July 12, 2004
On Sex, Race, Prejudice and "The Man Who Would Be King"
by Liza Sabater
Avery Tooley has rocked my world today with Stereo Describes My Scenario: Prejudice. I got this via Negrophile: It's not necessary to not-know that I'm Black.
Like I mentioned in the comments one time, I've played in the snow before, so I know a little something about it. I can't speak on what she thought, but I don't think you're ever unaware of your partner's physical appearance. Forget race for a minute. Guys, if your lady is physically stunning- look so good she got other women turning their heads- you don't not-know. You can't forget about it. If she looks rough enough to back a dog off a meat truck, you're aware of that too. And with the pretty jawn especially, you better not act like you don't know. That's an Acela Express to the doghouse. Same thing goes if she's wearing certain outfits or whatever else. So if you're not oblivious to any of that stuff, what's with the idea that we can be oblivious to race? That's as phony as a three dollar bill. It's not that you don't know the race, or are oblivious to it, it's that you don't allow it to be a determining factor.
I have a confession to make : When I realized I was in love with Mr. Man, I was shocked. Not because he was was American but because he was a white American man.
Up until I met Mr. Man I thought I had been an equal opportunity lover. My interests have always covered the color spectrum and have dated Puerto Ricans of all colors, an African American, a German, a Spaniard, a Peruvian (who happened to be Jewish as well) and even a Chinese Brazilian. Notice, though, that I tended towards Latinos. Then Mr. Man came and I was shocked and awed.
Three things did it : His blue eyes, his mean rice and beans, and his extensive cunniliteracy. To paraphrase the great philosopher Chris Rock, there are three simple rules to keeping Ms. Lady happy : Feed me, fuck me and shut the fuck up. So the man did indeed. It was that simple.
I have never, e v e r been color blind when attracted to a man. And the same can be said for Mr. Man. When Avery writes :
As with any physical characteristic, the option is there to get caught up on the trait instead of the person. So like I mentioned earlier in the spring, one of my boys likes girls with big butts. Ghetto blasters, we call 'em. The question is not whether he notices if she's packing a Lasonic or a clock radio; he can't help but notice.
I say, AMEN. There is not a ghetto blaster Mr. Man won't pant at and it is for that reason that I rarely catch him checking out the women of more direct, ahem, European or Asian ascendancy. This blonde hussy is that rare exception but like Avery said, if she's packing, no matter what, Mr. Man can't help himself. And I'm packing. Big time. The question is : Was my butt a deciding factor in our relationship? Of course not. I laugh at his jokes. He's an artist and that turns me on. Am a sassy bootilicious nerd, and that turns him on. Did I say I laugh at his jokes?
What gets to me first is the element of exotica. So it is not just how good looking the guy is --and being the vain and shallow human being that I am that is a deciding factor when looking at a guy-- but what makes him not just distinct but unusually distinct. Let me give you an example about this --and this has to do with my own prejudice.
I've met more than a few blondes in my life time. Even dated some. Still have the knee jerk reaction of thinking of them as mimbos. My mom was born a blonde. Even though she's more of an auburn these days, I grew up in a culture that holds blonde women as the epitome of beauty. Remember that Whoopie Goldberg character of the little black girl with a white towel on her hair pretending she had "luxurious blonde hair"? That was me. I wanted so much to look like my mom and have her luxurious blonde hair.
So blonde men have always been feminine in my mind --as opposed to black men who I immediately read as fiercely intelligent macho pricks thanks to my dad [I'll pass the thin cup later for the therapy sessions, thank you very much]. It's just a knee-jerk reaction that with the years [and therapy] dissipates quickly these days. The blonde mimbo stereotype persists. Well, actually, no. That's until I read about this guy.
I'm reading the Vanity Fair article and I'm having a cognitive dissonance moment : So he's is a poet, painter, photographer, singer and musician, has his own publishing company, thinks his son is the coolest guy on the earth ... hmmm ... excuse me but, what the f u c k? What's next? He cures the fucking blind or something?
So I read the article again. Still could not understand what they were trying to say (I swear, this was my reaction). Not that I had never noticed him. By grock, he played the man who would be king. My prejudice was such, though, that I could not for the life of me reconcile the fact that this blonde guy was not just another a mimbo. Period. So much so that I even gave the article to Mr. Man and asked if I was hallucinating. Nope. [Bad move because from that day one, said actor remains "he who shall not be named" in our household. Might as well call the ork-slayer Voldemort]. What was the gota que colmó el vaso? Mr. Voldermort speaks Spanish fluently with an Argentinian accent.
Let's just say that I am more than mystified by the man. Read that again: the man. Not the stereotype, not the celebrity, but the guy that was revealed through all those articles during the flurry of publicity for end of the Middle Earth trilogy. Even if the flesh-and-bone man came "thisclose" to the one described in all those articles, it has been enough to change my perception of him. He's not a blonde mimbo anymore but a man that I would most certainly love to meet someday.
Just like we have falsely made sameness and equality to be interchangeable concepts, we have done the same thing with prejudice and racism. Personally, I think it only makes sense for a person to be prejudiced to a certain extent. You know what you know and that's all you know until you know something different. So to go back to my previous example, once Molly puts her foot in the pot, maybe I wouldn't be so surprised to hear that a white chick had done the thing to some collards. Until I see it happen, however, I will remain skeptical. Not saying that there aren't any white chicks who can cook greens in the soul food tradition, just saying I would be surprised if I met one. Just like when I used to know this Black chick who had NO soul, R&B, hip-hop, or gospel (traditional or contemporary) in her collection. Was I shocked? Sho' nuff. Did it have any bearing aside from the fact that I had to make sure I drove so I could control the stereo? Nope. I didn't think she was a sellout or try to make any larger implications about her personally, and that, I think is the difference between prejudice and racism (or whatever -ism). I think racism = prejudice + malice + action. (At least on a personal level. On a structural level, malice may or may not be intentional, but that's another post on another site.) I would say racism = prejudice + action, but I'm thinking that if Molly asked me what I wanted her to cook for dinner, my prejudice would keep me from saying greens & ham hocks. I'm not sure that's racist, though. But maybe that's just me.
This is brilliantly put.
Before having information about Mr. Ork-Slayer, I dismissed him as just another good looking blonde celebrity. Does that make me a racist? No, just cluelessly led by my prejudice.
The distinction that Avery makes is absolutely important : racism = prejudice + malice + action. When the actions of a person or a group of people are meant to inflict pain and suffering on others just by the color of their skin, that is racism. When people tell me "I don't look at you as black" or the "I had no idea you were Puerto Rican, you don't look / sound like one", that is just pure clueless prejudice. And let me tell you, I've been told that waaaay too many times, almost always by the nicest of people, to know that it was not racism but just pure ignorance talking.
So how am I doing with the blonde mimbo myth? Well, let's say that I notice blonde guys now more than ever. They don't all look the same anymore, if you know what I mean.
Still, I am a woman of a certain age and that has made me "picky". I know I'm married but, c'mon, I'm a human being and worse than that, a hot-blooded bootilicious Latina. If I don't canvass men and get my pheromones going something is terribly wrong with me --and believe me, I've been there and there was something wrong with me. It's that I am at a stage in life where basically I would not consider throwing my pearl at just any swine --and there are a lot of good looking swine out there. Maybe dangle it a bit but never actually cast it away just for some good-looking pork.
When it comes to Viggo Mortensen, though, he can plunder my jewelry box anytime. And he can thank Vanity Fair for not just getting my groove going but for educating my mind.
Posted by Liza Sabater in Blogs, Body, Culture, Hollywood, Image, Life, Media, Memes, Prejudice, Race, Sex, Viggo Mortensen
Permalink |
Comments (0)
| TrackBack (0) | Technorati Cosmos
Trackbacks
Trackback for this post:http://www.culturekitchen.com/cgi-bin/movabletype/mt-tb.cgi/1662
The following blogs make reference to this post :
