Not Down With the Brown

NOT DOWN WITH THE BROWN

There were definitely close encounters, but nothing ever came to fruition.   My friends and I couldn’t understand this.  We were beautiful educated fashionable girls, these were young male musicians.  Doesn’t that automatically equate with a hookup?  My friend Taschka and I would dissect this inconsistency, because things just didn’t add up.  Could it be they were just not into ethnic girls? 

We began breaking down the evidence.  These included the following questions: Who did these guys previously date?  If they once dated someone brown, they would be more likely again to  be open to eyeing you as a viable option.  Who was in their circle of friends?  Who were their celebrity crushes?  Was it someone who was truly ethnic, or the whitest ethnic girl out there that everyone loved, who was passable and acceptable?  What types of girls were in their music videos?  Who were their musical influences?  Were they strictly into hard core classic rock and roll bands like Led Zepplin or would they sample from Michael Jackson?  What part of the country were they from, and what was the white to ethnic ratio in that town?  How would dating an ethnic girl impact their reputation?  Would it be scandalous if they were photographed by paparazzi with a brown girl?  When meeting them, was there any flirtation or was it simply cordial thank you from an artist to a fan?  Could they dance with real rhythm? Were they themselves some type of ethnic minority? 

It was relieving to have this conversation aloud.  For many years I thought this, but never had the courage to say it.   If it was mentioned to white friends, the topic was minimized.  “What are you talking about?  You’re beautiful, your race doesn’t matter.”  At times in Ohio, I would talk with my longtime friend Lisa who was full Filipino and we may joke about it, but there were so few minorities in our town.  We viewed ourselves in Ohio as these rare find commodities, such as vintage classic cars.  Nobody owns them, they’re just on display to oohh and ahh at because they’re unique.  Using humor about our brown pride was easier than actually taking in the fact that people may not be interested us because of our race.

My mom, who was full Filipino, mentioned that when she dated my Caucasian dad in Ohio during the late 70’s, he refused to hold her hand in public because of their racial differences.  He feared being ridiculed, and that took priority over my mom’s potential need for affection.  I was surprised this wasn’t a larger issue in the home, as they were still married at the time.  But this was reality and normality for many interracial couples.  Prior to the 1950s interracial dating was illegal in many states in America.  This wasn’t so long ago. I still felt racial tension and a sense of not being fully accepted by my paternal grandmother who lived in small town Pennsylvania.  Growing up in Ohio, why wasn’t this more in the forefront of my upbringing?  

But now that I was in Los Angeles, I was having this conversation with a friend who thought the same way but was from another race.  Many of my friends in Los Angeles were ethnic minorities and we would have group discussions about this.  We may daydream of these white boys, but in reality did we even stand a chance?  Making them like us was out of the question.  All we could do was study why they may not be physically attracted to us or never allow themselves to even think of dating us. 

I was already doing a doctoral project on the multiracial identification process.  This type of conversation was in some ways an extension of this.   Acceptance of interracial dating, led to interracial marriage, and multiracial babies.  It was all connected. 

I remember my Greek/Cyrean friend Michelle tried to get me to be part of the tv show Blind Date.  This show was on from the late 1990’s to mid 2000’s.  I believe it was based out of Burbank, and my friend who dragged me to the casting call was living in Burbank at the time.  It was not to be one of the main people who chose a date, but so you could be part of the Blind Date’s database system.  I had gone in one day, with a small line of other young men and women, whose faces would grace the selection process.  The normal questions were asked: age, profession, city you were raised in.  Then the kicker question came in, what races would you be open to dating? I admitted to being flexible, and I know for a fact Michelle had said the same thing.  She definitely did not discriminate, and actually preferred chocolate men. Almost everyone else present in the room on that day, solely said Caucasian. 

Remind you, I was in the room, and I definitely wasn’t pure white.  People didn’t care, if they were going to be on a dating show, they wanted to ensure they would be paired with someone they could be attracted to, and this was another white person.  I believe Michelle was called to do the show, but chose to not follow up as she didn’t want her personal life displayed on tv for the world to see, even if it was only for one episode.  I was never called to be anyone’s date on the show, probably because I didn’t fit their criteria.  I was on the path to getting my doctorate by the age I turned 25, but there was something I couldn’t change no matter how educated I was, how much money I made, or how beautiful and thin I was.  I was not white.  I didn’t follow the conversation up with Michelle, as I didn’t think she would understand.  She was white and never experienced this type of dating discrimination, and she was romantically open minded. 

I did bring the recent casting call up to my ethnic friends, and we further used the topic of white hot male celebrities as our main topic, but this later catapulted to other normal hot white guys.  Some of my friends who grew up in Los Angeles felt a strong attraction to white guys, but felt this would never be realized because they were either a mixture of African American, Asian, or Latin.  My friend Jennie, who is Korean, took the topic further saying “White guys don’t like me because I look too FOB.  And I don’t have white girlfriends.  White people just don’t like me.”   

Although having these conversations felt validating, it was sad.  How could we be young beautiful women and have such insecurities?  But in truth, there could be reality to this.  And it was out of our control.  The only thing we could control was our potential knowledge and dissection of the topic as it pertained to each individual crush.  Having this in depth discussion and exploration of race in America further solidified our bond.

One thing that’s amazing about living in cities like Los Angeles or New York, is the top 100 beautiful men that People names you could run into at your local coffee shop.  Where many women throughout America, only drool and dream at this opportunity, we can actually have this happen.  The downfall to this, is that after you have so many runins with a crush, it becomes evident that this will always be an unrequited love.  The fantasy you have is murdered, by the fact that they never flirted with you.  I used to think, if I only met this person, they would fall head over heels in love with me and entranced by my charm.  But that never did occur.   Hence crushes on celebs begin to diminish. 

This became our deductive conclusion for all celebrities we may have run ins with, Maroon 5, Phantom Planet, Tony Lucca, John Mayer, and the boys from N Sync.  We were beautiful amazing women, who happened to be ethnic.  If they couldn’t see that, they must only be into white girls.  Disregard the fact that these guys maybe were in committed relationships, or weren’t our stereotypical male whores, or just weren’t into us.  No they just weren’t into ethnic girls.

Shortly after my LA years, the book “He’s just not that into you” came out.  It was meant to contain hilarious dating advice written by a white male.  One topic this book and many other dating books fail to include was the topic of race.  My friends and I commonly used this phrase, but tweaked it “he’s just not into ethnic girls.” Plain and simple.   Similar to the book, if he’s not into you why waste your time feigning over a man that lacks interest, admit defeat, and move on.  Don’t waste your time and heart for a battle that never will be won.  Same is true if “he’s just not into ethnic girls,” don’t try to convert him to be down with the brown.  Wasted energy and heartache.  If he’s not even open to getting your phone number, he will never take you home to meet his WASP family.  Refocus everything on someone who genuinely be into you and the color of your skin.   

I ensured later the men I dated felt appreciation for me and my skin.  There would be days where I felt like an outcast, and the only brown girl around.  One guy in particular who was an artist in Venice, tried to have me fully embrace by ethnicity.  Comparing my skin color to a beautiful tube of paint, one that he would opt to frequently select in painting a canvas.  As women, we want to be muses for artists, not running for political office trying to encourage our voters to vote for brown.  This should be instinctually celebrated versus a hump to overcome.  When selecting our crushes, choose solely those that are already down with the brown. 

Korean Kalbi

For a Christmas present, my friend Jennie had gotten me a gift card for a Korean Spa in Koreatown.   I had been warned about this place.  At the time, I never had a formal massage.  I’ve been given a massage by guys I had dated, but generally it was half ass, and their goal was more to see your naked back than to push out any knots you may be having.   I always thought massages were out of my price range, and for a graduate student, they were.  But I had always heard if you step out of the salons that have licensed massage therapists, and into hole in the wall Asian spas, where no certification is needed, than you could get a better deal.  Same as restaurants.  Good food, okay service, minimal atmosphere, but bang for your buck.  None was better than this salon in Korea town.  Jennie was adamant at how great it was, how effectively rough the massages and body scrubs were, hot and cold pools, saunas,  and how it felt like a true spa at the price for all these services of $70.  Jennie knew that although it sounded attractive, it was still out of my budget and so she purchased a gift card to use at my disposal.   Yet, there was more than one catch that accompanied this proposal. 

The women who were doing the scrubs and massages were not dressed in professional covered attire.  They were right next to the pool and were middle aged Korean women who stood together in their uniform of  white  bras and underwear.  At least they all matched.  They scrubbed just like they talked: loud, fast, hard, and indistinguishable.  Secondly, as a customer, you must be fully naked.  I was comfortable with my body alone, or even with a guy I had been dating for some time.  Yet, being completely nude in front of multitudes of women, creeped me out.  I had previously been in a saunas with friends or female strangers that were topless.  I didn’t have enough confidence in myself at that time to do this, but had experienced the environment.  But I wasn’t a nudist.   Wasn’t there a common nightmare about this type of incident?  Occassionally I had dreams where I was back in high school, walking towards my locker in the crowded hallways, but somehow realized later in the dream I was naked.  I spent the rest of the dream trying to cover myself up with anything I could find.  If I couldn’t be comfortable being naked in my dreams, how would it work in reality?

Jennie had bought me this gift card, meaning she had gone before.  So had some of her friends.  If they could do, so could I.  I was willing to bear witness to see some other ladies birthday suits, shaved and unshaved.  Plus now I was given a gift card, which sparked some initiative.  And so I chose a weekday that I was off to do this, ensuring that I spoke about this to nobody until afterwards.  I didn’t want any friends joining me, and seeing more than I had expected to share.  If I was naked with strangers I could handle this, but to be naked with friends was brining a whole other level of intimacy, which I was not prepared for.

I gave my gift card at the door.  I walked into the sauna changing room, was given a white robe towel, and Asian sandals.  They informed me the one main rule of showering before entering one of the hot or cold pools.  I stuffed all my sacred belongings into a locker, put the bracelet key around my wrist, and headed to the spa area.  Minutes after undressing, I already missed my bra and underwear.  I thought of how much those undergarments actually did cover.  I stepped in the spa, and it smelled like it would be healing. 

Eucalyptus filled my senses.  It reminded me of my great-grandfather’s cough drops that he would carry around in his pockets, and offer as candy to the grandchildren.  The smell of eucalyptus, salompas, tiger balm, and even icy hot felt like it would detox my senses.  Yet, when I walked in this room, my grandfather was not what came to my head.  Everywhere I saw women of all ages and ethnicities, walking around full frontal, unashamed with what they were given.  I must be the only newbie.   This must have been obvious as I kept the robe on for as long as possible.  I took a deep breath in and reminded myself this is normal and natural, imagine the caveman days. As I exhaled, I disrobed and showered in front of everyone. 

 Showers lined up the spa.  In between each sauna or pool you went into, you showered in front of everyone.  After the gritty massage and scrubdown you showered.  This was my first of many cleansings that day.  As I took my shower, my fear of everyone staring at my body parts subsided.  Nobody seemed to look at me.  Perhaps they were all thinking of their own exposed body.  Or maybe they were regulars here.   This wasn’t as bad as I thought.

Although I did not run out of the spa, I tried to minimize my eye contact and conversation, with other customers and staff.  I realized minimal is better, my eyes tried to avert the nakedness around me. I began to accept my body and the normality of it.  I saw super skinny women, voluptuous women, fat women, in between.  All was normal, and I’m sure here in the nude we were briefly all equal.  Nobody could tell if you wore trendy clothes, had a designer purse, or your fashion was stuck in the 90’s.   For a moment we were all women who simultaneously taking a day to relax and be pampered by middle aged Korean women.  

Years later I told a friend about this experience.   She previously lived in LA, and was now visiting again.  She had several days left and wanted to squeeze in as many experiences as possible during this trip.  Upon  hearing about this experience, she was sold.  She felt she needed to go to this same Korean spa, but with her friends, which included me.  I mentioned it, told my crazy story, and now I felt I couldn’t back out of it.  Why should I rob her out of the naked Korean spa experience?  And so we did.  It was pre-job, and I think her intentions were not just to enjoy a relaxing day of being pampered, but to check out potential products.  What size would fit her body type?  What size was attractive but not overly noticeable?  And so we went, and I know our boobs were slightly under scrutiny if they would fit her next purchase.  In the beginning it was uncomfortable, sitting amidst your friends in a spa fully naked.  I had only gone skinny dipping once and this was during the late night hours in the Mediterranean.  I was punished with jellyfish bites, five of them.  Being naked in front of friends felt like a punishment would be luring.  As we sat there completely exposed, the embarrassment began to release, along with the stress.  We all were in the same place naked in front of each other and strangers. 

The familiarity of the scents and middle aged Korean women returned, just like home.  I admit I have not returned since, I’m not that confident yet with the experience.  But there is potential for this to be an annual cathartic cleanse.

witness

The older I get, there is more of an appreciation for the craft of film and television.  I felt growing up, I was taught that media was for pure entertainment.  It was trivial to want to simply please an audience, one should strive for healing the masses and changing them.  Well deserved respect accompanies having the title of "doctor."  Yet along with that there's this expectation to cure others within a short amount of time.  No matter the level of abuse they've experienced at a young age that was replicated throughout their lives, self inflicted wounds as punishment, the aftermath of killing another human being in a war they no longer know what it is about, or the pure lack of desire to want to live another day...we as medical or mental health professionals are looked at to "fix them" on some level.  And I applaud anyone who does this day in and out.

Within the domain of acting or writing, there are still the same complex characters a psychologist may deal with, but the pressure is lifted.  One can simply appreciate how the craft highlights these imperfections.  We simply are witnesses to an individual's life, instead of striving to be agents of change.  There's a search for a deeper understanding of what led them to be here.  There may be a dangling question of what they may do next versus leading to correct their faulty beliefs.  I can imagine how freeing it is to throw oneself into the mind of such a complicated human being, versus scheming ways to fix them.  Although as therapists we know it is the individual that is responsible to change into a self actualized human being, we guide them through targeted questions, reflections, or homework.  As an actor or writer, one simply takes their downfalls, shines light on them, cascading their imperfections.   We are a witness to a moment in time in this person's life, and there is pure beauty in simply watching with a grasping breath on what is to unfold on their time limited path we see.

the two adams

One fall Thursday evening, I accompanied some friends to the Magic Castle.  This place is invite only, and supposedly you can only be invited by other magicians.  An acquaintance of my friend Michelle, was with was currently dating a magician, and by default I went.   Michelle and I had met previously during extra work.  We lived close to each other.  She was a loud boisterous Greek/Syrian girl from Boston, where I was this quiet Midwestern girl who was inexperienced.  She always invited me out on the town when she got invitations.  We were complete opposites but bonded because we were both new to the city and had broken up from long term relationships.  I never really had club or “going out” clothes before this, in Ohio I was only there for several months after I turned 21.  I was a good girl, and never had a fake ID or tried to sneak into bars.  My 21^st birthday was with my family at TGIFridays, where mhy parents treated me to a strawberry daiquiri, pretty sad.

The Ohio bars I went to, which were infrequently, did not include dress attire.  Wear clothes and shoes, be 21, and you are in.  Los Angeles was a different animal.  Not only would you not be allowed to enter with sneakers or jeans, but you must show some skin to get to the front of the line.  There were literal red carpet lines, lists, and doormen you had to flirt with.  Michelle would wear low cut shirts, short skirts, and high heels, and tried to be a mentor to me on how to fake your way to the front.  I thought I was learning  and had purchased tan vinyl pants and extra low tops.  In retrospect, they were autrocious, but nobody told me otherwise. 

Tonight was different and required slightly more class.  We were already on a list and would go to Hollywood and Vine, which was less pretenscious than West Hollywood, at least at that time on a week night.  That night I chose to dress slightly more conservatively.  I didn’t know what the attire at a magician’s gathering called for.  I was extra sweet in a cream turtleneck sweater, short denim skirt, and knee high brown boots.  

When I meet new people and I only know one person in the group I’m with, I feel a bit uncomfortable.  In Los Angeles, I pushed myself to go out because I needed to meet new friends.  Liquid courage always helps, but in Los Angeles it can be costly.  I generally only could afford at most two drinks, which is enough to make me relaxed.  But tonight was special.  Open bar but no food, a pure winning combination.  We sat through a magic show, which I believe this person we came with performed in.  It was nothing spectacular, probably those same things you see when entertained by an audience warm up guy.  But the drinks mixed with a magic show made for a blurry surreal experience.  In retrospect, I think a spell was cast that night.  

We went to a small bar in the Hollywood and Vine area, empty at this hour on a Thursday night.  The guys we were with bought a round of drinks.  I looked at the door at what prospects would walk in.  And a familiar face entered the room.  He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and workout pants.  But I didn’t know him personally, just through television.   It was Adam Sandler.  I was already inebriated that evening, add that to the fact that I seem to have no shame when approaching celebrities.    I walked up to him alone and said, “Your friend stood me up.”  He replied “who?”  I answered back “Norm McDonald”  “Well I’m going to see him tomorrow, we’re playing golf, I’ll yell about it to him then.”   We took a quick photo, as I always had my camera handy.  And he went on his way. 

I recalled that a bassist was djing on Thursdays at the nearby Beauty Bar.  This wasn’t just any bassist, but that of my favorite current band Maroon 5.  This was before they hit it big internationally, and they were still playing monthly shows at the local bars.   I asked my friends to tag along with me to the bar, but they wanted to stay at the low key stranded bar.  I thought I would leave briefly and meet up with them later. I just wanted to make an appearance.

There were ulterior motives, as there was hope that my current crush was there, Adam Levine.  Before he was one of the hottest guys in America, he was simply a guy who rocked it on stage, seemed pre-emptively cocky, and in my mind there was always some chance or hope for just a one night fling.  Having only been in one adult relationship from the age of 17-21, who took up my “good” years of learning how to taunt men, I was naïve.  I reverted back to my flirting ways of my teenage years, asking guys for a ride home.  As a sophomore in high school, I had done this before I could drive to avoid taking the bus home.  I would primarily only ask the hot seniors on the basketball team.  Even though they may live miles away from me, it wouldn’t stop me from asking.  And once it worked, nothing happened with that lead basketball player, but I did land a ride.  So maybe it would work with Adam.  We weren’t  friends, merely aquaintances, or more like I was a Band-Aid.  Immortalized by Almost Famous, I wasn’t officially a groupie as a I didn’t have sex with band members, just appreciated their music and of course looks.  Every time I saw him, I generally talked to him, and was a greeted with a “I recognize that face” nod and hug.  I felt almost in the circle.

  Adam was there looking hipster cool in a plain white tee shirt and a grandpa vintage cream sweater, dancing with his circle of friends.  I tapped on his shoulder and said “hey.”  He responded with a quick exasperated “hey, how are you?”  “Great, I said, but I can’t find my friends and I don’t have a ride home, do you think you could take me home.”  He said, “Where do you live?”  “Glendale.”  The Band Aid knew he lived nearby in Los Feliz, so I hoped there was a chance his gas guzzler black SUV could bring me home.  “Sorry, I don’t think I’ll be able to.”  My heart sunk, “that’s okay.”  I left him so he could continue to dance with his friends, and felt completely humiliated.  I couldn’t believe I did that.  I walked around the bar, looking for a familiar face and immediately felt sick to my stomach.  I went outside the Beauty Bar, and sat on the sidewalk of Cahuenga Boulevard and began to vomit.  All those drinks I pounded down at the Magic Castle were now abracadabra disappeared out of my body to the ground.  Michelle walked up to me, “There you are.  Are you okay?”  She moved my brown hair out of my face and pulled it back so I could purge more.  The doorman looked at me with disgust as if to say, “Amateur.  This is LA, How unladylike are you”  “No, can we go home?” I said quietly to Michelle, embarrassed for my actions that whole entire night.    “Sure honey, I was looking for you.”  She dragged me to the clubs where her friends were at, and I passed out the rest of the way home. The next day I couldn’t believe what had just happened, and couldn’t wait to tell my friends back home who I ran into.  I know I should have kept the story to myself, but my lack of shame with celebrities was too comedic to hold back.

This was one of many nights where I drunkenly embarrassed myself and vomited my way out of a club.  It actually turned into a monthly occasion and did not stop until several years later.  My hedonous lifestyle was just beginning.