Stereotypes and Race: "China is Here . . . "

--Big Trouble in Little China

For my long-time climbing friends in the Midwest, Todd Mei needs no introduction. He had a large and humble presence within a thriving community in Madison for several years and was the one who inspired me to do my first birthday challenge 9 years ago, which he helped me craft.  In fact, ingrained in my memory was being witness to one of his birthday challenges: three two-finger pull ups bearing a 100 lb weight, beverage in one hand, a beef brat or two waiting on the table. Wouldn't you want to know what makes this guy go?  When I asked him to write for this blog, I wanted him to tell a part of his story that would describe his experiences as an athlete - specifically an Asian American athlete.   You'll read it for yourself, but I love this part of his piece:  ". . . being part Chinese proved to be a major asset in the climbing world . . . well, at least among my friends." His sentiment has special meaning to me and I think for many of you who find friendship in your pursuits, it will for you too.  Enjoy!  

I was slight as a child, though I could appreciate feats of physical excellence as much as the next Southern Californian young'un - mostly in the way of the martial arts flicks of the 70s and 80s.  My father used to take my brother and me to the local Vietnamese-run cinema that had double billings on the weekends.  My brother and I used to munch on Haw Flakes and, after the films, try to reenact fighting movements.  Little did I know, but at the time I had seen one of China's budding stars in Jet Li as a young Shaolin monk fighting the Manchus.

Yet reenactments would be as far as physical endeavors went for me until my parents enrolled me in aikido.  As much as I hated it (would rather have been watching TV), it taught me how to roll, which became critical for time spent as a wrestler.  But even as I was establishing myself athletically as a wrestler in the 7th grade, I was slight and had to compensate for opponents' superior strength with brains and stamina.

Why do I mention this background?  I think it had a very profound effect on how I approached challenges in life.  Even in a multicultural Southern California (Orange County), as a Chinese-Japanese American youth, I still had a lot of things going against me.  Asian Americans were perceived to be nerdy by default, and my friends used to jokingly call me "Long Duc Dong" (after the character in Sixteen Candles).

There came a time when I had to establish myself, as juvenile as it may sound.  And it was pretty much the case that being smart really didn't matter with peers - in fact, it was a liability, as most readers probably know.  But proving myself in a sport of some kind went very far;  and this psychology pretty much stuck with me through my life (for better or worse).

Exit wrestling.  Enter climbing.

I never faced any difficulties with being a non-white when climbing in California.  One of the local stars - Lin Nguyen - was Asian, and any friction felt usually involved local residents in rural areas not taking too well to an Asian kid wearing lycra - not surprising.  When I sported the "Mike Tupper-Prince Valiant" haircut in 1993, I think the reception was remarkably worse.  Outside Devil's Lake Wisconsin, many years later (2000), I remember vividly walking into a bar with my friend from Fargo, ND.  Tim Halbakken was 6'4", and with me at 5'7" and wearing a motley Mexico soccer jersey, we made a pretty conspicuous duo.  Some semi-racist, anti-non-local comments led to a quick beer and a return to more liberal grounds in Madison.

But if anything, being part Chinese proved to be a major asset in the climbing world . . . well, at least amongst my friends.

Re-enter Chinese Kung fu films.  This time during the mid 90s.  Location:  The University Theatre in Berkeley, California.  My friend Phil Requist turned me on to Jackie Chan and Jet Li films - in their heydey.  At first the following was small but dedicated.  The pinnacle of their popularity was, as I fondly recall, a Spring evening in 1993.  It was a double billing of Jackie Chan's Drunken Master 1 and Drunken Master 2.  The cinema, an old school layout that could accommodate an enormous crowd, had been sold out.  The owner was so psyched, he announced the fact at the intermission between the films.  The audience roared, the lights cut, the second feature began, and when Jackie appeared on screen, everyone clapped and hollered.

The amazing choreography and acrobatics of both Chan and Li provided a rather funny background amongst my friends. Simply put, it was believed that being Chinese meant inheriting some degree of awesome athletic power - summed up best by the classic technique (well before Tarrantino) of the Buddhist Palm.

I had quite a bit of power as a climber, but by far the exemplar was Ingar Shu.  His ability was uncanny, and in the 90s he fast became a legend.  But he seemed not to really take seriously being a climber;  and this only added to his mystique.  I had always thought of myself as a representative of the Asian Wave of climbing, perhaps my fondest memories having been in the Midwest.  I'll never forget the many trips spent with Tim Halbakken, Patrick Neuman, Nate Emerson, Nick Rhoads, and Mike Simon.  Above all, amidst the many birthday challenges, I'll remember having to convince Neuman on a rainy afternoon to head out to Necedah, WI.  The steepness of Whiskey Direct afforded me just enough dryness to get the send.

Throughout my years, reference to being Chinese has come and gone.  I now don't climb as much, but every so often undertake birthday challenges. After completing the most difficult one I have ever done for Steve Edwards's 50th birthday, Lisa Romney (his wife who organized an event where all of Steve's closest friends attempted a challenge in his honor), replied, "But you're Chinese.  That's like cheating."  Nice to see the tradition continue.

Being non-white in the world of climbing . . . it was definitely an asset, but that was only possible due to the ethos that my close friends - in California and Wisconsin - cultivated.  Yes, the Stagarite's words never get old or lose their power: "Everyone has friends, but mine are the better."





Todd Mei is an assistant professor in philosophy at the University of Dundee, in Scotland.  He climbs and windsurfs occasionally, has a penchant for bourbon and gin martinis, and endeavors to keep one-finger, one arm pull ups as a staple of his maintenance workouts.  

Stereotypes and Race: All Things Samoan

I've had a lot of emails, text messages and conversations since initiating this topic on stereotypes and race, and have so appreciated the insight of the friends I've enlisted to tell their stories.   Stories that are powerful in their own right, and embraced by readers because their truths are told matter-of-factly, without blame or effort to perpetuate negative feelings.  The last time I hugged Logo Filloon was probably at our high school graduation in 1982, both of us covered with leis after proudly walking the grounds where we spent our teenage years.  Since then, of course a lot has happened, which is why I so enjoy getting in touch with old friends - because time gives perspective and allows a different kind of reflection.  I love Logo's easy, matter-of-fact voice and the story she tells about coming of age as a Samoan and how the very word, "race" can build impenetrable walls for her today.  Here you go . . .

I come from a pretty diverse background.  I was born in American Samoa, finished my childhood in Hawaii, coursed through my teen years in California, and now living out my life in Nevada.

My first encounter with race was in the second grade of Maili Elementary School on Oahu.  I met the only black girl in school, who I didn't realize was black until another student told me.  I had no clue.  One day she ran up to me and showed me her gums.  Not the chewing gum, but her gums that should have only been seen in a smile. She asked me why my gums were not dark like hers and my response at the time was "stop eating mud and your gums will clean up".  I did mention I was in the second grade, right?  Yeah, that was my first after school fight.

Moving on.

When we relocated to San Diego, California my younger sister and I were enrolled at Launderbach Elementary School.  Race was a bit more evident here.  The school was pretty diverse, but I found it wasn't my skin tone but my nationality that the other kids had a problem with.  When my sixth grade teacher introduced me to the class, he also mentioned I was Samoan.  My facial structure, my accent (which I had no idea I had) labeled me different.  My hair turning blonde while my skin darkened during the summer didn't help either.  Especially when my mother kept my hair long and when not braided looked like one long afro.  I was a walking Q-Tip.

One day, I was walking down the hall to my locker and a group of Cholos were standing near my destination - like right next to my locker.  I remember thinking, "What time is it?  It's not even lunch time yet."  But instead of facing off with me, one of them stepped up and asked "So, what are you?"

It was that one question, that one moment when everything changed.  Now, instead of wanting to fight me, they all wanted to know what I was and where did I come from.  The Black kids thought I was "a Black Mexican," and the Mexicans thought I was Black with Indian hair.  It didn't matter to me because I wasn't either.  I was me, the Lone Samoan.

By the time I entered eighth grade more Samoan families were moving into the neighborhoods.  I started hearing about Somoans at a rival junior high school called Granger, and I was frequently asked if I was "related" to any of them.  I had no idea how it came about that all Samoans are related.  No one asked if all Germans were related or if all Italians were related.  As soon as I mentioned my nationality it was, "Hey are you related to Junior in Utah?"  Junior?  Junior who?  I've never been to Utah.  It was this reason alone that when my daughter was twelve years old she came up to me and said, "I'm never dating a Somoan, Mom.  No matter who I date I'll probably end up being related to him."

It eventually balanced out in junior high, but by the time I started my shophomore year in high school I began to question who I was.  I questioned my heritage, our family ways and the lessons that my father taught my sisters and me about being true to our culture and customs.  Maybe being Samoan isn't a good thing.  Maybe I should embrace the new cultures of the Western society that I've become more and more accustomed to.  Maybe I should lose the Samoan lilt, the thick kinky hari and be friends with non-Somoans.  How else am I going to be an actress if I'm "so" Samoan?

Yet, what was I suppose to do?  Turn from my parents and family who I loved very much just to fit in?  Ignore a heritage that pre-dates French explorer Louis-Antoine de Bougainville?  The lines of the two separate people I had unknowlingly become were beginning to blur.  A teenager living a marginal life will push the boundaries of race until something breaks.  Either it is the break from trying to fit in or the break from family, or both.  

Fortunately for me I had an awesome family who loved me, and still do to this day.  My father knew  I wasn't going to just graduate from high school to marry a Samoan (hopefully not one I was related to), have kids and be the obedient wife.  He knew that from his daughters I would be the one to leave home.  And so I did.  But with me went the knowledge that they had my back.  Which was a good thing because I ended up married to a white guy.  When I took him home for the first time for dinner he thought he was dinner.

When he took me home for the first time he said to me as we pulled in their spiral four car driveway, "Be sure you say you're Hawaiian."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because they don't know what a Samoan is," he responded.

"I'm not Hawaiian," I said.

"I know, but just for now say you're Hawaiian, okay?" he counters, pleading look on his face.

I didn't know how I was to take that, but I was young and in love and he could do no wrong.

He introduced me first to his mom, then his dad.   And although everything was pleasant I remember being really, really nervous because of what he had told me in the driveway.

His mom: "So you're from Hawaii?"

Me:  "Yes."

His mom: "So you're Hawaiian?"

Me: (choking) "Yes."

His dad:  "Really?  You look Samoan."

I've had my adventures where race played a part in them - some good, some bad.  And I realized early on that I really, really don't like the word "race" or any form of it - "racism," "racist," etc, not only in context but the word itself.  It hinders you, builds up walls and sucker punches you when you least expect it.  When filling out any form and it asks for "Race" I usually put down the Kentucky Derby, or NASCAR 500 or my favorite, Cat Town Races.

Logo Filloon was born in Leone, American Somoa.  At a young age, her family relocated to Hawaii and settled on Oahu.  In 1977, her father once again relocated the family, this time to San Diego, eventually making National City, California their home.  Although she started writing during her junior high school years, it wasn't until late 2011 that she self-published her first book, The Binding; the first in The Velesi Trilogy.  Book 2, The Drifting, is  available on Amazon.com for Kindle with the final installment to be released in 2013.   Logo's books are on my list of books to read for young adults! 

Stereotypes and Race: In Other News . . .

Since this blog is about climbing, culture, cheese, and connections to professional development, it's time to write about . . . climbing!  Climbing has gone through its usual ups and downs with my unruly schedule and commitment to other sports, like running and skiing and kids.  It takes a climbing trip in my future to get me into the groove of training, and it's not just one trip but two.  Hooray!  I'll be in Arkansas late March and El Paso late April.   Yesterday was double coupon day that started with a 90 minute run and then a few hours of bouldering.  I felt so thankful!

On the "what's happening in WI" cheese line, today was John-Pio's birthday party.  He officially turns 8 tomorrow which is always a bittersweet time of year.  Brad's mom died unexpectedly 8 years ago just a day before John-Pio came 6 weeks unexpectedly, too.  I often imagine the two of them passing each other in the deepest part of John-Pio's sleep.  That's a comforting thought.  So a bunch of kids came over (practically his entire class) and they decorated cupcakes, made art, played Star Wars, and read books.  That 90 minutes went slower than yesterday's 90 minute run.  Anyway, John-Pio will be 8 tomorrow and he doesn't have a care in the world, which is how it should be when you're a kid with a one-track mind that begins with the letter P.

P for Play.

In other news . . .

Well, okay I am not going to sit on this any longer.  I have to get it out.  As we were going through Misa's Friday folder and re-capping the week she told me she took a survey about bullying in her computer class last week.  The teacher in-charge was helping kids fill out the personal information part and asked if everyone knew what "ethnicity/race" meant and she proceeded to go through the choices:

White
African American
Native American
Asian
Latino
More than one race

Most kids in her class, including Misa, had never taken an online survey like that before so Misa raised her hand to ask a question.  And before she could even ask it, the computer teacher "thought she knew what I was going to ask" because she said, "And if you're Asian and White, check the 'more than one race' box."  Here's the rest of the conversation as retold by Misa (teacher in italics):

"I'm not just White.  I'm also Chamorro."
Okay then check Asian.
"Chamorros are from Guam."
So you're not Asian? 
No, I'm Chamorro.
Just check one or the other, or check 'more than one race.' This part isn't that big of a deal anyway.

That last comment was more frustrating to Misa than the effort it took to get her to understand that Guam is not in Asia, and she's not Asian.  And besides that, it had nothing to do with the question Misa was going to ask in the first place!  I was laughing inside and holding my head very still straining my neck muscles to keep from shaking my head all the while internally scolding that teacher.  Misa just sighed and asked, "If it wasn't a big deal, why do they even ask what our race/ethnicity is anyway?"

Good question, Misa.  Good question . . . 

"Baby Mamas" and Not Wives

I've had a lifetime of experiences living in my brown skin.  Deeply Micronesian - I'm proud to be of this race, even though I unfortunately come face-to-face with stereotypes and racism.   One of the most productive ways to understand this issue is to talk about it and hear how others experience it, even if it causes discomfort.  This next series of posts is about Stereotypes and Racism, and I'm honored that one of my closest family friends, Bethany Matson, is here to share her story.  This particular experience that she describes opened my eyes to yet another subtle incident that goes unnoticed (unless of course, you are the person who is offended).  I love her reflective and casual voice, and the way in which she relates her story.  Read on and get some perspective on something real . . .

                Everyone gets asked personal questions about themselves.   It's how you get to know someone, make connections, and maintain small talk (which I’ve never been good at doing).  In my personal and professional life, dating (well, trying to), and meeting new people - basically you get similar questions about your age, kids, relationship status, siblings, etc.  I have noticed for a long time that people rarely ask me if I’m married or if I have children; they always ask me, “How many children do you have?” 

Now it might be easy to say that this is more of a societal issue in that women of a certain age are supposed to have children.   Or maybe since I work with children people expect that I have them.  However I rarely get asked if I am married, how long I’ve been married or if I want to get married.  I may get asked if I am single or if I have a boyfriend, or want one, but NEVER  about a husband and I almost always get asked about kids before I get asked my relationship status.  Again, some people might say there is a devaluation of marriage in our society or talk about the proliferation of unmarried co-habitating couples. 

For me it goes beyond that.  It goes back to this idea that many women of color, specifically black women, are thought of as only being “baby mamas” and not wives.  Thinking about the controversy over the Oxygen network airing a show about the rapper with all the “baby mamas”  - it’s called “All My Baby Mama’s”.  There’s a big controversy over the show, but there is an almost exact show called “Sister Wives”, that has proven to be quite popular. 

I know there was controversy over the polygamy aspect of the show, but not about this man having multiple children by different women.  On Sister Wives, there are 16 kids between 4 women, all living together as a family.  This is basically the premise for both shows.  Whatever the controversy, the white women get the title of “wife”, even though they aren’t all, if any, married to that guy, but the black women are “baby mamas”.  Again you could say there is an added aspect of polygamy or religious difference, but really it’s all the same.  Yet, these women are viewed differently.  I’m probably not the first person to notice this difference, but it’s pretty disturbing to me.  I don’t watch “Sister Wives” and wouldn’t watch “All My Baby Mamas”, (well maybe if they did a crossover show together I’d tune in, just to see if they could interview that many kids).   The point is that both have the same concept. 

People are always surprised when I say I don’t have children, but they don’t flinch when I say I’m not married.  I’ve noticed that white women around my age, at work or friends, get asked about their relationship status and rarely get asked about how many children they have or even if they have children.  There are probably tons of statistics and charts about how few black women are married and are single parents that someone could quote to justify themselves, but honestly unless there is a new abundance of cultural anthropologic statisticians, for the most part it’s just people making assumptions.   (Super random, but whenever I use the word “assumptions” I think of Samuel L. Jackson in “A Long Kiss Goodnight” when he says, “When you make assumptions you make an ass out of you and me” LOL, Classic.) 

Black women can always be viewed as somebody’s mama; I’ve been complimented on kids who are not mine on several occasions.  Vera often talks about people not realizing that she and Brad’s children are their children, because of their varying skin tones or assumed ethnicities.  Recently my sister Melissa took her daughter Jada, Misa, myself, and my other niece out for manicures.  Melissa referred to Jada as her daughter and a woman pointed to Misa and said “and this is your daughter too?”  And Melissa politely corrected her with, “no, no I just have one”.   Then in December for Jada’s birthday we all were at the Nitty Gritty with John-Pio and when I took Jada and John-Pio to the bathroom a  woman tells me, “oh my gosh your kids are so cute!”  I politely corrected her with “oh thanks they aren’t mine, but they are super cute!”  No one hesitates to assume that just because a child is with us, they came from our wombs. 

When I tell people that I don’t have kids, even if they haven’t asked me how old I am, they assume something is wrong:  “Oh, you can’t have kids?” Or my favorite ,“Oh are you a lesbian?” (so funny because I know more lesbian women/couples with children than without).   Like it can’t be a conscious decision for me not to have kids.  I notice that when someone who is not black gets asked the same questions they tend to get more follow up questions like,  “Well do you want children?“, “When are you going to get married?”, or “Are you still looking for someone to marry?”  And there are far more personal questions or assumptions (there’s that word again) about their fertility issues or sexual identity.    I’m not given that choice about children or marriage; there is just an assumption that I am not married , never will be, and maybe don’t want to be.  That,  I’d probably just be content being a “baby mama”. 

Maybe this is not an experience everyone has, but it is something that I have noticed.  I don’t mind being asked about how many kids I have; I LOVE kids and being a parent is one of the most challenging (and rewarding) responsibilities any of us will ever have, so maybe it is complimentary that people look at me and assume that I could take on that role (I needed to throw some optimism in, New Year’s resolution).  One day though I hope that someone asks me first if I’m married, and when I say no, they say “well I have the perfect guy for you, he is 6’2, funny, a head full of hair,  and a closet full of cardigans and bow ties “(I know I don’t have very high standards!).  But until then I’ll just stick to my answer for the “how many kids do you have” question with and flash of my ring finger while singing, “first comes love, then comes marriage, THEN comes the baby in the baby carriage!”

Bethany is a social worker who advocates for the rights of children and families.  She received her undergraduate degree from Lakeland College, and her graduate degree from Edgewood College.  Along with being dedicated to the work she does, she enjoys shopping, reading, and watching true crime shows.  The Naputi-Werntz family loves her for her style, brains, and heart!