (at senior-most levels), yet can't even find entry-level positions.  he said to me, earnestly, with a tinge of wonder, discrimination can be very subtle. very, very subtle.

increasingly, i think that the discrimination that people experience is not actually subtle.  it's pretty obvious and straight-forward.  however, i say this as one particularly sensitized to racial differentiation.  and luckily, has experience with the language of how we even talk about these things.  in the article that james sent, the woman recounts physical violence, in addition to what sounds like racially-motivated taunting.  physical violence is discrimination that cannot be ignored.  due to the whole bullying movement, taunting is receiving more attention.  and there is certainly a discussion to be had about racial or ethnic taunting in particular.

as adults, we don't generally get taunted anymore.  for the most part, people are perhaps somewhat unconscious of their discrimination, or pc enough to suppress their thoughts and reactions. when they are caught, they often deny that race had anything to do with it.  i'm not racist, i just hate you.  you think this is about race, but really you're just a bitch.

the other day i was in the supermarket and overheard one of the women at checkout being friendly to the people checking out.  service workers here, compared to the states, are not very friendly.  so i was excited to go through her checkout line.  i went through, and she wasn't chatty with me like she had been the people who had gone before me. she wasn't mean or unfriendly, but only a perfunctory smile, no direct eye contact, no attempt to help me put my purchases in my bag, and i didn't even really think about it, except that the checkout lady was super immediately very friendly to the woman behind me.  she ran my credit card, my stuff is laying all astrew right next the register, i'm still standing right in front of her, she hands me my receipt and within micro-seconds she is super cheerful to the woman behind, greeting her and acting like she had to the people before me.  if i actually lived here, like lived here lived here, maybe i wouldn't even think twice about the incident.  but i don't actually live here, and it's impossible not to miss stuff from the bay area.  there are the very tangible things like, mexican food. or warmer temperatures.  but there are also the random conversations you have with everyone about anything. i actively miss peoples' friendliness and way of being.

since i had been actively looking forward to a friendly checkout person, i was a little taken aback to seemingly be the one person that was not treated that way.  the only difference that i could think of was skin color.  to be totally fair, i didn't see the actual people who checked out ahead of me.  but i think it's safe to assume they were white. and the lady behind me was white. and she wore glasses, so i knew it wasn't that. other than that, why treat me any differently?  maybe my hair was messy? she really hates soy milk or tofu?

it made me wonder if it was being "ethnic."  that was really the only thing that made sense.  and yes, yes, there are all these things that could lead me to believe that it was nothing.  but during the course of my interviews, several people have commented how they constantly feel paranoid.  they feel like they aren't being treated the same as other Canadians (the white ones with Canadian credentials and experience), but don't really have any evidence, except the general feeling of not feeling welcome per say.  (Although there was one woman, who changed her Muslim sounding name to "Nora Sachs" on her resume and received callbacks the same day, a striking difference from the previous void of response.)

you can say that this doesn't really matter.  and generally speaking, i would agree, since we are socialized to be tough independent individuals. and when these types of incidents arise (which they pretty much always do for people of color) we are to brush them off.  not bring them up.  that is the wise thing to do for survival.  but as an analyst, it's important to talk about these slights to recognize and think about what discrimination means when it's not being cracked over the head and called racial slurs.

of hippies and hipsters...

arriving into toronto pearson, standing in the long line to go through customs, i conjured up one of my father's growing-up exhortations, "you need an attitude adjustment."  why? i was, have been feeling sad about coming up to toronto.  yes, it'll be a great growing/learning experience. but i still couldn't help but feel a sense of loss... for my life, the familiar.  easy to dwell in the love this love that coulda shoulda done xyz while i was still in amrika.  nonetheless as the line snaked around and around (x10, not hyperbole) i tried to get into the excitement of the whole thing.  i had these various anxieties about the step-by-step of getting myself taken care of.

first was getting my bags onto a cart. wtf was i thinking bringing two big-ass bags, in addition to a carry-on (and personal item, of the cumbersome variety.) there is nothing like lugging hella shit around to make you realize, no i didn't need to bring this sweatshirt AND this jacket.  or 5 pairs of earrings. it's really the little things.  as i'm walking out of the airport, i'm reminded of going to korea on my own.  a flurry of faces and signs w/ names on them as you pass through the final customs door. thinking about how - in korea - my anxiety mounts as i scan for my family's faces.... except this time, i'm not greeted by anyone, but luckily most everyone speaks in english.  the feeling of foreigness is only very slight - the signs are in both english and french.  i wonder if i would be more excited about being "abroad" if i was someplace more "foreign."

second, get taxi. done, fine.  third, find place, 1128A college.  taxi shoots a little past the place, so i awkwardly lug two bags past several babushkas, then run back to get the third one.  babushkas (i guess portuguese?) fully complete w/ headscarves and stare at me w/out reservation as i schlep my shit half a block down.  thanks for the help.

fourth, get myself settled.  i find the apartment door - right next to the thai video store, just like the lady said - and ring the yellow doorbell, which the lady specified i ring.  nothing.  i push it a little harder. nothing.  wait a second, cuz i can see a door up the stairs, hoping person is coming down. waiting, waiting, push again, loooonger. nothing.  push aggressively like 7 times, followed by several long pushes. nothing nothing. i'm not getting panicked, but this was def the step that was worrisome to me b/c the lady never actually CONFIRMED w/ me about she'll be home when i get there, etc.  i'm thinking... okay, okay, what are my options.  need to find payphone. no that's a paid-parking ticket dispenser.  lug my shit over to this thai-vietnamese restaurant, and they have one of those annoying loud door bell rings as i open the door.  so one as i enter w/ a bag. another as i open to grab the other bag.  three times as i go back out to retrieve the last bag.  schlep that shit in, another bell.  at this point, everyone is staring at me.  i order some food, and for just a moment, break down.  quietly, behind a napkin.  write out a note to lady - really hoping she didn't flake/ditch me - signal to the older asian guy working there that i was leaving but coming back (duh all my bags are there) as he somewhat suspiciously and confusedly stares at me.  walk back over to lady's place, and in a last ditch effort, press the door bell again.  w/out hope, i start folding the note to stuff into the door.  as i'm doing so, an older woman (w/ a young spirit), barefoot opens the door. there's an exchange of how she's been waiting, how she never heard the doorbell, was wondering when i was going to get in, where's your stuff, so sorry about all that, are you okay, you're not going to cry are you? the relief washes over me, and i do cry just a little as she gives me a hug, and i exclaim i'm fine i'm fine, it's okay, no worries.

cheryl is the barefoot hippie type, (barefoot as she walks down the street w/ me to the restaurant to grab some of my stuff), and works as a bike courier.  her place is a little grungier than i expected w/ not a lot of common space.  and my room is hella small (but w/ a big bed) especially since i have these (recurring kvetch only can blame myself) three large f-ing bags.  but she's so nice and friendly.  recycles, works on a community garden in an abandoned lot, only gets organic food from farmers' market.  she introduces me to a neighboor - a young, attractive girl named sophie, w/ a rat on her shoulder... totally missed the rat, and mistook the tail for a strand of hair (a rat's tail if you will). chit-chatted w/ them about bikes (there's a bike coop down the way they both highly recommend -- cheryl will let me use a cannondale frame recovered from "evil igor" the local bike thief, if i get parts and put it together), and finally finally excused myself to get online b/c "i should check in w/ my family, they're probably getting a little worried."

yeah right. no one is online, doesn't answer my calls, or plaintive vms or emails... at least for a little bit.  that's when i start this blog post, having some stuff to get out.  and i continue it today (thursday), in a total hipster coffee shop, the common.  i feel like i could be in brooklyn.  you know, all these kinda slobby chic white people and the token asian (not me) also rocking the currently fashionable "i don't care look" consisting of a short flowered dress/jumper, w/ a denim shirt on top.  it's like a seventeen magazine spread from my youth. my mom's closet from the 80's. it's a wonder anyone can take themselves seriously, their various funky hats.  totally possible the barista is high... shouting from the back, omg! i dropped the sugar!  oh nooo!  there's sugar EVERYWHERE! it's ALL OVER THE FLOOR!!  no one bats an eye, all engrossed in our laptops as we are.

i could be anywhere. 

The Weirdzies of the Dying Young Circus

i feel incredibly sad.  an old college friend, meghan murphy, just passed away on saturday.  her family and friends helped maintain a blog for her, and reading about the last couple of months leading up to her death from cancer has been very emotional.  her mom posted this on one of her very last days:

... Meg, of course, was making us laugh.  ...Meg did sleep last night but not a peaceful rest for every breath is a struggle.  We spoke this morning about her being ready to go. (She said to post "Whoa, dying.....weird!)  She is so tired.  I told her it is alright.  We all love her and know she is going someplace wonderful.  So many friends and relatives are waiting to greet her and welcome her with open arms.  I'm sure they can't wait to be with her.  She made a list of all those who she wants to see as soon as she arrives.  She doesn't want any of us to be sad.  She loves us all beyond measure.  I do believe Meghan has loved everyone even those of us she only had a brief opportunity to spend time with.

it's not like I was close with Meghan... not at all.  I'm not even sure the last time I saw or spoke with her.  But she was a force of nature.  I haven't dealt w/ death so often in my life, especially for people that are so young. about four years ago, another friend passed away... Nyles Fitzgerald.  He died in a freak accident - he was passing between subway cars and fell off.  I wasn't close to him either, but his death hit me hard as well.  At first, I was just kind of shocked.  Then months later, at reunion, it really hit me.  Nyles was just one of those guys that is a positive force in the world, a musician, following his own self-created path... I was talking to another Cornell friend today about Meghan's passing -- he didn't know her, but he did know Nyles... "the heartthrob" was how Tarik referred to him.  Meghan is also one of those people that it just doesn't seem right that she died so young.  Both Meghan and Nyles were people who were in similar circles as myself... we were all in the same dorm (JAM) first year, and all part of the alterna-crowd.  they definitely knew each other.  I remember her as being hella fun, funny, always had a smile... just an awesome woman who handled her situation with so much grace and courage.  She was on increasing doses of pain killer cocktails, and wrote about some of her experiences, hallucinations.  She was staying in a hospice in Florida for her last days, and she prefaced a post about her perceptions of social interactions:  "Also, my memory is a bit wacky so the world is a bit ...... How do you say ....... fresh."  Meghan (via the transcription of her mother and I believe a friend) expanded on her street cred and her resultant thoughts:

I feel I can get away with a little possibly inappropriate for a hospice chipperness because of my robe and lovely/pathetic IV pole (which is not an official IV just subcu which doesn't involve my poor vein-i-poos).

I know what you  are going to say why  WHY why on earth do you care what others are thinking?   My very  best answer would have to be, "Well, I certainly don't know!"  But the thoughts run through my head so lets talk it out? 

I flash the robe or people check out the group looking for the patient finally landing on me and people's energy changes.  It isn't all to pity, which seems to be popular.   Then it often goes to curiosity, which encourages my energy to run away because being friendly and explaining is strenuous.  Anyway, I get noticed and people treat me differently energetically, just as a natural course of things.  

I maintain my awkwardness and have that feeling of not wanting to upset anyone. But, I also want to size them up, know what they are thinking, where I stand in their social hierarchy.   So, I imagine their thoughts which go a little something like this: 

"Whoa she is young" or 

"I'm glad I'm not her"or 

"her poor family" or 

"I guess my loved one was lucky he/she lived to see his/her grandchildren."  

There is one that I especially enjoy, which I hope is there and I am not making it up to make myself feel better: 

"Why am I worrying about getting old?" 

I would love to remind folks that getting old is rad. 

And it might be especially needed in here in Florida.  We spend so much time, effort, money, mental processing power on turning back the clock, but participating in the Possibly Dying Young Circus has made me feel jealous of 40-50 somethings and 80s whoa, ok, now you are just showing off! 

Tragic.  But classic Meghan.


We all know that we are going to die.  That other people are going to die... they do die.  It's hard to wrap my head around the idea of basically finding out you only have a few months left to live.  It's more complicated than that because she had this roller coaster of deadlines she was given... first it was bad... then she had successful chemo the doctors were surprised and happy... she gets to go home (back to I-town), but then she coughs up blood and finds out the cancer has traveled to her lungs.  Then more ups and downs of the uncertainty of living or dying.  The complexity of "trying to fight it" versus living the rest of your life in peace, but still hoping and believing that things will turn around.  The flood of emotions... guilt and struggle for trying to hold on... guilt and struggle for wanting to let go.  At some point in the last week or so, she said... "I don't want to be anticlimactic about not dying...."  And yet, we all die.  irrespective of when, it is a known fact.  it will happen.


Part of my despair is knowing that I can't conceive of the pain that her family and close friends are going through.  I am heartbroken, but jesus, what if one of my closest friends was in her shoes?  It's entirely conceivable, though obviously not something one ever wants to conceive of just for the hell of it.  hellacious conceptions part two, what if I was in her shoes?  A big part of the narrative of these last few months has been the difficulty with finances.  Not only affording various health treatments (which was a big one), but also, Meghan didn't want to leave her mom in debt.  (I guess her mom co-signed on her school loans and so forth).  The length to which her family and friends rallied for her moves the soul.  It seemed like Meghan struggled w/ how expensive some of these various treatments costed, that she didn't want to "waste" people's money for some alternative treatment or approach.  I could imagine the deep desire to "give up."  She and her family were very vigilant about her diet... at a treatment center she was at, she was doing the whole greens/juice thing.  wheatgrass til the very end.


The end of life, at which point what?  I've never been particularly terrified of death (or the idea of dying), I suppose in part because of some vague sense that "stuff" goes on... somehow.  Someone like Meghan... at thirty... I don't want to think of her expiring, poof, done, and that was that.  Heaven may be a coping mechanism, but it sure seems like a good one.


All of this is to say, .  Generic conclusions aren't so reconcilable with feeling sadness.