November 2011 Archives

On the first day of my teaching job in Okinawa, I held a class with my dancers and singers that had nothing to do with performing. I passed out index card-sized construction paper to my bewildered students, and assured them that whatever they wrote on the cards was done with anonymity. No names, no identities.

I think I was supposed to teach English, but I wanted to know what they thought about English to start with. Why did they want to learn it? Did they want to learn it, or was it just fashionable? (After all, it's very fashionable to speak English in Japan.) The theme I gave them that day was, "English".

"Write whatever comes to mind," I said. "I don't care if it's 'English is lame,' 'my parents forced me,' or 'I'd rather be getting my teeth pulled.' Just write anything to tell me how you feel."

Once the students finished writing, they threw their folded-up cards into a small yellow basket at the front of the room, and once the basket was full, I read each and every card aloud.

I got 20 cards saying 'I don't know' and 'I don't have anything to say.' Anything but that, I thought. Aren't you all aspiring dancers and singers, whose work is to tell stories on the stage? No wonder they couldn't capture my attention and illuminate me when they danced.


I think I was supposed to teach English, but I wanted to know what they thought about English to start with.






But I kept that to myself and continued the exercise everyday. I played music and acted like I didn't care whether they wanted to share or not.

There were little breakthroughs everyday. One or two students would actually write down what they thought.

"I'm here to learn English because we're supposed to get better jobs that way, and my parents think my dancing isn't going to amount to anything."

The other students took notice. That was their truth too.

Little by little, something foreign (other than English) that rarely exists in the Japanese classroom began to rear its head: honesty.

I began challenging them with more thought-provoking words like "regret", "beauty", "mother", "alone" as themes for the day's class. I made no explanations, added no sentiment. They entered the room, sat down, heard the word, and began writing down whatever came to mind. Simple but life-changing.

Suddenly, they were hungry for more. Even the gangsta-rap boy with his cap pulled down over his eyes, began setting his hat aside during class so he could write.

Under the veil of anonymity, the students—both the sullen and the overeager—learned they could be honest with me, and with their peers. Publicly, but also with perfect privacy. It was a revelation to them. What began as a 10 minute exercise grew to be at least an hour long practice in writing and reflection.

Before anyone knew what they were doing, they were sharing their lives. Expressing, I told them. That is what you're doing.

They didn't realize that their honesty here would make them better performers on the stage. No one fell asleep, got bored, batted an eyelash the entire time I read. They were mesmerized by their own stories, their own truths.


What began as a 10 minute exercise grew to be at least an hour long practice in writing and reflection.






The students who resisted most were the ones who thought they had us (and the world) fooled, the ones who'd been hailed child prodigies and learned how to put on an act when they were eight or 10 years old. They wrote what (they thought) would 'impress the judges.' Unfortunately, their lack of honesty showed in their body language. There was no softness, no genuine love in their dancing, which meant on the other spectrum, there was no real 'edge' or emotion. Simply put, they were fake.

One day, I came across the story of a student who, years earlier, had been led up to the highway by her mother, hand in hand, a mother whose intention was to end both of their lives. The class fell silent. The handwriting wobbled and smeared in some spots. I remember crying as I read, at her courage to write about this. There was not a dry eye in the room.

She was now thanking her mother for not going through with it. And I knew the class had changed just a little, forever.

For three hours that day, we cried and read, as each student admitted their faults, apologized for all the things they had said and done. We missed lunch. In all my years at the school, "mother" was the one topic we all braced for, as we knew it would break us, and then start making us.

A class that began with 20 students expanded to 100.

Eventually, we learned the center-stage dancer was petrified of his position on the stage, and that he fought with every ounce of pride not to lose that spot. The girl with the emotional eyes carried a past of several suicide attempts. Others who had run away from home, had stopped going to school because their teachers hit them, slept with men twice their age for money, cut themselves for attention, all began to tell the truth. They came clean, and once the demons were out, and the tears had been shed, they began to dance.

What happened in that classroom every single day for years, changed my outlook on Japan. I wrote too at times, about my own heartbreaks and challenges, about not knowing most things most of the time.

For Japanese teenagers, the emotional release was terrifying, and they had to test the waters to make sure it was allowed by their parents, their teachers, and mostly, themselves. I went ahead with it anyway, having them write through to their core, talk it out in a safe environment, act various scenes out.

Their performances began to change. The audience was stunned at the rawness of emotion in each performance.



What happened in that classroom every single day for years, changed my outlook on Japan.






This was one of the most powerful lessons that my students taught me. There comes a moment when each of us, no matter how hardened we've become in our hearts, cannot stop our truths from spilling out. A moment of complete release. Creating these moments in a classroom in Japan, of all places, seemed at once an impossible task. But the walls came tumbling down, soul connected with soul, and we became real, if in fleeting moments. When my students made themselves vulnerable, admitting their fears and inhibitions, they set themselves free. They stepped onto the stage and shared the reality of their voices.

On my birthday last month, I got an email from a former student, a quiet soul who never spoke up in class or interacted with classmates. No one knew what she was thinking, and on the outside, it seemed she had nothing to say. But on the inside...I knew. I knew she was the loudest, most explosive and emotional and eloquent on the page, and there was no stopping her thoughts from flooding out.

She is now working on her first novel. The letter her mother wrote still sits with me today.

"Thank you for giving my daughter her voice back, the letter read. Our family will forever be grateful to you, Yuki-san."

I saw myself in that shy girl. All we're looking for is a little bit of permission.

Apparently I'm an Arab prince. At least, that's what my friends used to call me when I first moved to Vancouver.

I wish I could say it was because I walked around trailed by my own private-security entourage‐but no. What prompted the nickname was the look of total confusion and panic on my face when I had to do my own chores.

Allow me to give you an example: It was about three weeks into September and I was down to my last pair of fresh...uh...trousers.

Evidently, my clothes weren't going to wash themselves.

At this point I knew I had to instill the help of a friend. There was no way I was confronting a communal washing machine alone. I stood there in front of the foreboding thing, my eyebrows bunched together and my hands crossed tightly across my chest. Zelius (my helpful friend) stood by my side. "The card goes here," he said slowly and pointed.

"Okay," I said "and where do these go?"

I was holding up items other friends helped me buy when they became concerned at how dazed I looked at the grocery store.

Zelius stared at me. A second passed. Then three.

He took a deep breath and finally said, "You pour that here and those scented-sheets are for the dryer."

Dryer? It seemed that the adventure just kept getting more complicated. A spin, tumble and fold later I had finally learned how to do my own laundry. I guess this could come across like I'm "pampered." I'm not. Or more accurately, it depends how you look at it.

In Bahrain, we had a live-in housekeeper. Almost everyone I know there does. I can understand why some people here would think I'm rich and privileged. However, this is totally a matter of perspective and isn't necessarily accurate.

Markers of wealth differ from culture to culture. Having household help in Bahrain is not one of them. Well, let's just say it was difficult adapting to living outside my "comfort" zone (pun intended); but I have come a long way.

When I recently decided to move off of campus, I had to clean my room before inspection. My regular routine had consisted almost exclusively of vacuuming. That was just not going to cut it if I was looking to get my security deposit back. Thus started an exercise in finding the most random places that could accumulate dust and polishing like crazy.

'Battlefield: Bathroom' was about to begin.

I definitely didn't feel like royalty when I was down on my knees, scrubbing the back of my toilet-seat. Though, I was proud of myself. It felt like a tremendous amount of growth.
Next, was the bathroom mirror. How on earth do people ever get them to sparkle and shine anyway? The more I tried to clean it, the worse it got. I ended up sheepishly knocking on my neighbour's door for the Windex 101 mini-course.

I guess I still have some prince left in me after all.

Mo Canada will be back in January 2012! Happy holidays to everyone.

In a grimy New York subway station today, I had a revelation about life and all its misgivings: I no longer resent my body.

It's been quite the journey to get here—from Los Angeles to Japan.

Growing up, I've had my share of insensitive adults honoring me with highly unsolicited comments about my weight and appearance. Interestingly enough, those comments rarely came from American adults. Most were hints, comments, nudges, knowing looks from the Japanese adults in my parents' community. I was a normal-sized kid in America, but Japanese standards were not quite so forgiving.

Some lightly-intended comments, like those at a Christmas party when I was 10 or 11, have stayed with me for 20 years. I was sitting on the floor, bored with my card game while the adults ate and drank around the Christmas tree, when the small talk suddenly turned to me. My Dumbo ears perked up, ready to soak in the compliments of how beautiful I'd become, or how great a tennis player they heard I was, or at least that my dress was cute. Anything but what I heard.

A Japanese man, whom I had met maybe once in my life before, said in his attempt to be funny and/or friendly, "Yuki's (*my given name) gotten chubby, hasn't she? Last time I saw her..." Yes, yes, last time you saw me, I was a baby. I remember my father changing the subject quickly. He knew that I was so sensitive, it often, actually hurt.

I never forgot the silly comment.

Through high school and college, I tolerated my body without too much obvious dieting, to avoid looking vain. But beneath the surface was a self-image dying to find worth. I suppose I'm the only one surprised then, when I fell prey to an eating disorder and become so skinny it (of course) hurt, in my mid-twenties. Being on a tropical island alone, in a highly visible and demanding job, away from my parents and girlfriends who could check up on me, made it easy. All I did was stop eating.

When I landed in Japan at the age of 24 I was "healthy-sized", which, according to Japanese society, meant I needed to lose 20 to 30 pounds--the more the better. I learned this quickly.

But beneath the surface was a self-image dying to find worth.

Immediately upon arriving, I began teaching at an entertainment school in Okinawa. My job was to inspire impressionable teenagers who were paying good money to become performers, dancers, singers and actors. As I got to know my students, I found not many of them were actually going to be pop stars, and that they were the lucky ones. They had the potential to actually be unique and great. (But you can't tell that to a bunch of teenagers.)

The ones with 'potential' from an entertainment producer's point-of-view, on the other hand, had to live under constant scrutiny in an industry that enforced a cookie cutter ideal--the kawaii ideal. One flip through a Japanese fashion magazine in 2011 and it's immediately clear what the cute, or kawaii-minded Japanese culture expects girls to be. Rail thin, with a teeny tiny face, preferably half-Japanese and half-another ethnicity, with big, round eyes and eyelashes that flow for days, golden brown perfectly-tousled locks to match.

Merely dieting to achieve perfection is yesterday's news. Japanese girls must, in no particular order, primp, powder, press, curl, straighten, dye, bleach, yank, starve, squeeze, stretch, and master the most kawaii-inducing photo-taking angles.

On the outside, these girls are immaculately coiffed with curls that actually bounce, "you're like a doll" being a compliment in the culture (a symbol of beauty and eternal cuteness). But on the inside, a different story boils. I know, because I had the inside story.

I spent years getting to know these future pop stars, seeing the world through their eyes, effectively manipulated by the kawaii-loving Japanese society.

Suddenly, the comments from the Christmas party came back to haunt me. I couldn't ignore them any longer, chanting at me. Lose weight, you're fat, lose weight, this is Japan...as I began to yearn to be the perfect teacher, inside and out so the students and society would respect and admire me, I began to lose sight of everything else.

I was a perfectionist who, my mother says, buttoned my sweater all the way to the top before I was four years old. To add to this, I was over-watched, overworked and overstressed, needing to produce work constantly or risk being humiliated (which I often was) in public. It was ironic that I, the "teacher", begin dropping weight like mad, as if it were the only thing I could control (that is the delusion of eating disorders), while I ached to show my students to take better care of themselves. My frame grew frailer until I was hovering at about 100 pounds and my students began to worry about me. I had lost those 30 pounds for sure. But I had lost so much more.

Walking home from the subway station in New York today, I remembered in vivid detail how I let everyone around me dictate who I was.

As I sat in front of my students one morning, crying, I knew there had to be another way to live.

***
Next week: How I earned my students' trust, and changed my view of Japan.

Have you ever been at a dinner, a party, or any social gathering with Canadians where the topic of being a newcomer comes up? Since moving to Vancouver, I've noticed that people will often say something that leaves me feeling uncomfortable.

Here's an example of a conversation I had with a stranger at a a dinner gathering. We exchanged small talk—I was Egyptian Bahraini, she was Canadian. Then, the inevitable.

Stranger: "No way! Seriously? You must have studied in the States before though?"
Me: "Nope, this is actually my first time in North America or even outside the Middle East really."
Stranger: "Are you kidding me? But you speak English so well! Are you sure?"
Me: "Uh, yes. I'm sure."
Stranger: "But you don't have an accent!"
Me: "Oh really? Well I guess I don't."
Stranger: "I mean, like, how did you learn to speak like this?"
Me: "Well, uh, school, I guess. I'm educated?"
Stranger: "But like, you have no accent! Wow, you must have studied in an American school?"
Me: "Well, I did have some American and British teachers yes."
Stranger: "Wow, that's crazy! I can't believe you haven't been here before and you have no accent. Do other people there also speak English so well?"

I don't know how to respond to the statement, "But you speak English so well!" I don't really know, I just do. My accent just happened. It took me a while to get to where I'm at, for sure.

In Bahrain I was in an Indian school until grade four, then I moved to another school with an American curriculum school for a year, followed by a British school and then another American school (all in Bahrain).

Believe me, at one point my accent was a hodgepodge of all the above and it was not pretty.

During my school days in Bahrain.

But I never actively tried to perfect my English. Just ask me to say the word 'Wednesday' or a word with multiple 'T's in it, like 'tattletale'. Apparently, these words give me away. I am also definitely not an anomaly; most of my friends back home speak English like me, and some speak it even better.

So when people say, "But you speak English so well!" and expect me to justify my speaking ability, I don't really know what to say other than, "Yes, I know. I learned it at school."

This answer usually doesn't satisfy the person asking. Perhaps they were hoping that I had a cool story, like I was part of a C.I.A 'Arab de-accenting' experiment. That might explain why I don't fit their stereotype of Arabs speaking English, with rolling 'R's and guttural sounds. Unfortunately, the truth is I just paid more attention in English class because I was saving my zoning-out energy for math.

Has someone ever said "But you speak English so well!" to you? How did it make you feel?

In my junior year of college, I discovered that in Japan, "yes" doesn't always mean "yes," and "no" doesn't always mean "no."

I was living in the breathtaking city of Kyoto, one of the most elegant cities you will ever visit in the world. Hands down, no question. Poise and class are what the city prides itself on after all, as the former imperial capital of Japan. Elegance is not a choice. Tact is everyone's middle name there.

There I made a friend—one of my best friends today—an elegant girl of 20 or 21 at the time, with porcelain skin and strong opinions. She was always aware of her distance with others. Whether she was interacting with a friend, professor, boy of interest or boss, she seemed to me, always poised and perfectly prepared. Prepared to say yes—even when she really meant no.

Many Westerners may not understand the concept, and I studied said concept carefully but still cannot pull it off. When I say yes when I really mean no, people know I'm lying. But when a true Japanese person interacts in this manner, she is not being untruthful or manipulative, she is being smart. Meaning, she's prepared to exit a situation gracefully, never blatantly hurting anybody's feelings.

Back to my friend. A boy would ask her on a date, for example, and she would say no without saying no, and somehow, the boy would leave feeling as though he had not just been rejected.

Photo credit: KiKi

How did she just...? I thought to myself. Somehow my relationships in the States involved phones thrown at the wall, taxi doors and apartment doors and various other doors slamming, accompanied by an unhealthy dose of regret, anger, and not understanding why things never worked out for me.

As you might imagine, I had several run-ins in Japan. As a teacher, I was too direct in giving opinions to students. As a director, too demanding. As a twenty-something girl in Japanese society, too vocal and "unaware of my position in life." I was in a constant state of bewilderment, frustration, and disorientation.

And because I looked Japanese, I was expected to "know these things." I was expected to have layers and layers of conversation with a simple yes or no. It drove me mad.

With one foot on the next flight back to Los Angeles for years, I kicked and screamed in private, only cried sometimes in public, and with much humiliation and embarrassment in social and professional situations, began to slowly, occasionally meet humility at the door.


And because I looked Japanese, I was expected to "know these things."






This was when I first started to get it.

Even in Japan, when a relationship deepens, there comes a point where politeness makes way for directness, and honesty. What I didn't know was how difficult it is to earn the honesty of a Japanese person.

The more polite they are, the farther you have to travel for them to trust you. They need to feel safe with you, as they are a people who have, throughout history, been on guard. Protective of the little land they have. Vulnerable because of how small their country is and close their neighbors (and enemies) are. Thus, they take great care to be prepared. With over 127 million people in a country slightly smaller than the state of California (population 37 million), your neighbors are very, very close. Add to that being completely surrounded by ocean, and there's clearly no easy getaway when human relationships go awry. It's worthwhile then, to try to get along with those you meet, as you're likely to meet them over and over again.

But then one wonders...if people are forced to get along out of circumstance, how much of the niceness is authentic, and how much a façade?

Only the trained eye can tell.

Even after ten years of daily contact with the Japanese on their turf, I still held frequent Q&As in my head I wouldn't dare voicing for fear of appearing uncultured: Do you mean "yes," or do you mean "no?" Why don't you just say "no?" Because you said "yes," but you mean "no." And now I just don't "no," I mean, "know!"

As a tactful American (cue laugh), I was brought up to believe what I see is what I get, all bright colors and excessive production. We were brought up to react to everything as we see it, when we see it, exactly how we see it, brushing up pretty close to overreaction at every turn. From tears streaming down audience members' faces when Oprah announces her Favorite Things, to explosive fights on ego reality television, to lovestruck declarations of "the one!" we react without thinking.


...if people are forced to get along out of circumstance, how much of the niceness is authentic, and how much a facade?






I grew up in that camp too, but it all changed when I moved to Japan. A few years into my life there, I began to sense a peculiar resemblance between me—American girl in Japan—and a raging bull in a china shop.

No, Japanese people are not shy. There's just a thick layer of uncertainty and trepidation from everyone being too polite, all the time. To get to that trust—to what they're really feeling—is to know the Japanese for the first time.

I took several years, but I earned that trust. The people I was interacting with began showing their emotions, crying, getting angry, being openly vulnerable with me.

Ironically enough, I had done it the American way.

***
Next week: Getting to the truth: my body image from the US to Japan.

Live-blogging from Reel Asian International Film Festival in Toronto, Schema was able to attend and record an interview with Hong Kong director and actor Derek Tsang. Film journalist Alice Shih discusses Tsang's Chinese Canadian roots, filming in various countries, being nominated for best director at Taipei's Golden Horse Film Festival and growing up in the shadow of his celebrity father, Eric Tsang.

Related Links
For more about Derek Tsang, visit his artist profile on AliveNotDead.com/DerekTsang.

Related Posts on Schema
Schema's first podcast from Reel Asian 2011: Interviews with Aram Collier and Jennifer Chan.
Check out Schema's Reel Asian Film Festival 2011 coverage.

The following is a photo essay by Brandon Woo, Vania Hung, Lucien Lu, Grace Ho, Kevin Wang and Jessica Chow. Their artist statements are incorporated into the slideshow.

Artists' Statement:
Just Me was inspired by high school culture. It focuses on the high school stereotypes that are assumed to be the reality. It's about how despite how much one appears to embody a typical stereotype, they will always be an individual. We wanted to communicate how the outside is not always an exact reflection of the internal. Just Me is about how judging by appearance is an unrealistic interpretation of a person.

As high schoolers struggling to fit into the puzzle of acceptance, we wanted to get people thinking about what it would feel like to walk in somebody else's shoes. The shoes in our video are the same for every stereotypical character to symbolize understanding the importance of self identity. Our main message in this movie is that everybody is unique, and nobody should be automatically assumed to be a stereotype. We hope that our movie would provoke more thoughts about what it really means to belong, normal, and just you.

Artists' Statement:
Media and society are in a more vigorous cycle today than ever before, due to technology's growing role in our world. In the past, media is still defined to be cultural expectations as to how certain groups of people are supposed to look, talk, dress and essentially, live. Whether we live in Vancouver, British Columbia, or in Bali, Indonesia, the media is constantly around us, whether we realize its influence.

Media keeps track of everything that people want to have, whether it's a certain pair of shoes, clothes, or a different body shape. It then throws our wants right back to us to make us think that what we want is actually what we need. In our video we want to portray how media progresses through time with the contribution of technology and social media networks that let society be directly involved and able to contribute their ideas to media.

To fully understand the effect that media has on society today, it's vital to also recognize that society influences media more today than it ever has before. If we have made you think, even a little, about the two-way relationship between society and media, then we will consider ourselves successful in achieving our goal.

The following film was created by Noor Hewaidi, Maria Kim, Nancy Cheng, Steve Yang, and Eileen Siow.

The first of several podcasts from Toronto's Reel Asian International Film Festival.

Celebrating its 15th anniversary, we talk to industry series director Aram Collier. and Channel Zero VP and board member Jennifer Chan.

Related Links
Check out this awesome video from the opening event of Choir!Choir!Choir! singing K-Ci & Jo's All My Life.

Related Posts on Schema
Schema's second podcast from Reel Asian 2011: Interview with Derek Tsang.
Check out Schema's Reel Asian Film Festival 2011 coverage.

Community organizer, father, and now political hopeful RJ Aquino is running as a COPE candidate for Vancouver city council in the November 19 election. Aquino sat down with Schema Magazine to talk about his cultural identity, community work, and path to politics.

Aquino moved from the Philippines to San Francisco when he was 11 years old, and then to Vancouver when he was 17. As the new kid in high school, he received a fair bit of attention from the ladies until one day a classmate told him she would never date him because he was Filipino. He quickly discovered she saw young Filipino men as drug-dealing, clubbing, materialistic basketball players that loved hip-hop and had no plans for the future. Other than his love for hip-hop, Aquino definitely didn't fit the bill. Looking for positive role models that broke this stereotype sparked his fascination in cultural identities and exploring his own.

After traveling extensively in the Philippines in 2005 and 2009, Aquino realized how important it was for Filipinos abroad, especially young people, to understand their culture. Along with a friend, Jay Catalan, Aquino started the organization Tulayan as a way to connect Filipinos in Vancouver to their heritage and history.

His involvement within his community sparked an interest in politics.

"Working with a lot of immigrant communities, the recurring theme is that issues that affect Filipinos affect other communities, affect first generation to seventh generation Canadians," Aquino said.

RJ Aquino at a protest of a Denny's Restaurant in March 2011 over its treatment of Filipino temporary foreign workers. Source: brentgranby

Ultimately, it was the birth of his daughter in January the spurred him to enter the municipal race. He described it as a "paradigm shift" in how he saw the future, underscoring the need for positive role models and people committed to change.

Here, some highlights from our conversation on his path to politics.

How has your family influenced you to be politically active?

They haven't—that's the thing. I am the odd one out. In my family, politics is discussed by the older folks but usually in contempt or disdain. It was that pessimism and cynicism that got to me. One day I spoke to my uncle and asked him, "Why don't you do something about it?"

"I'm too old" was his response. And I thought maybe I should do something about it now while I am young so I don't have that excuse.

What got you involved in your community?

I asked myself the question: Why are Filipino males lacking ambition and is there a positive Filipino role model? And during that time the answer was no. That got me thinking and really led to me analyze the state of affairs when it comes to positive cultural identification.

These are not themes specific to the Filipino community. There are themes that occur in any culture and any community. This is something that young people, that have grown up outside of their home countries, "hyphenated Canadians" I should say, ask themselves. One of the things I sought to do is increase our knowledge and understanding in placing these stereotypes into context. That was one of the reasons with a friend, Jay Catalan, we started the organization Tulayan which in Tagalog means to bridge.

At a Filipino flag raising event in Vancouver. Source: RJ Aquino for City Hall

Why did you choose to enter municipal politics, over federal or provincial politics?

I am a very results-oriented guy in my professional life. Looking at all three levels of government, I have seen that municipal politics have the most immediate impact on people's lives. That's what appealed to me.

I had a choice to look at the three different municipal parties and I have friends in acquaintances in all three parties. It turned out that COPE lined up with my principles and I was immediately drawn to what they stood for and what they fought for.

They've kept this up without becoming beholden to special interests. You're only commitment is to the membership and ultimately you are serving the residents of the city.

Do you think there is an "ethnic vote" in Vancouver? How do you feel about that term?

If you want to say there are a lot of Chinese people, a lot South Asian people and a lot Filipino people voting, yes that's an ethnic vote. I want to make sure people vote on the issues and for the person ultimately and that they don't vote just because someone is Chinese or Filipino.

I made a decision to run but I wasn't thinking I should run because I am Filipino. I wanted to run because I want to continue to work to make Vancouver a better place taking the lessons I learned in the Filipino community and applying them to the rest of the city.

I have encountered people who have said you are now the token "ethnic vote-getter." Which is unfortunate because that is not the case. I think we are past that now as a city. We are realizing that it's not about your specific community.

Aquino at Occupy Vancouver with COPE Councilor Ellen Woodsworth. Source: Coalition of Progressive Electors

How do you get people engaged in the political process beyond just voting?

A lot of people see voting as "Oh, I've done my part." What people need to see is yes, you have voted and expressed your democratic privilege. In a democracy the person with the most votes is the elected official. Now it is up to you to hold their feet to the fire.

If you don't like what they are doing, let them know. Mobilize enough opinion to make sure that they are going to want to do something about it.

Ideally, what kind of city would you want your daughter to grow up in?

A city where she is able to be proud of her heritage and feel comfortable sharing or promoting her culture.

Being able to live in the city where the availability of opportunity is equal to everybody. Availability of opportunity means people can pursue what interests them and fulfills them so they can be a contributing member of a society. That makes the city all the more richer.

One last question, what's the last song on your iPod?

I don't think if this is coincidence or not but it's Politik by Coldplay.

Related Links
For more on RJ Aquino and his politics, visit his official website rjaquino.ca.

RJ Aquino's nomination speech (Source: alcantada)

***
Sadiya Ansari is a Pakistani-born, Canadian-raised UBC journalism student who loves politics—near and far. You can follow her @SadiyaAnsari.

One day, I was working out with a friend of mine. We had been there for quite some time, when out of nowhere, a gym employee came up to me.

"Excuse me," she said. She was holding my Bahraini national I.D. card and looked puzzled. "Is this really your name?" she asked, a little inflection of amused surprise in her voice.

"Yes..?" I said, wiping the torrential sweat off my forehead.

"No way!" she dropped her jaw in disbelief. "Can you read it out to me? How do you say it?"

Oh right. The name. I should have known that's what this was about. You see, my name has become quite the conversation starter.

It's always with a little glee that people who know me ask me to bring out my I.D. in gatherings. "Take a look at Mohamed's name," they say to an unsuspecting new friend.

It's become quite funny actually. Sometimes when a conversation lulls and I don't know the person too well, I tend to whip out my card.

"Hey, have I ever shown you my full name?"

Yup, in Canada I use my name as an ice-breaker.

To help you better understand, let me introduce my name to you. You might want to take a deep breath if you're going to read this out loud. Here we go: Mohamed Ahmed Abdelghaffar Ateya Ebrahim Algarf.

Think it's a little long? Allow me to explain. This was the result of a family feud. My mother wanted to name me one name, my father another and each of my three sisters had a suggestion. Eventually, everyone was exasperated and they decided to name me all of them.

Gotcha!

I explain this quite often so I might as well have some fun. But here's the real answer: Mohamed is my first name and Algarf is my surname. The whole name is my paternal lineage. Ahmed is my father, Abdelghaffar is my grandfather, etc. Lineage is very important in Arab culture because family is highly valued. It's the way things are there, I guess we all have longer names. In fact, I had always assumed that this was the standard everywhere. In Vancouver, people's names came as a shock to me. When I'm asked for my full name I don't start reciting this roster—I say Mohamed Algarf. So I pretty much assumed that it was the same thing here and that people introduced themselves with their abbreviated name.

My first time seeing a Canadian passport with just three names was quite the shock, but I think some Canadians remain much more startled by my name. My favorite question I get about it is, "How do kids even memorize their names?"

My answer is: one name at a time, my friend, one name at a time.

What about you? Have you ever gotten confused reactions to your name? Have you ever been in a situation where you had to explain it?

When I was 24, I went back to my birth country in search of a childhood romance.

It started when I was about eight years old and visiting my grandparents in Tokyo over Christmas. My grandfather called my young brothers and me out into the yard to show us a sheet of ice that had formed in a bucket overnight. Having grown up in Southern California where ice is created by a machine called the freezer, this was a delicate glimpse into a world I was not accustomed to.

It was also a moment where my strict Japanese grandfather, who rarely smiled or chatted, opened up to his grandchildren. He was neither expressive nor affectionate, but I knew in that moment that he adored us. He was not taught in his life to hug affectionately to express his love. So he showed us some ice.

There were many moments like this in my childhood, but I buried the memories in the back of my head so I could go to the mall with my American friends. As I grew up, I held on to these memories. I could never shake the romantic image of the country of my birth.


It was also a moment where my strict Japanese grandfather, who rarely smiled or chatted, opened up to his grandchildren.






Nihon (Japan) was a word that was twirled around our household regularly, a word which brought to mind lime green melon sodas with vanilla ice cream, milk delivered every morning in glass bottles to my grandparents' house, the fresh smell of tatami mats, my favorite raisin rolls from the corner bakery.

And with those material things or foods come the memories, the history, and most of all, the explanations of who I was, and why I was.

So there I was ten years ago, a 24 year old Japanese American at Naha Airport in Okinawa, two refrigerator-sized suitcases in tow. The compact Japanese woman who met me at the airport glanced nervously at her compact Japanese car, and I knew I had to start making adjustments immediately.

I was Los Angeles-bred and college-educated. I was bilingual, ambitious, and my ego was supersized, just like my bags. I thought I was ready for Japan—until the Japanese woman next to me started speaking quickly into her phone. I had no idea what she was saying.

Sunset in Okinawa.

Wait..what? I'm fluent in Japanese! What is this woman speaking? If I had done a little bit of homework, I would have known the Okinawans had a painful history with a dialect all their own, though the main language spoken now is Japanese. The woman on the phone was speaking the traditional Okinawan language, as many in the older generation still do out of habit and pride.

Obviously, I wasn't in Japan to "learn about my roots." The fact was, I had a good teaching job lined up and Okinawa sounded like the Japanese version of Hawaii. I would learn quickly what living on a tropical island really means - storms and humidity.

I had no clue what I was searching for exactly. I had quit my job, sold my Volkswagen Beetle (plastic pink flower in the plastic vase and all), moved out of our run-down Santa Monica apartment with the creaking floors and drunken memories, said goodbye to my carefree single life in Los Angeles, and packed my bags.

My American-made suitcases didn't last long, but my romance with Japan—with its many heartbreaks along the way—lasted ten years.

***
Next week: My heartbreaks in Japan.

As Occupy Wall Street continues this week in New York City, Desiree Lim has other occupants in mind while promoting her latest film The House. It's the story of Jean Kaneko (played by Natalie Skye), a Wall Street banker who leaves New York—only to find ghosts occupying her new house in Vancouver. The Vancouver-based filmmaker spoke with Schema Magazine on the phone about the film and her career as a 'cross-cultural, cross-gender' filmmaker.

The House is already getting offers from American distributors, an unusual experience for the independent filmmaker. She's a veteran of limited releases and shoestring budgets.

"It's probably the straightest film I've ever made," she said. "My work has always been very diverse, like black, white, brown, all kinds of colours in the characters."

Desiree Lim talks about The House

Lim gives me her backstory: born and raised as a second-generation Chinese in Malaysia, she moved to Japan in high school. She lived in Japan for the next decade, studying journalism in university in Japan, where she started making experimental and narrative shorts.

Her career began at Japan's TV Asahi as an associate producer and news director, documentary and lifestyle shows but she always kept an interest in narrative storytelling, and after five years in the corporate world, she became a freelance director. Her debut TV feature film in 2001 was called Sugar Sweet. It was the first lesbian commercial feature by a queer filmmaker in Japan. In an interview with Fridae magazine, she described how she was dismayed at the exploitative marketing—it was sold as a "sexual" film to straight male audiences.

Desiree Lim with The House star Natalie Skye.

Overall, she says she was pleased at the critical and audience acclaim the film received in film festivals worldwide and the fact that she was able to bring an "honest, in-your-face portrayal of female sexuality" to the screen."

The same year Sugar Sweet debuted, Lim arrived in Vancouver. She felt culture shock at the whiteness of Canadian media.

"I was actually very shocked," she said. "We don't have our stories on screen."

But Lim had come at an opportune time. Local broadcasters like CHUM and CityTV were beginning to produce and fund work by visibile minority filmmakers. Her first short, Out for Bubble Tea, first aired on CityTV in 2005, a comedy about Chinese immigrants hanging out at a bubble tea house talking about their lives.

Since then, Lim thinks mainstream media narratives have gotten a little less white and less straight. She cites shows like Will & Grace, The L Word, and Six Feet Under. But she insists these are small victories.

True to her roots, Lim's upcoming project is a romantic drama about a middle-aged woman falling for a younger woman.

"Putting queer stories out there, having people of colour as lead characters— that's always going to be a part of me."

Related Posts on Schema
VAFF 2011 Review: The House

Related Links

The House official trailer.

The House premiers at the Vancouver Asian Film Festival on Sunday Nov 6 at 5 PM in the Cineplex Odeon International Village Cinema in Vancouver.

For more of Desiree, visit Desiree Lim's official website.

***
Patricia Lim is managing editor for Ricepaper magazine and a part-time librarian. She likes to meet weirdly interesting people and attend artsy events to stretch her mind. You can see what she writes on Twitter @ricepapermag.

With Eid al-Adha around the corner on Monday November 7, I remember how I spent my first Eid in Canada last year—I ate burritos.

If you don't know about Eid, let me explain what it is, and how I usually celebrate it in Bahrain (hint: not with burritos).

Twice a year, Arabs and Muslims around the world are swept up in a festive fervor for Eid. There's Eid al-Adha (also known as Feast of Sacrifice or Festival of Sacrifice), and Eid al-Fitr (also known as Feast of Fast-Breaking or the Lesser Feast). The dates for the two Eids change each year based on the Islamic calendar.

Much like Christmas in the 'Western' world, there's no way you could miss it. The sense of celebration is palpable everywhere you go and with everyone you meet.

When I lived in Bahrain, celebrating Eid was one of the highlights of the year for my eight nephews and nieces. Every year, there would be a new outfit for each day of the holiday, and they were always super excited. The older kids would walk into my father's house, where we all gathered, and beam with pride as they showed off their new clothes. The younger kids would be dressed in what their parents had painstakingly chosen as the most gush-worthy ensembles.

As the children got more and more excited, we would ask them all to quiet down. They would look at each other, grin and sit cross-legged on the floor. They knew they'd each get one gift. In the past few years, they've gotten everything from toys to live turtles.

My nieces and nephews in Bahrain, getting gifts during Eid.

As you get older, you would get an 'eid-eya', a holiday allowance. In my family's tradition, we would then usually go have dinner together somewhere nice. It always seemed as if the whole country was out and about. The roads would be crowded, people would look and smell their best and almost every child looked like they were high on joy.

After eating with my family, I would usually meet my friends to hang out, smoke some hookah or party.

...So now you see why my friends scoffed in disbelief at how I spent my first Eid in Canada.

Honestly, if it weren't for my Facebook newsfeed I would've forgotten. I asked two Muslim friends of mine if we could have lunch together. Being three international students and away from home, we all got quite excited at the idea. The three of us walked around campus trying to decide where to eat. We eventually landed in a burrito restaurant. After making the tough decision of whether I want to go with chicken or beef, the three of us sat down and chatted. The conversation was very interesting.

We talked about different Islamic interpretations, stereotypes of Muslims and our personal views. I was really glad I didn't have to spend my first Canadian Eid alone, even if I was broke, gift-less and staring at a menu with words that I couldn't understand ("What is a 'tamale' anyway?").

With my friends at the burrito restaurant for Eid.

Nevertheless, my mind kept drifting to what my family was doing and what surprises my sisters had planned for the kids. I wondered if my friends were at our favorite Karaoke bar, singing our signature songs. I also couldn't help thinking that if I was with family, I would've gotten an 'eid-eya' and the choice of whether to buy another burrito or not wouldn't have been so difficult.

But this year, I'm more prepared.

I had flown back to Bahrain this past August and managed to catch Eid-al-Fitr with my family. As I savored every moment of the celebrations, I had come to a realization: Eid is about the sharing. It's about sharing food, laughter and happiness. Eid is about family: the one you were born with or the one you create along the way. This past year I've formed a Canadian family—a group of people from around the world I've come to love and cherish.

This Eid, I'm having them over for a potluck.

I'm going to decorate my apartment and take a wild stab at cooking some of my favorite Eid dishes (or more realistically, panic in the background as my roommates try to salvage the situation). I'm always going to miss spending Eid with my actual family and friends in Bahrain and Egypt. But Vancouver is a third home now, and it's about time I start my own ritual here.

I wonder if at one point, years from now, if I'll look back and feel a bittersweet pang when I think of my first Eid potluck. I sure hope I do.

Until then, I might even make a burrito lunch on the first day of Eid mandatory!

What about you? Have you had to adapt any of your celebrations or festivities in a new city or a new country? Did you manage to make the event your own while holding on to traditions that you love?

I'd love to hear from you.