Are they serious? Unfortunately, they are. This is a real advertisement from Spanish sports newspaper Marca, featuring the national basketball team doing the “Asian slant-eyes” trick for the camera. You know, the one little kids at school do. The same little kids that say, “Me Chinese, me play joke, me go pee pee in your Coke!”
To recap: I’m Chinese-American and have lived in Madrid. Apropos of my blog on racism in Spain, and given its notoriously poor record of racial abuse in athletic arenas, this is sadly unsurprising. According to the British newspaper The Guardian, which first reported the story, and the players involved in the photo, the pose was not meant to be offensive. Based on my experience in Spain, I believe this, but that’s unfortunately beside the point. As I mentioned before, while I feel most Spanish people have their heart in the right place, many are bafflingly ignorant when it comes to decoding what actions would be interpreted as racially offensive.
Now that this has turned into an international flap, the Spanish paper El Mundo has started a forum for readers to comment on the photo called “Racism or an Affectionate Wink?” Just going through these comments is a fascinating look into the Spanish perspective on race. Most reader comments angrily accuse the British press of trying to fan the flames of paranoia, and of the American press of subverting their attempt at hosting the games in 2016 (you can bet this photograph will resurface during that campaign.) However, as some readers have rightly pointed out, it doesn’t matter what we (Spaniards) think; if people are offended by it, then it is by definition, offensive. Another reader writes that “The problem here is one of ignorance.” That’s one step in the right direction.
Interestingly, as the NY Times reports, the Spanish Basketball team is sponsored by Li-Ning, a Chinese footwear company, and evidently their pose was a “wink” towards their sponsor, as directed by the photographer. (By the way, reading the comments on the Times page gives you a fascinating look into the American perspective on the Spanish perspective on race.) One of their players has said that “Anyone who wants to interpret this differently is totally confused.” He goes on to express his “great respect for Asia and its people”, but then proceeds to talk about his Asian friends in Toronto (in Spain they don’t know that doing something racist and then denying it by claiming friends of the offended race is just so 1980’s), where he plays for the Raptors. Let’s see if he still has those friends when he gets back from Beijing.
Obviously, it’s all about cultural context (remember all those HSBC ads in the airport?). A gesture that might be “affectionate” in Spain may be the same that’s been used historically to malign a demographic for looking different in a white population. In China, this gesture is probably only seen as absurd, as would be any used to manufacture a physical attribute that is shared by the other 1.3 billion people around you.
I honestly believe these players didn’t believe they were doing anything wrong or insensitive. And therein lies the problem.
I dare you to watch this video and try not to smile. Who knew that public restrooms could be so fun? This woman’s name is Maia Hirasawa and she hails from the fair country of Sweden. Enjoy!
In 2004, the rest of the world collectively thought, “Uh, yeah.”
On September 11th, 2001, author Susan Jacoby wandered into a bar on the Upper East Side and overheard two men comparing the day’s tragic events to Pearl Harbor. When one man asks what Pearl Harbor was, the other responds, “That was when the Vietnamese dropped bombs in a harbor, and it started the Vietnam War.”The exchange prompted her to write The Age of American Unreason, a book recently profiled in the NY Times for its assertion that modern American culture is anti-intellectual. The article was accompanied by a general question posed to readers that quickly sparked over 500 responses in a matter of hours:
“Are Americans Hostile to Knowledge?”
It’s trendy to beat up on Americans, even in America. The reputation of the Ugly American continues to precede us in all manner of global affairs, and not without reason: for starters, we have publicly embarrassed ourselves in the past two presidential elections, we consume a shamefully disproportionate amount of energy and fossil fuels in comparison to other industrialized countries, and the advent of YouTube allows people from Lahore to La Mancha to type in the words “Miss Teen South Carolina” and watch this video:
(which they understand because they likely speak our language, though we may not speak theirs) affirming their belief that we are a nation of imbeciles, the type of imbeciles who also start wars they can’t finish. And we still don’t use the metric system! Fine. Guilty as charged.
But are we hostile to knowledge? Obviously this is a deliberately inflammatory question. However, I’ll answer in earnest, because there may be a kernel of truth wedged into such a smug grin. Most of this reputation has to do with our limited knowledge of geography, our inability to speak other languages, or recently to other Western European nations, the fact that as a modern superpower, we have a politically influential populace that practices Christianity and votes based on “religious” issues like abortion, gay marriage, and the death penalty. (“Don’t we have a separation of church and state?” they ask.)
The American mentality has always been this: me and mine first. Now before you bob your head condescendingly, consider that this is the mentality that has resulted in our country becoming arguably the most desired patch of real estate on the planet for the past two hundred years. Post-World War II modern America became the leader in global commerce, higher education, free-market enterprise, and the locus of innovative creativity from art to technology. We’re responsible for both Mickey Mouse and the computer mouse. My point is that more than being anti-intellectual, our culture is simply self-absorbed.
My Norwegian friend Nils Olaf points this out when he sees something as innocuous as a bottle of antibacterial hand soap in my bathroom. It’s not uncommon knowledge that while it might help my palms stay germ free in the short run, antibacterial soap will ultimately assist in breeding more powerful, antibiotic-resistant bacteria in the long run. The American mentality, this implies, is that hopefully I (the antibacterial soap consumer) will be dead before then. But at least my kids and I will be safe. Screw the rest. Never met ‘em, never liked ‘em.
How did we get to be like this? As much as I like to think Reality Television is the root of all evil, I think it’s a chicken and the egg theory. It’s easily argued that this has always been our culture, and that it’s just become more pronounced because we enjoy an uncommon influence on the rest of the planet economically, militarily, culturally, and environmentally speaking. However, I think it’s become more extreme because we live in an age of runaway decadence. We enjoy infinite variety in access to lifestyle choices, consumer products, and food and cuisine. We want what we want, and we wanted it yesterday (I’m waiting for Amazon.com to have a ‘Get it Yesterday’ option available for a nominal fee). And given the massive geography of our country, plus the expense involved in traveling abroad, it’s easy to see how the average middle-class American would have no need or desire to leave America, in comparison to a Swiss or Belgian who can leave their country without a passport for the weekend and needs to speak two or more languages even within their own national borders. In comparison, our Joe Six-Pack would seem frightfully provincial.
The good news is that we Americans are programmed for change. It’s what forms the basis of our Constitution and informed our earliest national mythologies; from Ben Franklin’s “Poor Richard’s Almanac” to the earliest Puritan work ethic, our primary national principles have always been self-improvement and Free Will over Divine Providence: if you don’t like it, change it. The fact that we will have a non-white male presidential nominee for the first time in our nation’s history speaks to the powerful undercurrents of change happening right now. One of the reasons I love the idea of a President Obama is that having lived in Indonesia as a child, he understands and respects growing up on the flip-side of a culture, not to mention a Muslim one at that. Personally, I believe our government should subsidize any American student who wants to study abroad in high school or university regardless of race or socioeconomic background. It’s the least we could do to encourage international exposure.
In my own travels, I’ve met quite a few people who assumed that as an American, I would have the IQ equivalent of whatever they ate for lunch that day. But I’m happy to report that the majority of Americans I’ve met abroad have been wonderfully open-minded, curious, well-read, bi or multi-lingual, humorous, and generous in spirit. Most importantly, they knew they wanted to know more. (Now if I could only meet more of these within our own borders!) So yes, maybe we have an unhealthy obsession with celebrity. Yes, perhaps we have a horrifying obesity rate. Yes, in comparison with the rest of the world, we suck at math. But we also have a history of promoting and instituting massive social change within an incredibly short period of time. And I think we’re slowly, ever so slowly moving back in the right direction. So don’t give up on us just yet. Maybe it won’t happen in my lifetime, but you never know. Hopefully that antibiotic-resistant super bacteria won’t get to me first.
No, not the Utah Jazz, but rather an entire genre of music scored an unexpected ‘triumph’ at The Grammy Awards last night with Herbie Hancock’s most recent duets album, “River: The Joni Letters” upsetting both Amy Winehouse and Kanye West for Album of the Year.I use the word triumph in quotes because winning Album of the Year at the Grammys has very little to do with actually ‘winning’ anything (except hopefully more album sales).Yet the result immediately sparked a controversy among commercial music pundits and a strangely surly article by NY Times jazz critic Ben Ratliff that inadvertently exposes the uselessness of the Grammys as a yardstick for creative achievement.I’ve honestly never appreciated the Grammy Awards, mostly because I don’t think they make any cohesive sense and the criteria for winning is shrouded in confusion. And I still don’t understand the difference between “Record of the Year” and “Song of the Year’.But to place Herbie Hancock in a category with the Foo Fighters, in the same category with Vince Gill, next to Kanye West and Amy Winehouse is just bizarre.Not only are they not in the same food group, they shouldn’t even be in the same aisle.This is a direct reflection of the unfocused thrashing of the recorded music industry in general.And to choose ‘the best’ of them seems strangely juvenile.
In his article, Ratliff suggests that Hancock’s album (which he calls “Grammy-ish” – red flag there already dear reader) was really an artistic compromise between both the pianist and each of his collaborators that although diluted the mojo of those involved, ultimately soothed the savage Grammy beast with its “chastened” drums and “almost drowsy” properties.“Institutions like to congratulate themselves,” he writes.Not a ringing endorsement for either the album or the validity of the awards.“‘Good taste’” (his quotes) is the suggested reason for Hancock’s win.I suggest that the Grammys should not try at this stage in the game to become tastemakers (too little, too late, I say).Instead, they should be concerned about the most seemingly callous of things: people buying records.
The Tony Awards (for Broadway theatre) were specifically created to drive ticket sales, plain and simple.They are strategically placed in the beginning of the summer, immediately before peak tourist season, to help visitors to Broadway select which show they’ll plunk down their Benjamins for.The record industry should be doing the same thing. Grammys for everyone! It’s almost like that already, given that there are exist (separate) categories for Best Recording Package and Best Boxed or Special Limited Edition Package.(The existence of the oft-ridiculed “Best Album Notes” category doesn’t bother me so much as it points to the non-existence a “Best Lyrics” category.I mean, what’s more important?The words in the song, or the words describing the words in the song?)
The real winner in all of this?Herbie Hancock.He’s too much of a cultural giant to be disrespected by his fellow nominees, and he’s too much of a bad-ass to actually care that he won.He may embrace the recognition (and the extra royalties) but hopefully it won’t affect who he is as an artist.The irony is that the Grammys awarded the one person in the category who doesn’t need it and for whom it will ultimately have the least impact, unless he does nothing more than make duet records for the rest of his career.In the end, like record labels, the Grammy awards are slowly but surely proving themselves disposable.
It’s Super Tuesday today and time to do your job — your other job, that of choosing by whom we will be governed, which considering the state of the world, is sort of important… I’m not usually a sucker for these kinds of ads but damn it if this didn’t actually move me. Please don’t forget to vote.
One of my favorite venues in Bs As, La Catedral in Abasto
Who’d have thunk that after 3 months in Bs As I’d be considered something of an authority on tango orchestras? Apparently, the editors at Time Out Buenos Aires did, as I’ve just completed an article for their 2008 guidebook on the young, burgeoning tango music scene. The article highlights four of my favorite, yet still underground (to tourists at least) ‘young guard’ orchestras in the city, and will be published in April of next year. Look for it at your local bookstore if you can remember that far ahead.
You’re socially liberal. You’re well-traveled. You’re culturally sensitive and possibly multi-lingual. And you’re a straight man in Buenos Aires.
If it’s your first time in the city, you may be slightly taken aback by the sight of these famously macho men kissing other men in greeting. As a progressive, open minded, non-homophobic individual, you think, oh this is simple, I can do this, it’s just like kissing a woman in greeting.
But it’s not. The mechanics are different, the physical dimensions are all wrong, and there’s that whole scratchy beard thing. So how do you kiss other men as smoothly and casually as a native porteño?
1. Verbally greet your manfriend with a nod of the head and a standard greeting, “Como andas?” or “Que tal?”
2. Approach your manfriend and incline your head clearly, unequivocally, towards their left cheek, signaling this cheek to be your intended target.
3. Simultaneous with your lean-in approach, raise and place your right hand on your manfriend’s left shoulder and pat it in a congenial buddy ‘ol pal manner.
4. Move in for the kiss. Now, what’s more important than actually placing your lips to his cheek is the symbolic gesture of kissing. Place your cheek to his cheek and make a very loud smooching sound that says, “I am kissing you, dude, and it doesn’t make me the least bit uncomfortable with my sexuality, even though it’s really weird feeling your scratchy-ass beard all up on my face!”
5. Follow up with the phrase, “Todo bien?” Say it two or three times just to be safe. Chances are, they will ask the same question, to which the proper response is, “Todo bien.” Therefore, the total verbal exchange should go something like: “Hola, como andas?”
“Hola, todo bien?”
“Todo bien. Y vos? Todo bien?”
“Todo bien.”
6. Congratulations! You’ve managed to kiss another man without endangering your masculinity. You are now a dude-kissing machine. Look for other dudes in the group and repeat from step one.
Important notes:
Do not mix greetings. For example, some local men will assume that as a foreigner, you will not be expecting a kiss from another man and will therefore offer you a hand. Do not shake hands and then go in for a kiss. It’s like a double greeting. It’s redundant. It’s awkward. It makes you seem either overzealous or insecure. Don’t do it.
Kissing other American men. It’s okay to kiss other American men whom you’ve met in Buenos Aires, but I think if I were to see these guys in America, I would probably offer them a hug but it would be strange because I’d never hugged them before. Mid-level intimacy just gets lost in translation.
While many things are open to interpretation in this greeting, do not place your right hand on your manfriend’s love handle while greeting him. This is a very sensitive place for a man to be touched and it’s like crossing a line.
When kissing a much taller man in greeting, never, ever stand on your tiptoes.
Take a look at the photo above. Which of these three things would you most want if you were in Buenos Aires? If you’re like me, you might find your American value system is often contradicted by the Argentine market, but that could be because I tend to measure all prices in terms of how much steak I could purchase instead. (As the price of beef is controlled domestically, it’s relatively cheap in comparison to other less popular sundries, like shampoo.)
While keeping inflation in check and the fragile economic situation under control seems like a complex game to the Argentine government, next to fútbol, the most competitive sport in Buenos Aires is the most excellent and ruthless game of hoarding small bills and change. This is a game that everyone must play, and while some play very fair (most bartenders and waiters), many people play dirty (kiosk owners, certain taxi drivers). But visitors or future residents looking for a general rule, it is this: nobody here has change.
Or at least nobody wants to admit it. It’s like the card game Bullshit where you’re trying to get rid of your hand by lying about your discards while retaining your possible assets. While we have the opposite instinct in the States – how many of us think, “Woohoo! Exact change! Take these damn coins!” – the biggest cause of coinage hoarding here is the bus system, which transports the majority of Buenos Aires (much more than the metro system), and only accepts coins. Kiosks and delis discourage large bills by posting signs reading, “We have no coins.” Even major grocery stores won’t change your big bills, especially if it’s early in the day and they might actually be telling the truth. I have no idea why people don’t admit to having small bills, but it must be a trickle-down effect from the coin shortage. I’ve asked friends here who have studied everything from economic development to microfinance to real estate development how this happens to a country. Nobody knows.
To be able to survive in Buenos Aires as an honest consumer who uses monetary currency as a means of legal tender, you have to be sneaky, cunning, and guileless. You have to lie through your teeth, making someone change a $50 peso bill, swearing you don’t have anything smaller whilst hiding your $5s and $10s from the cashier in your other hand. You have to plan how many bus rides you might take and grab a number of coins from your assiduously accrued stash. Even rookies here know the most basic trick to get a clean start out of the blocks is to withdraw amounts like $190 or $290 pesos from ATMs to avoid being saddled with all those hundreds. The worst thing that could happen would be to be stuck in a time of mundane need with a $100 peso bill.
Case in point: this Sunday morning, I was on my way to the music school to practice. I had a $20 peso note, and a $1 peso coin in my pocket. I spent my $1 coin on the bus, and received $.20 centavos in change. After reaching the school, I was dying of thirst and stopped into a kiosk to buy a $2 bottle of water. All I had was my $20 peso note. The kiosk owner firmly refused, and would not sell me the bottle unless I had something smaller. (This is the only country I’ve been to where people will refuse to do business with you because you have too much money.) After my practice session, I still couldn’t get anyone to take the $20, and without $.80 centavos in coins, I couldn’t take the bus home, and had to resort to a taxi. After an $8 peso ride, the driver gave me $12 in change (a $10 bill and a $2 bill), allowing me to finally quench my thirst with my newly acquired $2 peso note. The moral of the story? I should have planned better. How? By thinking ahead – as in the night before, when I had carelessly surrendered multiple $10 peso notes without considering how thirsty I might be the next morning.
I also always carry a bottle of water with me now.
Orquesta Típica Fernandez Fierro – Not your momma’s tango orchestra
Now that I’ve gotten my feet on the ground here, settled into an apartment, somewhat adjusted to the late Argentine eating schedule, and bulls-eyed all the best bookstores, cafés, and music shops (not to mention a California burrito joint) I figure it’s high time to get my hands dirty with some tango. After all, that’s the reason I’m here.
Many local musicians will tell you there are many similarities between tango music and culture in Argentina and jazz music and culture in America. Both are popular native forms that grew out of rural musical traditions, both require a high level of musicianship and dexterity, both are associated with specific dance forms, and now that they’ve bled into the mainstream and spawned mutant strains and fusion genres (i.e., smooth jazz and electro-tango) both are obsessed with the question of authenticity. And it is as a student of the tango in Buenos Aires that I find myself regularly confronted with this last aspect.
One significant difference I’ve found between tango and jazz culture is this: whereas the jazz world can oftentimes feel like an exclusive clubhouse where membership is subject to a variety of criteria from one’s race to one’s chops, in Buenos Aires, the local tangueros are almost unanimously appreciative that you want to learn their music, and are thus almost always willing to teach even foreigners. The primary criteria are that you are eager to learn, and that you know someone in common. Not only is it socially much easier to be referred to a teacher by a known musician, but in the tango tradition, it is absolutely critical to the authenticity aspect of the form.
The tango world is essentially a huge ball of yarn, and there is a clear lineage within the art form. The Golden Age maestros are dying out, and the “true” tango is once again in the fragile and precarious state of being passed from one generation to the next. (One of the greatest living legends, the pianist, composer, and arranger Horacio Salgán only recently published a definitive text on the music, Curso de Tango, in 2001. I had to ask for it at Zival’s, the one-stop tango music shop on Callao, and it was brought out from under the desk and carefully folded in Saran Wrap like an ancient relic, costing by Argentine standards, a small fortune ($30USD).) Therefore, to ensure a proper passing of the tradition, the question of with whom one studies is of the utmost importance. I was lucky enough to have a mutual connection from Brooklyn with the renown tango and jazz pianist Pablo Ziegler, and when I met him it was in this vein that he warned me: “Only study with friends of friends.” (Not a bad prospect from someone who learned the form himself by playing in Astor Piazzolla’s Quintet for a decade. Think playing with Miles Davis in the 60’s or being on the starting five with Michael Jordan – when he played for the Bulls, not the Wizards.) Ziegler (all tangueros are referred to by their last name) then proceeded to empty out his cell phone to me, virtually opening, to some degree, every door in the tango music world in Buenos Aires. It was not lost on me that I was at that moment becoming a living part of the tradition, and by studying with the true maestros, would take on the responsibility as a part of the yarn: to learn and be equipped pass on the “true” tango to another.
So what about the music? Though I’m reluctant to admit it to my teachers, I love electrotango like Gotan Project and Bajofondo as much as anyone, and my truest affections lie with modernists like Piazzolla and Dino Saluzzi. Yet watching a good traditional tango ensemble live is like nothing you’ve seen in the States, that is unless you’ve seen a good tango ensemble live there, but chances are it was more likely a tango spectacular, or what they call here literally “tango for export” rather than a traditional orquesta típica, which is a very different thing. Part of the experience is watching the front row of four bandoneonists ply their trade (the bandoneon, the quintessential tango instrument, is basically an accordion with no keys, but buttons on both sides). I’ve been granted observer status at the Orquesta Escuela de Tango in Almagro, an orchestra school under the famous bandoneonist and composer Nestor Marconi, dedicated to the preservation of the art form, and am studying piano with their resident pianist, Germán Martinez. To underscore their openness, there are three members from Japan, and one from Australia. (It is important to note that while they provide me with certain scores, many I must return because the arrangements and/or bandoneon solos are to be protected and not distributed by any means.) And though many tangos are not particularly harmonically challenging to the ear, the form is complex, and when played correctly, thrills. There is no irony in the tango. There is melancholy, there is sadness. There is nostalgia, there is playfulness, and naturally, a great deal of fiery passion.
And there is also rocking out. This week I attended my first (of what I’m sure will be many returns) performance of a group called the Orquesta Típica Fernandez Fierro, a group of ten terminally hip young musicians, complete with dreadlocks, sunglasses, grunge tees, and loads of attitude. While these impressive tangueros played beautifully, this is not your momma’s tango. In the Club Atletico Fernando Fierro, a dark and hard to find warehouse space in a non-touristed part of town (Sanchez de Bustamante 764 in Abasto for any visitors), outfitted with a full bar, gym bleachers, and a surreal “bathroom” themed stage (there is an enormous plastic roll of toilet paper hanging from the ceiling and huge plastic flies perched on the wall), the OTFF played as hard as any rock band I’ve seen, throwing their heads back and forth, bodies undulating under the strobe light (yes, strobe light) and disco ball. Occasionally, vocalist Walter “El Chino” Laborde, would emerge in various states of dress to serenade the audience, at one point appearing in a motorcycle helmet and a skirt. The sardine-packed crowd was mostly young Argentine hipsters who screamed their brava’s at the end of each number with religious zeal. When it comes to charisma, Gotan Project has nothing on these guys:
(And of course, I’ve taken a free tango dancing class, as well, and when I wasn’t stepping on my partner’s sneakers (she would cry, “yepa!” but assured me I wasn’t doing any permanent damage) found myself entranced by its rhythms.)
I had my first musical ‘a-ha’ moment as I was wrestling with a big dramatic piece on the piano by Osvaldo Pugliese amidst a gloomy and drizzling afternoon. In the empty cafeteria I was playing in, against the backdrop of pouring rain and thunder, something clicked in, and felt right. In stark contrast to the flashy tourist-aimed tango spectacles with women in six inch heels and black leather, and men that look like Wayne Newton fifty years ago, the true tango is a dark and dirty thing, beautifully crumbling and best enjoyed without its makeup, lest it betray its roots as a dance brought over from sailors in whorehouses. I never thought I’d say this about a tradition born in the brothels, but it’s quite an honor to be able to be in some tiny, infinitesimal way, a part of it.
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