The Post In Which I Weigh In On Weighing In

A few days ago I was enjoying my weekly magazine flip-fest at a nearby bookstore, when I happened upon an article in a women's magazine (I think it was Allure), that displayed side-by-side, passport-style photos of female twins. Out of each pair, there was one twin who looked much younger than the other. Regardless of whether the twins were in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s or 60s, the older-looking one was inevitably lax about sunscreen, or was a smoker, or had been through a divorce or some other type of stressful situation. No real surprise, there. Ho hum. Yawn, scritch, daydream. BUT it turns out there was an additional factor at play. It was the big bang of the article, if you like, or its Ripley's believe-it-or-not moment. And here it is: in those twins who were UNDER the age of 40, it was inevitably the thinner one who appeared younger. But for those who were OVER the age of 40, it was always the heavier one who seemed kissed by the morning dew.

So I'm gonna go ahead and have a brownie now, thanks.

I kid! I prank! I am NOT going to have a brownie because I still experience some residual weight terror. You see, during my 6 weeks or so of mononucleosis misery, I lost 10.6 (look how ridiculously important it is to me to include that ".6"; that is how fraught with fraughtiness this subject remains) pounds. I know this because after the ordeal, it felt for all the world like I was walking out of my pants. Like I was in serious danger of leaving my pants behind me on the street. And so I hooked up the dusty iFit (we don't have a scale) to check my weight, and there it was in high definition: I'd lost 10.6 pounds. It was obviously all water and muscle, but did that realization keep me from feeling elated about the whole thing? No, it did not. All I knew is that I could wear ANYTHING in my closet. My friends joked that they, too, wanted to go on the "Mono Diet."

But then you know what happened? For the next 4 weeks—and I do not exaggerate here; not one bit—I was terrified to eat. Which is SUCH a bullshit thing. I love to eat. I love to cook. And I am an active person who dutifully records her hours of Intentional Movement (laugh if you like, but doesn't it sound more fun than "Exercise?") over at Daytum.com. And here are some other reasons why it was SUCH a bullshit thing: I don't particularly care for butter or margarine or sour cream or whipped cream or any kind of cream, really, including ice cream. I have the Asian Flu, so therefore I do not drink alcohol of any kind. It's true that fried and/or crispy foods add a dimension of delight to my life, however I keep them to a manageable minimum. In short, I should NOT be terrified to eat.

I slowly got over it, and with the exception of an occasional day when the aforementioned residual terror rears up and screams at me, I am back to eating like a normal person. I haven't weighed myself again, but I would imagine that I've probably gained back five pounds or so. And that's fine. I was fine before, and I'm fine now, and I really don't ever want to think about this again because it is SUCH bullshit.

Bullshit.

Obvious Karmic Punishment, Plus A Letter

The men working on a construction project next door blast nonstop vintage AC/DC, Aerosmith, Van Halen, etc. etc. from 9 am to 5 pm, and they are freaking running me out of my house. With every consecutive song I'm losing brain cells. It's clear I've done something to upset the Universe; the question is what? Dear God, WHAT. Well, since I'm on someone's shite list anyways, I may as well do this...

Dear Two Turntables,

I'm glad you pulled your daughter out of school after two days and without ever meeting her teacher or observing her class (something, you may recall, you were invited and encouraged to do). Since you clearly have a surplus of downtime, may I offer the following thinking points for when you are next on the treadmill or prepping for future physical enhancements to your face and breasts? Remember, these are only suggestions:

1) There was a time, was there not, when your own family did not speak English? Why, then, turn in disgust from those who are learning now?

2) Why purchase a flat iron for your daughter's lovely, naturally curled hair?

3) Why is your surname truncated to erase all traces of ethnicity?

4) What is the meaning of "self-hatred"?

5) What are the consequences of self-hatred?

6) And, finally, take a little bit of extra time to think on this because I'm sure it's eating at you: why, despite your outer trappings, are the Mexican/Filipina/African-American/Peruvian/Guatemalan mothers at our school so much more—there's no other way to put this—beautiful than you?

Oh, Two Turntables. Forgive me for being so blunt, but if I didn't say this here I might find myself unable to keep from blurting it out at the birthday party we will no doubt both be attending tomorrow. And that just wouldn't do.

Sincerely,

Your Nesting Ground Mistress

Try As We Might, It's Impossible to Exhaust This Topic

Last week the girls and I were enjoying lunch with my parents at Tribu Grill, the newish Filipino restaurant on the border of Millbrae and San Bruno (check out Corinne's review—complete with pictures!—here), when we were accosted by two people at two different times demanding to know if my daughters were Filipino and why they were not signed up for the Little Miss Something Something pageant at the Something Something Fiesta. Sayang, sayang, they clucked. They're so preeeety.

Oh, sweet irony.

And there was my poor mother being all gracious and whatnot while I scowled and tried to keep from screaming something like, "Do you not read my blog?! Do you not know that beauty pageants are a Nesting Ground pet peeve and that you should not pester the Nesting Ground Mistress with such nonsense, especially when the Nesting Ground Mistress is partaking in some really good deep-friend bangus? What is wrong with you?! Beg mercy from the Nesting Ground Mistress! Beg mercy and away with you, away!"

But instead I said, "They're too busy reading to participate in a beauty pageant." And then I proffered up a pained and insincere smile. Unable to form a suitable response, the female accoster mumbled something I didn't understand and walked away. I'm not sure why, but I actually felt sort of sorry for the second misguided person—a man this time— who showed up about ten minutes later. Maybe because he was fairly old and had tattooed eyebrows and eyeliner. Make of this what you will. With him, I performed the same smile and just said, "Oh, that's nice of you to say. Thank you."

As I'm sure you recall (*sarcasm*) from this post, though, I do wax nostalgic about objectification of the sepia-toned sort. So I suppose it's fitting that I was looking for something this morning and, instead, found my maternal lola's official "Rizal Queen" candidate photo, circa 1930:


Also fitting that it was this time last year that Gladys and Joanne were just about to unleash the Beauty & Power conference...

Just Once, Believe the Hype

The spousal unit's place of business (hey, don't skip the intro or you'll miss out on much sexiness from Christy Turlington and Apolo Ohno, although not together, because that might have caused computer screens around the world to explode) has joined with others here, here, here, and here, to raise money for the global fund, which helps women/children affected by HIV/AIDS in Africa.

You're gonna buy a cell phone, iPod, t-shirt, tank, jacket, etc. etc. anyways. Why not make it red?

It's the weekend. Go forth and shop.

The Bayanihan or "Watching Filipinos Dance"

Many things stood between us and The Bayanihan: the girls' 11:00 soccer game, a Cal game that effectively rendered null the idea of driving to Berkeley, my fear that public transportation (BART) would prove unreliable, and my endless worry that one of the girls (or all of them!) would require a restroom at an inopportune moment. This last item involved a strategic doling out of liquids, a task that proved tricky since R & V had spent 45 minutes running up and down the soccer field in 80º weather.

But whaddaya know? The planets aligned, and we arrived on Shattuck a solid 45 minutes before curtain time. We made the short trek to Zellerbach, found a shady spot near the Bear's Lair, and quickly downed the picnic (okay, well maybe "picnic" is too glamorous a word) I'd prepared. It was then that I noticed a familiar-looking Pinoy gesticulating wildly as he chatted with a young couple. "There's Rhett!" I said.

"Who's Rhett?"

"Never mind, never mind. Just go over there and say 'Hi! We're Veronica's children,'" I said.

"Why?"

"Never mind! Just go, go. Come on, go!"

I'm sure you've noticed I do this all the time. I make people do things simply to feed my daily quota of necessary amusements. I am horrible that way. Anyway, they then proceeded to inch the fifty yards towards Rhett. They stood about ten feet behind him, giggling and taking turns pushing each other forward, taking a few steps back, whispering, and whatnot. All this was lost on Rhett, who continued his conversation. The spousal unit and I looked on. Finally, Rhett turned around. And since I don't know what transpired as they spoke (although I seem to remember seeing him mouth the words, "Veronica who?"), I will leave it to Rhett—Mr. Newly Minted American! Naks!— to report or not report the exchange.

All I know is that he gamely walked over to us, kids in tow, and gently berated us for scaring the hell out of him. "I heard these children's voices saying 'Hi Rhett!' and I thought...should I turn around?" So he was quite delightful.

But—and I'm sure he will not mind my saying so—not as delightful as the Bayanihan dancers. I am no judge in these matters, but between the costumes (at one point, all the women came out in black and white, and I audibly sighed with pleasure), the music, and the choreography, I was enthralled. I especially loved the piece they performed right after the intermission, "Mindanao Splendor," and most specifically their interpretation of the Sambi Sa Malong.

After it was all over, and we'd taken BART back to Daly City where we'd left our car, we ended up at the perfect spot to end the day: the In 'n' Out Burger in Millbrae. The spousal unit and I let the girls sit at their own table. They were quickly chatted up by three twenty-something-year-old men, who initially frightened me a little due to the fact that they all more or less looked like my personal idea of Satan. One had on a sweatshirt that read, "3 can keep a secret if 2 are dead." He never removed his hood. One—his name turned out to be Arturo—had stringy orange hair worn to the middle of his back, a goatee, and preternaturally large teeth that he continually bared (although to be fair, it was because he kept laughing). The last one was Federico, and he claimed to be Arturo's twin brother. His hair was black as night and sort of looked like Danny Patridge's, though with a lot more bouncin' and behavin' action, and he, too, kept a carefully tended goatee. Very curious, those three. Anyways, there was little to fear because, as the spousal unit pointed out, though you couldn't tell by simply looking at them, they'd make great babysitters.

At one point, Federico said to Risa, "So, where'd you guys come from?"

"Oh, we rode the train."

"Really? That's cool. From where?"

She looked at us for guidance, which we gave. "Berkeley," she repeated.

"Oh yeah? What were you doing there?"

"We watched Filipinos dance."

"What?" said Federico.

"We watched Filipinos dance."

"Dude! That's hilarious. Hey," he said, nudging the hooded guy, "Did you hear her? She was all 'we watched Filipinos dance'!"

And, well, when you put it that way, it was kind of hilarious.

Hark! A Skirmish!

I have a short and rather appalling history of entering into certain blog skirmishes. I've been wondering why this is, and all I can come up with is that I must be making up for those times when an actual face-to-face confrontation left me speechless and I wound up waking up in the middle of the night thinking Dammit! I shoulda said.... The blogosphere allows me to "write-fight," which comes much more naturally to me. Some might argue that the anonymity of the Internet makes me more comfortable saying what I feel, but I would argue that Nesting Ground is not an anonymous space: real name, real picture, real kids and spousal unit, etc. etc.

All of which is to say that I almost got caught up in it again, but I think I succeeded in reigning myself in. I don't know; check it out for yourselves in the comments here and here. What do you think, A.D.?—Have I learned anything?

Today I started reading a book called Packaging Girlhood by Sharon Lamb, Ed.D., and Lyn Mikel Brown, Ed.D. From the statement on their website:

We write about how “girl power” has been co-opted by marketers of music, fashion, books, cartoons, TV shows, movies, toys, and more to mean the power to shop and attract boys, and how girls are encouraged to use their “voice” to choose accessorizing over academics, sex appeal over sports, and boyfriends over friends. We expose these stereotypes and the very limited choices presented of who girls are and what they can be.

This is why I can't nod and say oh, I see now; you're totally right to those who support the imagery in the Generation 2 "Bebot" video with arguments like, "Well, it's like that in all the videos," and "There was no wardrobe for the shoot. The girls wore what they wanted to wear," etc. etc. Those are comments that simply reveal how easy it is for all of us to be manipulated. They are not comments that get to the root of the issue.

You know what gets to the root of the issue? This 7-minute documentary that the lovely Joanne found on Kiwi's blog. If you have 7 minutes, you should watch. If you don't have 7 minutes, you should watch anyway.

More Bebot

1) Two folks from the University of Washington have added their signatures to the Open Letter:

Kiko Benitez
Assistant Professor, Comparative Literature
Univ. of Washington

Rick Bonus
Associate Professor, American Ethnic Studies
Univ. of Washington

2) Please check out the the new About Bebot: A Collective Review blog. Eventually, you'll find the various responses to the letter collected here. So keep checking back! For now, there's a link to Patricio Ginelsa's blog at My Space, where he has posted the letter and asked for comments.

3) Patricio (a fellow Daly City-er!) has e-mailed us privately, and asked that the communication remain private. As much as I think sharing the exchange would benefit the discussion, I know we need to honor his request.

Open Letter re: the "Bebot" Video(s)

[ANOTHER UPDATE: So, folks, there is much ado about this letter in cyberspace at the moment. The undersigned are looking for a spot to collect the responses. Said responses are, as expected, both supportive and extremely harsh. The latter is disappointing, as the letter was written...eh, more on this later]

[UPDATE: Thank you to Luisa Igloria and Aimee Nez for adding their signatures!]

To Apl.de.Ap, Patricio Ginelsa/KidHeroes, and Xylophone Films:

We, the undersigned, would like to register our deep disappointment at the portrayal of Filipinas and other women in the new music videos for the Black Eyed Peas’ song, “Bebot.” We want to make it clear that we appreciate your efforts to bring Filipina/o Americans into the mainstream and applaud your support of the Little Manila of Stockton. However, as Filipina/o and Filipina/o American artists, academics, and community activists, we are utterly dismayed by the portrayal of hypersexualized Filipina “hoochie-mama” dancers, specifically in the Generation 2 version, the type of representation of women so unfortunately prevalent in today’s hip-hop and rap music videos. The depiction of the 1930s “dime dancers” was also cast in an unproblematized light, as these women seem to exist solely for the sexual pleasure of the manongs.

In general, we value Apl.de.Ap’s willingness to be so openly and richly Filipino, especially when there are other Filipina/o Americans in positions of visibility who do not do the same, and we appreciate the work that he has done with the folks at Xylophone Films; we like their previous video for “The Apl Song,” and we even like the fact that the Generation 1 version of “Bebot” attempts to provide a “history lesson” about some Filipino men in the 1930s. However, the Generation 2 version truly misses the mark on accurate Filipina/o representation, for the following reasons:

1) The video uses three very limited stereotypes of Filipina women: the virgin, the whore, and the shrill mother. We find a double standard in the depiction of the virgin and whore figures, both of which are highly sexualized. Amidst the crowd of midriff-baring, skinny, light-skinned, peroxided Pinays – some practically falling out of their halter tops – there is the little sister played by Jasmine Trias, from whom big brother Apl is constantly fending off Pinoy “playas.” The overprotectiveness is strange considering his idealization of the bebot or “hot chick.” The mother character was also particularly troublesome, but for very different reasons. She seems to play a dehumanized figure, the perpetual foreigner with her exaggerated accent, but on top of that, she is robbed of her femininity in her embarrassingly indelicate treatment of her son and his friends. She is not like a tough or strong mother, but almost like a coarse asexual mother, and it is telling that she is the only female character in the video with a full figure.

2) We feel that these problematic female representations might have to do with the use of the word “Bebot.” We are of course not advocating that Apl change the title of his song, yet we are confused about why a song that has to do with pride in his ethnic/national identity would be titled “Bebot,” a word that suggests male ownership of the sexualized woman – the “hot chick.” What does Filipino pride have to do with bebots? The song seems to be about immigrant experience yet the chorus says “ikaw ang aking bebot” (you are my hot chick). It is actually very disturbing that one’s ethnic/national identity is determined by one’s ownership of women. This system not only turns women into mere symbols but it also excludes women from feeling the same kind of ethnic/national identity. It does not bring down just Filipinas; it brings down all women.

3) Given the unfortunate connection made in this video between Filipino pride and the sexualized female body both lyrically and visually, we can’t help but conclude that the video was created strictly for a heterosexual man’s pleasure. This straight, masculinist perspective is the link that we find between the Generation 1 and Generation 2 videos. The fact that the Pinoy men are surrounded by “hot chicks” both then and now makes this link plain. Yet such a portrayal not only obscures the “real” message about the Little Manila Foundation; it also reduces Pinoy men’s hopes, dreams, and motivations to a single-minded pursuit of sex.

We do understand that Filipino America faces a persistent problem of invisibility in this country. Moreover, as the song is all in Tagalog (a fact that we love, by the way), you face an uphill battle in getting the song and music video(s) into mainstream circulation. However, remedying the invisibility of Filipina/os in the United States should not come at the cost of the dignity and self-respect of at least half the population of Filipino America. Before deciding to write this letter, we felt an incredible amount of ambivalence about speaking out on this issue because, on the one hand, we recognized that this song and video are a milestone for Filipina/os in mainstream media and American pop culture, but on the other hand, we were deeply disturbed by the images of women the video propagates.

In the end we decided that we could not remain silent while seeing image after image of Pinays portrayed as hypersexual beings or as shrill, dehumanized, asexual mother-figures who embarrass their children with their overblown accents and coarseness. The Filipino American community is made up of women with Filipino pride as well, yet there is little room in these videos for us to share this voice and this commitment; instead, the message we get is that we are expected to stand aside and allow ourselves to be exploited for our sexuality while the men go about making their nationalist statements.

While this may sound quite harsh, we believe it is necessary to point out that such depictions make it seem as if you are selling out Filipina women for the sake of gaining mainstream popularity within the United States. Given the already horrific representations of Filipinas all over the world as willing prostitutes, exotic dancers, or domestic servants who are available for sex with their employers, the representation of Pinays in these particular videos can only feed into such stereotypes. We also find it puzzling, given your apparent commitment to preserving the history and dignity of Filipina/os in the United States, because we assume that you also consider such stereotypes offensive to Filipino men as well as women.

Again, we want to reiterate our appreciation for the positive aspects of these videos – the history lesson of the 1936 version, the commitment to community, and the effort to foster a larger awareness of Filipino America in the mainstream – but we ask for your honest attempt to offer more full-spectrum representations of both Filipino men and Filipina women, now and in the future. We would not be writing this letter to you if we did not believe you could make it happen.

Respectfully,

Kiko Benitez
Assistant Professor, Comparative Literature
Univ. of Washington

Rick Bonus
Associate Professor, American Ethnic Studies
Univ. of Washington

Lucy Burns
Assistant Professor
Asian American Studies / World Arts and Cultures, UCLA

Fritzie De Mata
Independent scholar

Diana Halog
Undergraduate
UC Berkeley

Luisa A. Igloria
Associate Professor
Creative Writing / English, Old Dominion University

Veronica Montes
Writer

Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Assistant Professor, English
State University of New York-Fredonia

Gladys Nubla
Doctoral student
English, UC Berkeley

Barbara Jane Reyes
Poet and author

Joanne L. Rondilla
Doctoral candidate
Ethnic Studies, UC Berkeley

Rolando B. Tolentino
Visiting Fellow, National University of Singapore
Associate Professor, University of the Philippines Film Institute

Benito Vergara
Asian American Studies / Anthropology, San Francisco State University

The Pilates Chamber of Torture

I mean, look at this thing:

But working on it wasn't really torture. In fact, it felt pretty good.

Peddling backwards, now...I've been fretting for a few months about the inevitable changes to la body de Veronique wrought by age and hormones. None of the things I did at the tender age of, let's say, twenty-four have been having an effect. Though I'm sure my cardio work helps my heart, it certainly hasn't been doing one gursh thing for gracefully distributing my weight into the right spots. And, just as bad, weight training has made me—already naturally broad-shouldered—even more so. This does nothing to create the pleasant sensation of feeling pretty, oh-so-pretty, oh-so-pretty, and witty, and gay. In fact, it has created the decidely unpleasant sensation of feeling dowdy, oh-so-dowdy, oh-so-dowdy, and frumpy and lame.

Which is how I wound up enlisting right-hand gal pal A. to join me for an introductory session at our neighborhood Pilates studio. The postural assessment alone was worth my time. I like the precision of movement required and the fact that you have to think the whole time. It's a little different from turning on the iPod and flipping through People while sweating on the elliptical trainer thingy. And of course I love the claim that—nature be damned!—I will end up long and lean. For my body structure, that is. We shall see. Anyways, it's no surprise that the trainer advised me to stop weight training (which shortens the muscles) altogether for now. Um, no problem...