Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: Girls

Junior High School Girls Talking about Miley Cyrus

school

Tracey and Judy meet outside their junior high school on the first day of school.

Tracey:  “Hi, Jody!”

Jody:  “Hi, Tracey!  How was your summer?”

Tracey:  “It was great.”

Cindy comes over to them, waving hello.

Cindy:  “Hey, guys?  Did you see Miley Cyrus at the VMA awards?  What did you think?”

Tracey:  “Lame.  I didn’t even watch it until later.   I was busy preparing for this year’s algebra class.

Cindy:  “Before school even began?”

Tracey:  “Yeah.  I so want to get into Yale after high school.”

Jody:   “I didn’t watch it at all.  I have no time for mindless fluff.  I spent my summer volunteering at a homeless shelter downtown.”

Cindy:  “I hear you.  The whole show was boring.  I just had it on in the background while reading about Syria in the Sunday Times Week in Review.”

Tracey:   “I don’t get what the whole big deal about that performance was all about.  It’s not like because of some celebrity that I’m suddenly gonna walk around sticking a big finger up my hoo-hah.  I’m not an idiot.”

Jody:  “TV is soooo stupid.”

Tracey:   “I know.  I’m kinda worried about my mom.  She watches TV all the time.  Such crap.  With such bad values.  You ever see any of those Real Housewives shows?”

Jody:  “OMG!  Such bitches.  My mother watches that crap too!   I’m so glad our generation would never act like that.”

Tracey:  “Sometimes I just wish my mother would read a book instead.  By someone good, like Joyce Carol Oates.”

Cindy:  “My mother watches this other TV show.  On cable.  I forget what it’s called.  It’s really disgusting.  About the old days when everyone was really sexist in the advertising business and there were no people of color.   And the main character is a total sleaze and shitty to women, and get this — my mom has the total hots for him.”

Tracey:   “It’s like our parents have no morals anymore.”

Jody:   “You think that’s bad.  My mom’s favorite shows is about a teacher who deals in meth.”

Tracey:  “My mother watches this show where the lead guy is a serial killer!”

Cindy:  “What ever happened to the wholesome shows for adult, like Happy Days and the Love Boat?  What’s wrong with adults today?”

Tracey:  “It’s like so sad.   Adults don’t want to admit to being responsible adults anymore.   I especially hate they they want to listen to our music.   Read books for young adults.”

Jody:  “My parents are totally gross.  One weekend they downloaded this entire show from HBO about these pampered young women in Manhattan — like twenty years younger than them — who just curse and have anal sex.  This is called entertainment?”

Tracey:  “Gross.”

Cindy starts to cry.

Tracey:  “What’s the matter, Cindy?  Are you alright?”

Cindy:   “I don’t want to talk about this topic any more.  It’s too shameful.  I try to be a good person.  To respect my parents.  To look up to them as people I want to emulate.  But how can I ever do that when I see them watching that sick weirdo medieval throne fantasy show every week — the one with so much violence, nudity, and rape.  And they LIKE IT!  I can’t even look at my parents anymore at the breakfast table.  It’s like they’re perverts.”

Jody:   “I know.   I know.  All our parents are like this nowadays.   They’ve lost their way morally.”

Tracey:   “Listen, guys.  We need to stick together.  We need to focus on school, and not let our parents drag us down into their cesspool of perversion.   If they want to watch this junk, we can’t stop them.  But we can be better than they are!”

The Principal walks towards the school.

Cindy:  “Oh, there’s Principal Andrews.  It’s time for another school year!  Thank God we are finally away from our parents.”

Jody moves closer to her two friends, whispering in their ears.

Jody:  “Listen, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but in July I was at the mall and I saw Principal Andrews there with his wife and kids.  And he was dressed very casually, like we never see him at school.  And he was wearing a ratty t-shirt promoting that horrible old rap group N.W.A. from our parent’s day, the one with the repugnant anti-social lyrics!”

Tracey and Cindy:  “Ewwwwww!”

The Conversation

Jackie and I were sitting in the Cozy Cafe.

“Have you read “50 Shades of Grey?”  I asked.

“Yes.  It’s so poorly written,” said Jackie, my long-time blogging friend.

“That’s what I heard.”

“And the media is so superficial in discussing it.  They’re acting as women have never enjoyed erotica before. Or had sexual fantasies.”

“You know the media.  They just like to create controversy to get more readers.”

“But maybe it’s good that the fantasies of women are more openly discussed.  That women are finally able to be comfortable talking  about sex, masturbation, vibrators, and their own vaginas.”

What I liked most about Jackie was that we could discuss anything, without fear of embarrassment.

“I wonder if the openness of blogging has helped push this agenda for women.” I mused.

“You might be right,” she said.  “Women can be honest about what they want in their lives sexually.”

“I wonder if blogging even paved the way for a sexually-realistic show like “Girls” on HBO.”

“Interesting,” said Jackie.  “It’s like the time has arrived where women don’t have to sugar coat their sexuality for the patriarchy. We can sleep around. We can have bad sex. We can be fully actualize sexual beings.”

“Blogging has also changed the way men think about sexuality,” I chimed in.

“Yeah?  In what way?”

Jackie, with a masters in Feminist Studies, was always willing to discuss gender issues.

“I think, before blogging, men were mostly attracted to women because of their looks.”

“Yeah, tits and ass.  Men are so simple.”

“But that has all changed.  I know something has happened to me in the last year eight years of blogging. I have spent so much time online, interacting with a person’s creativity and talent, that it has become more important to me than a person’s physical appearance.”

“Maybe that is true for women, but never for men.”

“No, blogging has feminized men.  We fall in love with your writing and photography now, not your bra size!”

Jackie was still skeptical about my theory.

“Bullshit.   Even at BlogHer, I notice how the men act.  They spend the weekend surrounding whoever is the hottest looking momblogger in the room.”

“You are so wrong.  That doesn’t happen anymore.   We might notice a blogger’s cleavage, but we want to talk with the one who makes us laugh on Twitter.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“No, really!” I insisted.   “There is something sensual about talent.  Can I be honest with you — since you are always open with me, telling me about vibrators and stuff?”

“Sure.”

“Remember that great post you wrote last week. About visiting your grandmother in the mountains when you were a teenager.”

“Yes.”

“I loved it. I loved it so much, I thought about the imagery all night. The way you described the mountain air.  It was so beautiful.   And later, when I opened up my computer to read it a third time, I said to myself, “I wish I could fuck this post.”

“What?”!

“I was just so moved by what you wrote that I needed to fuck your words. I had to take my cock out because I was so turned on.”

“Wow.”

“Now, remember, this has nothing to do with the size of you dress or your hair.   It was your mind that turned me on.  I hope this isn’t too weird for me to tell you.”

“I’m speechless.”

“I just figured that since you read “Fifty Shades of Grey” and like “Girls,” you would be comfortable with my own honesty.”

“There is just one big difference.  That other stuff is fiction! It is cool because it isn’t real. But jacking off to my blog post about my late grandmother is f*cking sick!”

“It doesn’t really mean anything, or change our relationship.  I was just trying to tell you how blogging has changed me as a man.  How it has opened me up to new turn-ons.”

“You’re a fucking freak, man.   Pervert.  I never want to hear from you.”

“But I was just being OPEN WITH YOU!”

Jackie grabbed her purse and started leaving the coffee shop, the other customers eavesdropping in.

“Go jack off to your own dead grandmother!” she said as she left.  “I’m blocking you from ever reading my blog again!”

“But not on Facebook, right?” I pleaded, not wanting to lose a follower.

But she was already gone.

 

HBO’s Girls: Black and White in the Media

There are quite a few articles today about a controversy revolving around the new Lena Dunham- created HBO show, Girls, and the lack of diversity in the cast, particular with African-American characters.  One of the reasons for the outcry over this show rather than the countless other all-white shows is that critics have been wetting their pants over the show, calling it the VOICE of the twenty-something generation of women.

Whenever something is crowned “the voice of a generation,” those who don’t fit into the demographic always feel left out.  We should retire that expression.

From Kendra James at Racialicious:

“If Lena Dunham and I come from similar educational backgrounds, honed our writing and narrative skills at the same school (and likely with some of the same professors), and grew up spending time in the same city (she’s from Tribeca, and I was a bridge-and-tunnel kid from a nice New Jersey suburb about 30 minutes away), then how could we conceive such radically different images of New York City? Why would I feel so ill-at-ease with her critics essentially declaring her as my voice?”

Ta-Nehisi Coates from the Atlantic, focuses less on the individual artist than those who run the media.

“There has been a lot of talk, this week about Lena Dunham’s responsibility, but significantly less about the the people who sign her checks. My question is not “Why are there no black women on Girls,” but “How many black show-runners are employed by HBO?” This is about systemic change, not individual attacks.

It is not so wrong to craft an exclusively white world–certainly a significant portion of America lives in one. What is wrong is for power-brokers to pretend that no other worlds exists. Across the country there are black writers and black directors toiling to bring those worlds to the screen. If HBO does not see fit to have a relationship with those writers, then those of us concerned should assess our relationship with HBO.”

I don’t write much about my own experiences in “Hollywood,” but I have pitched shows to executives at NBC, and worked at HBO at one time. I’m also originally from Queens, New York, which for my money has the largest percentage of citizens of different races, languages, and eccentric human beings in the country, and many of my idea stem from my childhood there.

It wasn’t until I visited my uncle in New Jersey when I was ten years old that realized that the majority of the world — and the power structure — was filled with white people. Remember the book, “The Preppy Handbook?” It was like reading a book about Chinese pottery; the concepts were totally foreign to me.   My move to Manhattan from Queens was more of a culture shock than when I moved from New York to Los Angeles.   On Easter weekend during my Freshman year, I went home with my roommate Tom to his family estate in Massachusetts, where he OWNED HORSES!

“What do you do with them?” I asked.

“We ride them!”

You can take the boy out of Queens, but you can’t…   I never got half of the jokes in “Stuff White People Like.”

Years later, I found myself pitching a sitcom idea to a Disney executive, an arrogant young guy who got the job because his father was a producer. He was playing mini-golf on his carpet as I nervously told him my brilliant story that I wrote in the shower that morning.

One of the plot points revolved around a son’s relationship with his father. The son’s mother had died and his father quickly remarried — one of his mother’s friends! The son was mad at the father for doing this, and didn’t get along with the step-mother until the final act.

At the end of pitch, the executive hit one more putt.

“The biggest problem with the story… is the new wife,” he said.

I was surprised to hear this. I had expected him to criticize the son or the father.

“The new wife is a black woman, right?” he asked.

It was a detail I hardly noticed when I pitched it. I was basing the story on a real-life situation of someone I knew from Queens. The father remarried a nurse who lived in the same apartment building.   She was a black woman.

“What’s the problem with her being black?” I asked.

“The audience will think that the son hates the new wife because she is black, and no one will like the main character.”

“Oh, no no no. He doesn’t hate her because she is black.  It is because his father is getting remarried so soon after his mother’s death!  The new wife’s color is irrelevant to the story.”

“Yes, but the audience will read it that way. So, let’s just make her white.”

“I see.  OK, let’s make her white.”

Was I acting racist by changing my black character to a white character?  Probably not. Just wimpy. Nothing ever happened with the script anyway.

Was the executive racist for asking me to change the race of the character?

I don’t think he was racist either.   In fact, there was a big plaque on the wall announcing that he was a big shot in the “Young Hollwyood Democratic Club for Change.”

The big issue was FEAR.  No one wants to touch issues of race because no one wants to be called a racist.

I’m not suggesting that it is good to be politically incorrect, but fear is never a healthy motivation.  And fear runs Hollywood, especially this unwritten law that blacks should only write about black people and whites about white people. It’s as if the media images are more segregated than America in 2012!   Sure, we need diversity in the boardrooms and our writing staffs, but we also need more diversity in our brains.

As a blogger, I sometimes feel that the political correctness of my friends is punishing me for growing up in Queens.  My world is diverse.  If I ever write a memoir, my childhood will all be about blacks and whites and Latinos and Asians learning to live together, not always perfectly.  About public school.   If I don’t write about this diversity, I would not be authentic. But I have also been criticized in the past, as if my white male “privilege” prohibits me from writing about anything other than white maleness.

One of my best — and funniest blog posts — was one that I only showed to a few of you, and was told not to publish it.

The tale found me taking the wrong bus home in Queens, the only white guy en route to Jamaica, Queens, a heavily African-American section of the borough.  During the ride, a bunch of rowdy kids in the back of the bus started an obnoxious game called “Tag the N****r,” where one kid tagged another by touching his shoulder, and he was forced to box the other until he cried uncle. There was real punching in these fights, and bloody noses. As the combatants scufffled violently, “Tag the N****r!” was shouted by the other kids.

The older passengers were disgusted, particularly at the use of language.  There was chaos, and the bus driver eventually kicked all the kids off the bus.  But according to some obscure MTA rule, the bus driver had to wait for a dispatcher to sign a document before the bus could continue on.   As we waited in the hot bus with no air-condition, another bus showed up, a fancy new one.  All of the teenagers climbed aboard the new bus, flashing their school passes, and took off to cause trouble elsewhere.   We were stuck there — all of the law-abiding citizens — for another forty minutes.

“You can’t post this,” said one blogger via email. “It’s not YOUR story to tell. It is one about the African-American experience.”

“But I was there!”

“Yes, but you were only a visitor.”

“Huh?  But I was there!  Why is this about the African-American experience?  And why am I visitor?  I live here too.”

“You don’t see your own privilege,” she said.

Good people could not see beyond the black-white schism, when in my view, the opposing forces in the story were old vs. young.  I had more in common with the older African-Americans sitting in the bus, minding their own business, remembering the civil rights movement than the teenagers.   I did not feel as if anyone singled me out as “the white guy.”  Most of the passengers were angry at the obnoxious teens.

“I have an idea,” said another friend. “Don’t mention ANYONE’S color in the story at all, so then there isn’t an issue of you seeming racist.”

I found her color-blind story suggestion interesting, but bizarre.  Race was not essential to the sitcom story about the father marrying his mother’s black friend, but in this case, the racial content MADE the story a story.  This would be a very different scenario if it were white teenagers playing “Tag the N****r.”

I’m fascinated by the current discussion over this HBO show.   I’m all for diversity — including in the blogosphere!  But I think the biggest obstacle is not the media, but our own discomfort talking about our similarities and differences in non-controversial, but real ways.

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