I have always admired John Lennon for his music as well as his political and societal “F-U!” attitude. Recently, I watched a film that depicted a lesser known part of Lennon. “Nowhere Boy” that chronicled John Lennon’s complex relationship with his two mother figures during his childhood and adolescence. The film also touches on the friendship between Lennon and Paul McCartney, a friendship that became one of the greatest partnerships in musical history.
After watching this film, Mr. Lennon somehow seemed to take over the thoughts that grapple my mind in the hour it takes me to fall asleep. I though of all the hell he must have raised as a kid. Then I remembered that some of Lennon’s greatest moments of hell raising happened when he met and fell in love with Yoko Ono. Now, did she break up The Beatles? Maybe. Maybe not. What I do know is their relationship was on of the most infamous loves of all time. Not exactly Romeo and Juliet, definitely not Sid and Nancy, John and Yoko stirred the pot, pushed buttons and boundaries, annoyed nations across oceans and seas, but always managed to get people to think. Whether these peoples thoughts were good or bad or just about pushing Yoko down a flight of stairs, to light a fire like John and Yoko did made them more than artists (Yes, Yoko actually did something. She was a performance artist before she met John Lennon). They were a force spouting a message of “peace and love” (Whether that was a naive message for the times is another discussion).
Anyway, this thought process got me out of my bed. I am planning to do some kind of *John and Yoko post with an actual outfit sometime soon.* However, that night I was sort of inspired. I decided to start with a head shot. So, I teased my hair as much as my parting comb would allow and thickened my eyebrows a little. Though people may say she did not look quite right on the arm of the head Beatle, she certainly had a look. This is my small interpretation of Yoko. I somehow came out like a scary cave woman, but hey thats a look too.
thailand market place top | clearance H&M pants $5 | Bakers shoes $60 | assorted Wet Seal bracelet $12 | Forever 21 necklace $3 | Dooney & Bourke Purse
How long do we stay “under construction”? I mean as humans it is our nature to continue to evolve. That is the only way to find the best possible you, but how do we know who and when that is going to be? When do we get the final product?
I am 22 years old and have yet to be in a serious relationship. I have been told that my overall being is intimidating and well, scary. Is it something about the outfits I pound the pavements in? Is it that I am not afraid to be vocal about my opinions and passions. Am I too vocal even? Am I too loud? Too short? Am I just too much? These questions have strung a theme as of late. The theme? “Building the road to a significant other”. I know, it sounds like the title of a self help book, but I had to know. What is it that keeps my Facebook status “single”?
None of the questions I have asked myself have led to any major revelation except one. Could it be my baggage? I am not talkin about the latest Louis Vuitton shoulder bag or tote, not even an adorable vintage clutch. I am talking about the gooy, icky emotional baggage that you somehow have been caring around for years. That baggage that helps keep a safe enough distance from you and another human being. No matter how you style it up, this kind of baggage can never be managed into an accessory. It is more of a hindrance. So, what do we do with this hindrance? How do you turn that bag into a tool pouch that helps add the finishing touches to the prime real estate that is you?
The answer is easier to say, but far more difficult to do. Share the work. Open up that pouch and extend a wrench to someone. All that icky, gooy emotional stuff you would much rather not deal with does not have to be zipped up. That emotional stuff may be what helps keep a distance from you and another person, but it does not have to be. Maybe you do intend to open up and unload. Maybe you are just waiting for that special someone so you can flip over that bag and dump every single thing you have held in for a hundred years all at once. I do not exactly think that is the right approach, but one thing is definitely for sure. The first step is yours. Who knows? Maybe that someone you extend a wrench to might turn out to be the one.
The final product comes not when we snag “the one”. The final product is produced when you extend yourself fully. Take a leap. Remember evolving is how we as human beings find our best possible selves. If we continue to lug all that stuff zipped up in that baggage of emotional sludge then we cannot evolve. Instead of finding the best possible self we hold on to what is the worst part of ourselves, the part that chooses to be stunted, stuck.
That’s it. No stories or anecdotes. Just some words for food. All I have to do is take my own advice.
THE LOOK
This look was inspired by a look posted by one of the fashion bloggers I follow, THE HAUTE PURSUIT in which she is wearing a sheer lace tee cut top and leather trousers.(Click thumbnail below to see inspiration)
Because I am tittering the line between plus size and not, the top is flowy and I chose a stretch harem pant for the bottom. This allows for comfort, ease, and movement. The top is cropped with laced shoulders and is finished with a tulled a line that pulls away from the body. To somewhat meet the sexiness of THE HAUTE PURSUIT's top each side of my top has a slit which reveals a slight bit of skin. I personally cannot pull off a navel baring sheer top. Because the top is cropped, the harem pant hit just below the ribs. This helps maintain the slight reveal of skin beneath the shirt but covers up the part that frightens which is also known as my belly and/or any love handles.Unfortunately I no longer have that top to take a picture of this detail. I do however, have a close up of the shoe below...
May that crop top rest in peace.I lost it on a trip to L.A. Hopefully the person that found it is one feroucious lady.
thailand market place top | clearance H&M pants $5 | Bakers shoes $60 | assorted Wet Seal bracelet $12 | Forever 21 necklace $3 | Dooney & Bourke purse
bought in thai land market place top | thrifted belt $5 | clearance H&M top $5 | actually a dress H&M skirt $20 | Aldo shoes $80
These pictures were taken in the downtown area of my Bay Area hometown of what I will call Valley Jo. If you were from Valley Jo you would know downtown in not especially known for its scenery, a great place for a late night drug run or to score a $2 lady companion at 12 midnight maybe. However, in the daylight you can see downtown’s charm and potential. The Victorian houses and spacious waterfront help you imagine what it looked like before the liquor stores, sleazy motels, and crime. The downtown area like much of the city has the possibility to be something spectacular. However, there has been little effort to make “spectacular” happen. There are two main attractions in this city, a movie theater and a theme park. I mean there are only so many times you can go to Six Flags Discovery Kingdom and believe me the only thing you’ll discover there is that there is miraculously 1 surviving dolphin from when the theme park was Marine World Africa USA. Understandably, there is no mall or major shopping centers in this city as you can find them in another city 20 minutes away in every other direction. However, Factory 2 U is not what shopping dreams are made of. So how in the heck can I get Borders bookstore in this city at least? Where should my former hometown be putting its efforts?
Earlier this year,within a one month period I had been informed of three incidents of violent crime involving adolescents 18 years of age and under. Two of these cases were televised on the 10 o’ clock news. It seems that violent crime has become the after school activity of choice. In recent years California has suffered an outrageous budget crisis. This has had a serious effect on our public education system. When I was in high school we had little after school organizations with the exception of sports. If we did have an organization there was little promotion, motivation, or incentive for students to want to join. At the present time it seems that if my alma mater had nothing before in terms of options for positive student productivity, there is less than nothing now.
Remember that downtown area with all that potential? Well, there is a transportation station there. It was decided that classical music would be played in this area to deter the drug dealers, workin’ ladies, and the bored hoodlum candidates bopping around out of school. Look, playing a little Bach and Chopan is not going to change the community. The music merely sweeps the streets, chasing away a Mac Dre fan or two. Instead of the city thinking up new ways to do human street cleaning why not save that classical music CD money and invest in our kids education and positive student productivity.
When you invest in the education of a a community a new environment can be shaped. Education and options for a student to be productive change the working demographic from drug dealers and prostitutes to future doctors and corporate head honchos. With that you change the consumer needs of a community. If an investment is made in education financially as well as through effort from academic authorities in the schools, kids will put down their video phone, stop taping the fight that just broke out in the quad, and read a book. A need for reading can be created and right there is the city’s need for a Borders. See, it is a cycle.
bought in thai land market place top | thrifted belt $5 | clearance H&M top $5 | actually a dress H&M skirt $20 | Aldo shoes $80
thrifted glasses $3 | Philippine market purchased dress $3 | ny & co belt $10 | Aldo shoes $100 | assorted bracelets Wet Seal bracelet $12
This look is a nod to Grease’s Sandra D. You know, if she showed some leg and weighed 20 more pounds. Grease is not only the ultimate high school musical, it is the high school dream. I mean poodle skirts, calve high pencil pants, rompers, and lets not forget “Greasers”. Grease is a style fan’s heaven. My high school experience was far from this “heaven”, not even in the vicinity of High School Musical. There were no poodle skirts, Greasers, not even a Danny Zuko, just a whole lot of bad hair, bad clothes, and a million phases of identity crisis.
A run in with someone from the vague and distant past that I call my adolescent and teen years prompted me to reflect upon my primary school experiences. A few weeks ago I attended an event for a college that was not my own. It was there that I ran into this individual from that vague and distant past. Right when I walked into the door this person recognized me and greeted me with an awkward “Hello” and wave. Blind as a bat and not equipped with my Burberry prescription glasses it took me a second before I could make out who this person was. After putting my eyes on I was able to make out this blast from my past. My immediate reaction was, “Oh God, Hi” paired with a wave that was just as awkward as theirs. I then proceeded to purchase my ticket to the event and converse with ticket seller as though this person to remain un-named (hint: if you keep reading this post, the person is not the obvious choice) was no longer present. Now, my reaction and behavior was just on the edge of rude and a little mean. It is just that there are some people in this world you wish to forget your existence and you their existence for no particular reason. Maybe this preference for forgetting is all my own, but why is this? What is this urge to erase bits of the past? Motivated to answer this question, I decided it was a must to mentally and physically look back at the pieces I wanted to erase, my adolescent and teen years at school.
A few days after this encounter, I put on that dress (The the dress is actually a skirt. The orange top layer is the skirt and underneath is the skirt of an actual dress for volume at the bottom . The belt is placed in the middle for shape.), put my hair in a bun meets mohawk, and took a visit to two of my three primary schools. The first stop was my elementary school at which the above photos were taken. Standing in the Hallways that housed my student “Hall of Fame” photos, I remembered the place I was primed and conditioned to be the preen supreme timid, shy, compliant, academically achieving Asian American little girl. True to the stereotype I never questioned this way of being until I reached middle school where I was nothing but a hot mess, stress on the mess.
My middle school experience was very much like the film “Thirteen” starring Evan Rachel Wood without the actual sex and making out with girls. My first year in middle school I met my own “Evie”. We will call her Roxie. She was electric. Though she was the first girl in our class with a fully developed body, this was not what drew you in. Like I said she was electric, what I believed to be a dynamically left of center personality is what set her apart from being just your “average Asian”. This personality is also what made it a necessity to know her.
During our after school phone conversations, back when people actually used a land line we talked about making out with boys which she had somehow seemed to have already done before turning the tender age of 13, she explained why “69” wasn’t simply a number, she shared her sexy dreams about AJ from the Backstreet Boys (You know him. The one that wore cowboy hats and mesh tops. Yeah that guy. ), and enlightened me on what it meant to be a bisexual. This was all while I blasted 98 Degrees’ “Because Of You” in the background, that is until Ms. Roxie introduced me to one of her favorite numbers “I Can Tell” by the 504 Boyz. For those of you who just can’t tell what this song is, here is a little lyrical content for you: “Put me on the counter in the kitchen Now baby pour my body with some ice cream Lick me from head to toe Bending me over 69'll be the next thing”
Yeah, definitely not boy band/ Spice Girl material and that was the modest part of the song. Was she my BFF or my idol? I do not know, but the kid was more fierce than your Britney and Christina combined.
Still, despite our “edgy tween fun” all good things must come to an end. Like a girl switching from a training bra to black lace, Roxie grew out of our friendship as she found her own puberty idol. Camille was a transfer student from Rhode Island. She might as well have been from space. With what my school district served up as education no one knew what was East, West, North, or South of the equator let alone this country. This taste of a place unknown (well, to a small city middle schooler at least) added to Camille’s intrigue, but that was not the only thing. In a school that was 50% African American, 45% Asian American, and 5% other, Camille was classified “other” as one of 4 other Caucasian students in the school. Her physical rarity was only a small piece of what had drawn student’s interest. Clad in black and blood red mini dresses, long black trenches and capes depending on the day, and knee high black buckle leather platform boots the girl had heads turning. Thinking about it now, the girl probably did not know it then, but she was keeping it fashion at 13. Good for her. Anyway, if you did not guess by the description of her attire Camille was a Goth and not only that, she was a Wiccan. Now, the Goth look is a personal choice and what a Wiccan is, I am still not clear on today; however, everything about Camille screamed boldly alternative which is what drew the “misfits” of the school to her. This meant anyone classified as “other” for either societal or self imposed reasons as well as anyone who challenged the norm. This included my former BFF to be Roxie. Soon enough Roxie was sporting mesh tops and black pleather pants. Someone had pointed the Gothic wand at her. The internal child in my mind was saying “Hey, I wanna play too!” So, I wandered in the forest of the enchanted Goths in search of my friend, but I soon realized that path was not my own. There is only so much black a person can wear. There is also so much angst and brooding a kid can exude. Needless to say, I got the hell out of that forest. The only thing I got out of this whole Goth craze was a lot of really bad petty childhood emotional poetry and some regretful photographs of me looking horrendous.
The beginning of 8th grade saw Roxie relocating to a city a million miles away and me struggling to find my own identity without my own personal working model. The push off into self identity is not an easy one. Why? Well, kids are cruel. I found myself falling face first most of the time. For each fall there was some kid deprived of either love or oxygen at birth sitting in the wings with the perfect punch line. Tears and bad boy band music were my solace. Each day played out like an episode of Degrassi. Unfortunately, I was not everyone’s favorite popular diva, more Manny Santos without the thong to my breasts.
Despite the atrociousness that was my middle school experience miraculously I made it to high school. Unlike Miss Sandra D. whom I am channeling in these photos, there was no Danny Zuko, just a short relationship I had and ended for superficial reasons. Poor guy. Much of my high school period was a constant struggle toward affirmation of my “brownness” and self.
For a teenager, the media can play as a “How To…” guide for what is the “norm” and what is acceptable. When I was growing up there was no Charice Pengpenco. There was no physical representation for people that look like me. This is partly why I bought into the stereotypes of the individuals that painted the canvas that is the media. These individuals were and still are primarily “White” and “Black”. ( I choose to use quotations in reference to “White” and “Black” individuals because the words have become labels based on stereotypes of someone else’s vision of who these individuals should be as oppose to who they truly are.)
In the beginning of high school I bought into what can be considered a “White” stereotype, “dumb blond”. This was during the time MTV’s “The Newlyweds” had somehow captivated the nation and Jessica Simpson captured our hearts with the infamous line, “Is this chicken or fish?” As embarrassing as this is to say, she was my idol for five minutes. I mean she was pretty, had a beefy husband, and well she was on TV. I know, there was not much criteria for being my idol back then. I wanted to be like her. This entailed playing dumb much of the time. I thought it was cute, but it was not. It was more exhausting than anything. I wanted to embody her, but who is she to embody? It is not like she is Liza Minelli and I’m a celebrity impersonator at some dive bar in Vegas. Also, I am brown so anything I could have done to try and achieve Jessica Simpson’s bobble head status would be blatantly unnatural.
During the phase in which Miss “Chicken or Fish” was my screen saver, I would often get criticism from fellow Filipinos. I was either referenced as “Whitewashed” or told I did not act “Filipino”. My teen method of combating this attack on my “brownness” was to simply do what everyone else was doing. This again involved buying into a stereotype. In my high school and in life African Americans were and are most commonly referenced as “ghetto”. This stereotype somehow associated itself with being Filipino/Asian. This was clear walking through my high school campus as my fellow brown brothers found themselves imitating the superficial characteristics attached to an individual that is labeled “ghetto”.
Other than being African American society often attributes being loud, being tough or thug-ish, and listening to hip hop or rap to being “ghetto”. Listening to hip hop or rap also happens to coincide with one of the most important characteristics in the “ghetto” handbook, appearance. Appearance also happened to be first on the checklist to “ghetto” embodiment. Boys of the Filipino/Asian persuasion looked the part they were playing as the bopped around my high school campus in baggy pants, over sized tees, and grills in their mouth as the faint sound of 50 Cent’s “Wangsta” magically followed them as they tried to keep their pants on with their knees.
To keep up with the boys the ladies adopted their own look to match the stereotype. My interpretation of this look included Chucks with the high top folded down, over sized hoop earrings, and of course 99 cent black eyeliner that I used solely to line my bottom inner eyelid for some reason. The chucks may be able to pass as a decent piece of attire. However, the $3 hoop earrings always managed to turn a rusted brown and the eyeliner always smudged leaving me looking more disheveled than “ghetto”. What topped the entire Asian “ghetto girl” look off was the signature side swoop bang that looked like it was Shellac-ed on your head. To this day, girls with a bang hard enough to be part of a Kevlar vest , give me the urge to want to scream, “HAIR IS SUPPOSE TO MOVE, GIRL!” Thankfully, today my hair does move.
Being loud was one of the stereotype’s characteristics that I did not have to worry too much about. For the most part I have always been naturally vocal. Listening to hip hop or rap on the other hand was a characteristic that proved to be a little difficult to stay true to. I am in love with and am inspired by every type of music. I mean I grew up during the birth of gangster rap, imitated vocal nuances from R&B/Hip Hop girl groups (remember SWV, Xscape, and En Vogue?), and I idolized the 90’s mini divas (remember Aaliyah, Brandy, and Monica?). This however, meant nothing because early in my high school years I was listening to Avril Lavigne, Jessica Simpson, and Christina Aguilera. Listening to these pop dolls however, associated itself with “acting white”. This was especially the case if you listened to Avril Lavigne as she was a pop/rock singer, and anything associated to “rock” somehow associates itself to “being white”.
The final characteristic to conquer was “being tough”. Honey, at 5’2 and 125 pound I was far from threatening and nowhere near staring in the latest Youtube girl fight video. My attempt at being anywhere close to tough was changing the way I spoke. It was very Julia Stiles “Save the Last Dance” meets Christina Aguilera in the days she was trying to be all “Dirrty”. There was also a lot of cursing and use of the word “hella”. I guess you can call all this “talking the talk”. This part of the stereotype is what set me straight. From observation of my Asian/Filipino peers part of "talking the talk" seemed to be making use of the word “nigga” in every other sentence. This I could not do. There is just something about an Asian boy saying “I’m gonna beat that nigga up” while looking like Dragonball Z with overly gelled spiked hair that just screams “Ignorant”.
Aside from these kids looking ridiculous while the word spit from their overly styled head, it was just too loaded of a word for me to use. No matter how you flip it the word was used for over a century to vilify a people. As someone of color, I knew the implications and ramifications of using the word even at 15. The constant parade of negative stereotypes of another race being imitated by individuals who were of color themselves did not sit well with me. I was done.
My ethnic revelation gave me an assurance of self that enabled me to simply be who I am with no reservations throughout the rest of high. Thank goodness for that act of boldness. Without having done so I do not think I would have made it out of high school and out of the horrendous outfits that attached themselves to my the earlier years.
So, why is it that some of us namely myself prefer to erase bits, specifically people from our pasts?
During the initial event that got me to look back at who I used to be there was a moment in the second it took me to recognize this person from my past waving at me. It was in that second I forgot the “self” I am now and remembered the mess I was back then. That is the problem. What is so wrong about remembering the mess we were?
I have been up, down, and all around trying to feel secure with whoever the heck it is I am. I have made outrageous choices on the journey to attaining that security. I have allowed outside forces to influence my definition of self, allowed myself to be a follower, and Lord knows the horrendous pieces I have allowed into my wardrobe. Come on when were Soda platform loafers ever okay?
All poor choices aside, I would have rather been a hot mess then, than to have never evolved out of the shell of a person my environment was molding me to be. If I had not experienced the situations, circumstances, and people of my past then I would not know what I know today. I know who it is I am.
Maybe it is easier to forget the very existence of people from our past because they remember us at our worst. They remember us when we did not like ourselves. They remember us when we did not even know who “self” was yet. It has taken me 22 years to be affirmed in who I am and to be able to assert who that is to the world. I am Big, Bold, Brown, and damn beautiful. So, instead of bobbing and weaving every time you have a run in with pieces of your undesirable past, hold your head up high and try a “Hello”. You are not who you used to be, but who you used to be has helped shape who you are today. Hey, my school girl days may have ended without a “You’re the one that I Want” kind of ending, but at least I know what I want and who I am now. That is all that really matters.
thrifted glasses $3 | Philippine market purchased dress $3 | ny & co belt $10 | Aldo shoes $100 | assorted bracelets Wet Seal bracelet $12
ripped sleeve denim blue top $0 | NY&CO brown belt $10 | H&M gray pants $25 | Aldo blue shoes $50
Music is often the fuel for my everyday style philosophy and look. This particular look meshes the feel of the unreleased track Electric Blue by Solange and a denim magazine spread 2NE1 did for a magazine called Arena. You may be asking yourself, ” Who in the heck are Solange and 2NE1”? Now, I am the type of person who roots for the underdog. Who is not more of an underdog than an artist related to the ALMIGHTY BEYONCE and well anyone that is Asian. Solange, if you are completely bafoogled is Beyonce’s younger sister and 2NE1 is a pop girl group from Korea.
So why is Solange a must? Well… Solange is not trying to be different. She merely is just that, different from the force that is Beyonce. Ms.Solange is naturally left of center. Shes got a mouth and a voice. What is even better is that she uses them to be vocal on subjects of substance. Listen to her lyrics, watch that one episode of Oprah on “Good Hair”, hey just read one of her tweets. She oozes “musician with a mind”.
When it comes to fashion this musician with a mind is not “this hand bag with these shoes” kinda girl. She is more of a " Honey, you can wear that bag and those shoes. I’m wearing this!" kinda girl. Solange is not afraid to blend bold color, mesh different patterns, and play with different textures in one outfit. She is no shop girl, fashion dummy. Her music and art influence shine through her looks. Miss Knowles style is ever changing. Though, subtle it is always electric and you can never ever be too ELECTRIC! This is why she is a love!
Since my pillage in the Philippines this summer, I have discovered the genius that is Asian media! Music creates the vibe that I use to bedazzle my world, my life. Presently, I am blasting 2NE1 – NEW EVOLUTION of the 21st Century, a Korean girl group that packs a punch more explosive than their 5-foot frames. These bite sized sistas’ can sincerely be described as “RAW” and Honey, let me let you know from years of having the Philippine music variety show ASAP be the wall paper of my childhood, I can truly differentiate sistas trying to imitate something they will never be and sistas who embody and exude POWER, TALENT, AND FEROCIOUSNESS!
Aside from music 2NE1 are serving up fashion! FEATHERS, leather, and the edgiest mini dresses elevate their performances to SPACE AND BEYOND (as seen below in their music video FIRE), but often times the girls dress it down in their interpretation of mens hip hop apparel. The girls always manage to keep this look fashion as they hip hop horray themselves into your hearts in denim harem bottoms, oversized tees, the most outrageous sneakers and a whole lot of Jeremy Scott street wear.
The lesson in this ramble? Never overlook the underdog because they might just strike you with the inspiration to serve up your own bit of ELECTRICITY.
ripped sleeve denim blue top $0 | NY&CO brown belt $10 | H&M gray pants $25 | Aldo blue shoes $50
A few months ago someone relayed a story they were told by a little girl they know in the Philippines. The eight year old little girl had seen her uncle, 19 slap his older sister, 23. The older sister being the wild child of her family, I can only assume this was some act of discipline on the part of the child's uncle as circumstances would have him being the “man of the house” at the present time. One might think that the slap alone would be enough to send the raging feminist that lies within the depths of me soaring. What really struck the a nerve was what occurred after the slap. Following the incident the young uncle Facebooked his older brother who is an overseas worker a message. Whether this message was to boast to his elder brother or inform him of the goings on back in the Philippines, I do not know. What I do know is that following this message the informed brother had a conversation with another family member excusing his younger brothers actions. The justification was that, “It’s okay. He is a growing ‘man’"
Now, I neither promote gender roles nor do I necessarily believe one must subscribe to them, but when did slapping a woman equate being a man? Some popular descriptions of a “man” I have heard are along the lines of “provider”, “father who tends to his family and children”, “steps up to responsibilities”. None of these descriptions implicate physical aggression on women or another human being as what makes a “real man”?
Understandably, there is a cultural aspect to consider in this case, but factually slapping a woman is not something the general male Filipino population practices. Nowhere in my subscription to Filipino Weekly does it state the “10 Best Ways to Keep the Filipino Woman In Line Using Just Your Fist.” Maybe this act of physical aggression would make sense in a country that uses force and fear to instill in young boys that physical aggression is the way of life, but this young man was not a - child soldier - and there was no gun to this young man’s head forcing his hand.
Incidents such as the one in this case can perpetuate a negative cycle for both young boys and girls. Think back to that slap. A young girl in early adolescents witnessed this slap, a slap against a woman, a slap that held no consequences, a slap that was excused as the a norm for a young man growing up in this world. As there are not consequences for such an act, this norm will become her norm. A cycle of the exertion of physical aggression and acceptance of that physical aggression by women is then created, promoting negative norms for what a “real man” is.
A physical act of aggression met with no consequences, but positive justification instills in the boys of the world that this is the proper way to attain a want. In turn arming the worlds young boys with a false sense of power. Because a boy who uses his fist is then making a choice not to use his mind and an individual without a mind is in truth powerless.
As a product of an individualistic culture, I grew to believe that men and women are equals. Yes, men and women are equals. When I am in a boardroom I want to know that I being paid and treated the same as the some Joe Shmoe who has the same title and does the same work as me. When my children go to school, I want their intellectual and academic potential to be nourished equally without their perspective futures and occupations being encouraged as limited based on gender roles and stereotypes placed upon those perspective futures or occupations. And yes, from where I stand both men and women are all human beings at base.
Despite all the aspects of life that men and women should be viewed as equal, there is one aspect where inequality should be allotted, RESPECT. Women give life. They are the primary nurturers of that life in a child’s early years. These days we work, shelter, and clothe the family and children. Sometimes this is all on our own. Aside from being caregivers women have managed to function, maneuver, and dominate in a world structured to put them in their place, a place that seems to always be five steps behind or beneath a man.
I believe there should be a universal standard for the positive treatment of women. Maybe it is much easier for me to believe that such a standard is possible to maintain because I was brought up in an individualistic culture and am a woman myself. However, we as a society cannot continue to bring up boys who equate physical aggression to being a man. By implicating a positive standard for the treatment of women we can combat the negative standards being established for defining a “man” because a real man understands a woman’s worth.
April 15th my life met love and war. The days Spring sun pierced through my shutters lightly singing the optimistic tune that played as my day’s alarm clock. It was a very “KT Tunstall ‘Suddenly I See’ - Ugly Betty – Meredith Grey – chick flick conquering the world” kind of morning. Fully drenched with this sentiment, I decided my outfit should challenge the beaming sun and jumped into my sequent harem pants. The optimistic tune that made me believe I could blaze through the day in these pants was soon silenced as I made my way through the obstacle course that led to the front door and the start of my day. This obstacle course can be named and described with one word, “mother”.
Now, remember when you were in middle school when you left your house in jeans and a tee shirt and got to school went to the restroom and made the adolescent transformation your mother would verbally attack and your future self cringes at. This is the adolescent self that wore the cut off tees, spaghetti straps, and poorly applied 99 cent eyeliner from the drug store. Also, remember wearing on occasion the sneakers with the thick colorful laces that matched your color theme of the day. Okay, I guess it was just me, but my most vivid adolescent memories of conflict with mama are the ones that involved my appearance. Over the years I have simply found ways to maneuver around my mother’s verbal grenades.
At 22 years of age it seems that I have yet to escape having to use these maneuvers. That day I was so lifted that I did not stop to think of my mother seeing this outfit. With my big body, the thuds I made down the stairs were the signal for my mother to sound her attack.
“ Are you going to a disco?” Stung but not defeated , I reply with an irritated “ What?” “What you think people are going to give you attention?” aAaaA. She got me again, but I continue toward my target, an exit. The fore may as well be a rainforest. Left. Right. “Where are my shoes?!” I scream in my head trying to stay cool under this fire. I finally find my shoes and get them on. My four inch heels do not provide any shelter just more amo for the opposition. As I open the front door, I feel it. aAAaaa shrapnel digs deep into my flesh as “You look stupid.” shoot from her lips and into my back side just before I finally get out the front door.
As her daughter and a student of social science I can understand my mother’s need to vocally express superficial grievances regarding appearance. I can only attribute this need to my mother’s own insecurity during her own emerging adult period as well as the insecurities she may maintain now in late adulthood. Though I can understand where this dislikable quality may stem from, the ability to understand does not disguise my wounds as I rant to my brother on the ride to the BART station. Trying to maintain the optimism of his day, my brother drowns out my voice with his IPOD as he blasts Corrine Bailey Rae’s “Paper Dolls”. His selection of tune-idge had dual purpose, one being to shut me up and the other being to prep me for the Corrine Bailey Rae concert we were going to that night. My initial intention for going to this concert was to see the lesser known opening act Daniel Merriweather who we will get into a little later.
Astonishingly, I could hear the lyrics to the chorus over the growl of my own voice. “All my life all my life I said it's not right Nobody told me I could do something Nobody told me I could be something” Hell yeah Corrine Bailey Rae! Nobody ever told me I do something! Nobody told me I could be something! The only person that has ever told me those things is me and repeating things to yourself does not a sane person make.The words to the song shot like bullets from the speakers on to my lips. “I have tried I have tried To say it's alright Nobody told me I could do something Nobody told me I could be something” Still hurt and angered, my rant turned into angry burst of song. My life is very much like a musical in this way. Some people punch things or have angry cry. I have angry sing.
By the time I got on the train to school I felt like I had the strength of ten men. The feeling carried on throughout the ride until I finally reached the temple of the internal question, “What are you going to do with your life?” You may know this temple as college. I do not know what it is I am going to be doing with my life. The only thing I do know is that when I am in school during class lectures on things like the z score in the statistical analysis of an experiment, peripheral route to persuasion, or Paul Ekmans seven universal facial expressions the only thing on my mind is ‘Why is this professor wearing heavily bell bottomed polyester spandex trousers, Why tie that sweater around your waist, and why are you wearing Crocs? YOU ARE A PROFESSOR!’
Despite the petty sucker punches of the day, I was lifted by music that night. The concert was at the Regency Ballroom San Francisco. The first act was the South African acapella group from South Africa. Overtone. The guys entered the stage with a dance number and I was just about over it. Guys that could not have been more than 25 years old managed to make themselves look like what the dads from Wisteria Lane would look like if they started a boy band. Their dance moves like their outfits were sloppy, dated, and unnecessary. One of them was actually wear what I could only relate to an Old Navy performance fleece. Another member was a plus sized Vanilla Thunder as he kept up with the rest of the group in what seemed to be his Olive Garden Uniform. After being baffled by their first song the guys spoke to the audience. Something that makes these guys just a little bit of amazing is they were discovered in their native South Africa by Clint Eastwood while he was filming Invictus, a film that finds Rugby uniting and inspiring a nation once divided. Overtone performed the film's title song "Colorblind" which is admittedly quite a touching song.
Regardless of my first visual impression of about the boys of Overtone, it is unbelievable what these guys can do with simply their voices. That is something we certainly lack in today's popular culture, singers who actually sing. This I appreciate and respect. By their ending beat-box boogie I think I was boogie-ing a little myself.
Finally, he was up. I heard the whistles of "Impossible" in the distant background. Daniel Merriweather entered the stage as if a drunk urban cowboy topped with a large winged fedora as he stomped and clapped to the single guitar strumming the chords to the song, building my anticipation. Well no that is not right. I mean building anticipation for my brother and I. I knowingly did not use the word "audience" when referring to the anticipation as it was solely my brother and I that actually knew who Daniel Merrieweather was before the concert. I felt like some Backstreet Boy loving - Nsync poster having - New Kids On the Block "Hangin Tough" blasting fan girl.The only difference between those young misses and me is the fact that the singer I was nearly bawling for could well, sing. Merriweather has the type of voice that knocks you in the chest. That force of a voice is matched by lyrics with content, substance. These elements in an artist can only make for a compelling performance. This is fact for Mr. Merriweather. I watched as he thrusted himself into each song finding a median between power and passion. The most compelling part of his performance was surprisingly a cover of Paul McCarntey's "Maybe I'm Amazed". Accompanied by simply a keyboard and guitar, his body played as the third instrument.Vocal screeches rang in my ears as I felt the ground vibrate from his stomps from the stage. I was done. Complete eargasim. (In the video below, at exactly 3:42 you hear some random girl who yells "I love you." Oh no honey, I reply with a fast Kimora Lee Simmons "I love you more!" You then hear my brother's "I love you." I got the last word with aN "I LOVE YOU THE MOST-EST!" Well I do!)
Corrine Bailey Rae was the whipped cream on top of the fattest strawberry short cake ever. I was merely a passive listener and fan before having watched CBR live. In the most adorable blue knitted material calve length one piece romper Rae performed with guns loaded, loaded with love that is. Every chord she killed with her guitar, note that flew from her lips exuded an optimism in the 1000ft high, three string wooden bridge that is love. Rae's songs were air, effortless melodic streams of breathe. It is her angelic, gremlin essence that makes the audience feel like love is not as intangible as it may seem for some. It is her perfect imperfection that simply gives you belief. She ended the night with a rendition of Sly and the Family Stone's "Que Sera Sera". How fitting for the day Miss Rae. "Whatever will be,will be."
My night ended on a high. Somebody upstairs must have known my day started at a big low because by some stroke of a miracle I ended up in the right place at the right time. My brother and I were in the back ally of the venue taking pictures for this very street wear blog right when Daniel Merriweather was making his exit for the night. My exact words to him were "OH MY GOD!Can I just say I had no idea Corrine Bailey Rae was playing tonight. I really came here to see you!" He replies in the most buttery Australian accent, " I know. I saw you guys in the front." Well, heEEEy Daniel Merriweather was looking at me!
That day I began with a war. It seems my mother and I are fighting an internal war with self. Despite my own internal war I drew my flag that night at musics command and fell in love. Music is the man, my love. Love & War = Musical Salvation (P.S. it also equals Daniel Merriweather's album. Check it out!).
My style like myself tend to be BIG, BOLD, and “BROWN”(or in others inspired by my DIVERSE NATURE). I enjoy taking thrifted pieces and pairing them with commercial items.
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