How indifference to differences can get a little… weird

I know that this sounds like the first half of a joke, but seriously, what’s up with people not seeing things like color, gender, or weight?

Let me repeat: what’s up with people not SEEING color, gender, or weight? It’s nice to know that people are beginning to treat others equally, or at least claim such, but don’t pretend that differences aren’t there entirely. It makes you look like you’re hiding something. Or you’re just insufferably awkward.

If someone is black, someone is black. There doesn’t have to be attachments or undertones to that statement. People try to step around or gurgle “black” because acknowledging and saying the actual word “black” is supposed to be racist or something. It’s not. It’s a fact.

Stop defying sound, natural observations because you are uncomfortable for some unsaid or said reason. And it’s also not a matter of juggling political correctness. It’s a matter of being plain weird.

I have some examples. One is in real life. And another from popular culture.

So, my boyfriend and I watch the show Louie. We don’t have FX, so it’s excruciating, but worth it to buy the new episodes off Netflix. Actor Louis C.K. writes, directs, and is the star of his own show. It’s one of my favorite things I can get my grubby fingers on when it comes to television. I wish I had a t-shirt with Louis C.K.’s face on it, that’s how much I love him.

If you know anything about C.K., you know he’s a realist and tells things like they are. There is no place C.K. doesn’t go—from farts and jacking off to divorce, depressive tendencies, and class differences—nothing is truly off limits for him. Sometimes, his honesty is painful to look at or so unfortunately true, you can’t help but laugh. Even when he’s being distasteful, it’s done tastefully, which makes for a genius of a comedian.

There’s an episode off the most recent season in which Louie (Louis C.K.) goes on a date with Vanessa (played by actress Sarah Baker), a fat girl—a hilarious, charming, intelligent, and cute fat girl at that.

But she’s still a fat girl. Thus, it takes a lot of work for Vanessa to score a date with Louie, himself a round fellow who runs into rejection a lot. But she still has to court his favor because like the majority of people still stuck in the physical portion of first impression mode, Louie isn’t interested.

Louie determines that she is undateable, which is not to be confused with unfuckable. Sure Louie would fuck her, she points out, but he would have a harder time with getting to know her a on relationship level because she’s fat. And when she calls herself fat, Louie says “no, you’re not fat” because he is uncomfortable, and that’s what uncomfortable people say. That’s a lie, and she calls him out on it. She’s disappointed in him because the lie contradicts what he stands for, or what she thought to be true about him, one of the reasons she was attracted to him in the first place.

See scene for yourself. Awesome stuff.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8KiRrqrlZc

This is what makes this show brilliant, not to mention gut-bustingly funny. It calls human nature out on its bullshit when it thinks it’s being completely transparent.

…which is why I’m confused about something very pertinent to the show. It’s not an episode at all. It’s a casting decision.

So here’s my question: why is Louie’s ex-wife, Janet (played by Susan Kelechi Watson) on the show black? Or the reverse question: why are Louie’s children on the show not interracial? I’m not mad. I’m not pulling a racist card on Louis C.K. But on a logical level, why is this not so?

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The show is good. The writing is good. The acting is good. But still, the discrepancy is distracting. It pulls me out of the viewer/story experience, and the plausibility of a character(s) in a show that aims to be as raw real life as possible.

I’m not the first person to ask this question or its opposite. I sure as hell know everyone is thinking it, but they either don’t care or are afraid to address it, just on the off chance it’s racist, which it’s not.

Actually, the topic was publically addressed in a Jimmy Kimmel Live interview. When asked why he chose a black actress to play the mother of his white children, C.K. responded, “If the character works for the show, I don’t care about the racial.” This in my opinion is the equivalent to “I do what I want.” And that’s cool; it IS his show.

But I don’t buy that. C.K. is a keen observer, a more careful creator than that. I believe his casting choice to be a social experiment on viewers. Maybe he is daring viewers to see past color.

And this is great on a wider cultural, social level, but doesn’t add up on the basic 1+1 level. It’s weird, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s common for C.K. to be weird, but he usually somehow explains his weirdness. So… I feel like I’m missing something.

My follow-up question is: if you could use a fat girl to convey a message, why can’t you use a black woman to convey a message, too? Or an interracial family? Those would not only make more basic sense, but could be used to address real color issues THAT STILL EXIST. I feel like the show is missing out on these elements that could make it that much better.

A second example has to do with a webinar I attended for work recently. I won’t go into any specifics because I’d like to keep my job and feed my family (my boyfriend, my bird, and myself). The host of the webinar works for a company in the industry I work in and for. The topic was on attracting and retaining women in an industry that is predominately male. The people attending the webinar, keep in mind, were WOMEN IN THE INDUSTRY. Also, keep in mind “Women in Industry” was in the title and description. He didn’t miss the literal memo.

So, I was confused when he spent the majority of his interview sweating to be politically correct about gender. I felt that it was distracting and defeated the whole purpose of the presentation. He continued to clarify himself after every question, which all began with something like: “What do you think women in the industry…”

Basically the host reinforced that there is no difference between male and female employees. He cleared his throat and bumbled over the actual word “women.” Over and over again. I began to feel bad for the guy.

I thought, okay… that’s great that you are at the point of acceptance, at least for rhetoric’s sake, but the reality of it is that women are asking questions on behalf of themselves and other women so they may further themselves in the workplace. They are the target audience here, so you don’t have to tiptoe around the fact that they are clearly women.

Another fact: there still is inequality between men and women in the workplace because women are still paid less and are still less likely to hold positions of power, particularly at an executive level.

If we want to promote women in the workplace we have to first simply acknowledge that they are indeed women (not men) and also accept that they need more of a boost. Being a woman in a male dominated industry should be taken as an advantage. I’m not saying we should throw a parade every time a woman gets hired in this industry, but still some acknowledgement on the strides and tangible examples of excelling professional women would be helpful in bringing more women in (the objective).

Going into deeper meaning of things: not seeing in color, gender, or weight (for example) may sound ideal, but in my humble opinion, it actually does more harm than good. It takes away from the whole uniqueness, diversity, and celebration aspect. It makes us seem like we’re all the same when we are clearly not (and that’s a good thing!).

It also says “We are now wiping our hands clean of isms or ists because, guess what, those things no longer exist. We’re good now. Everyone is on the same page about equality.” Nope, this is simply not true.

Denying differences may pave a smoother road for more passive forms of isms.  These forms are not blatantly aggressive or hurtful, but they still always stick out like a sore thumb. I just don’t think it will do us good to waltz around differences, ignore them, or pretend they don’t exist. Maybe I’m just being a pain in the ass, but I remember when it was cool to embrace our own and each other’s differences.

I’m going to write

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“I’m going to write tomorrow. I’ll wake up early, you’ll see,”

I told my couch ridden boyfriend whose sight was set on bed.
He lulled his neck like a banana, spilling its peel over a paisley pillow.
His mouth stretched a yawn, a long “sounds good, babe.”

It’s tomorrow,
and my alarm sounds like dandelion seeds clinking softly against wind.
Whoever made this ringtone hit SNOOZE on commonsense, I think
as I pile the words NEW CLOCK WEEKEND
on the pad of paper I keep on my nightstand.

Just in case I dream in stories.

Like the one about the earring farm.
The land the farm sat on was neither flat nor hilly.
It was more like a platform of air, of nothingness, really.
There I was plowing a spaceless field for delicate droplets of jewelry.
The sky was knitting a blanket above me.
The clouds were orange as Dreamsicles.
Then suddenly they shifted to storminess.
And then the clouds began to fold around me.
I was tossed into a basket of swirling scenery.
I tussled about like soiled laundry
around and around.
I couldn’t catch my breath,
started to claw my way out,
but my arms were like plucked weeds,
useless, tired without the ground…

WAKE UP. TIME TO GET UP.
(Sweat. Dandelion seeds chime.)

I take mental notes on my slumber.
Just in case I know what it means,
how to de-discombobulate dreams.

No frets, I’m going to write.
I’ll skip breakfast, I say.

Instead, my eye catches the sink, dirty as an unfiltered fish tank,
the drowning dishes call for help and utility.
There’s one fork left in a drawer shy of spoons.

My car door slams shut.
I’m the hellbound bat dipping in and out of lanes.
At a red light, I smear on eyeliner.
Maybe I can jot down a few lines before

“Good morning, everyone.”

There’s a week left until the magazine prints,
so we race like white rabbits,
pit patter on the keyboards

until we fall into a state of dizzy busyness.

The air is a 9 to 5 kind of dry.
Every now and then someone coughs,
or looks out the window to detect rain.

“Weatherman said sunny, mid-70’s.”
“Yup. Hopefully it warms up. I’m slightly cold.”

I have to urinate despite my lack of water.

As I edit, I can hear pounding through the drywall.
Our neighbors work with metal, or rocks they throttle
into the thin borders between us.

I respond to emails from other realms.

Dear so and so,

I am writing to you because I’m interested in your company’s story. I would like to set a time to talk to you, so I can write about how awesome you are.

I will jump through hoops to meet your schedule.

Regards, sincerely, best.

Name
Lengthy, important title
Address
Phone number
Here, have my cell too.
Email
I’m on Twitter.
And LinkedIn
And Facebook
The End.

Lunch time breeds freedom, the nourishment of words
I’m going to write then.

I sit on a wooden bench with a recycled notebook open on my lap
The lines on the page entice me, whisper secrets in my pen’s ears.
I turn to the first leaf, and breathe in until I can feel my bellybutton.

Where was I again?

My phone rings.
It’s my sister from the other side of Illinois,
the cornstalks, no burbs with freshly renovated parks,
large mall lots, or helicopter parents in Sedans.
She’s away at school for the first time.
She says she’s homesick and needs money.
I talk to her like a mom who knows better,
and I can hear her roll her eyes through the phone.

We strike up a deal,
I’ll send her a pot so she can cook spaghetti.

FINALLY,
I bow my head downward to the white space.
“I’m going to write,” are my first lines.

“How about a drink of water, Max?”
asks this silver haired woman to her bulldog.
I look up and watch her pick up her dog,
lean her body against the fountain,
and let him lap from the flowing faucet.
“Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”

The next time I sit down to write,
I juggle raviolis for dinner, gulp coffee
in uncomfortable lumps,
read text messages from people
I’ve ignored throughout the day.

I use the last of my words to explain.

I say the same word over and over.
I try to teach my bird how to talk.
Her feathers ruffle her annoyance;
I tell her not be cheeky.
“Say hello, Khaleesi.
Hello. Hello. Hello.”

I flip on the T.V. and let whatever’s on fill my ears.

The door creaks open, and my boyfriend wipes his feet on WELCOME.

He sniffs the air, asks what’s cooking,
how my day was, if I wrote.

I tell him almost,

I’m going to write tomorrow,
I’ll wake up early, you’ll see.