"G" words and "N" Words

Remember in the last post I mentioned the “blacking up” scandal with Vogue? Well I have decided to dust off my notes and talk about it. Premise of the story is quite simply; Dutch model wears black make-up in October’s Vogue Magazine - a lot of people get angry.

A quite similar but at the same time all together different story is that of

the contestants on an Australian TV s

how, Hey Hey It’s Saturday.

Premise being; Jackson 5 tribute act appear on stage with all members apart from Michael Jackson wearing black face makeup and afro wigs – a guest judge (an American) throws a hissy-fit, a lot of people get angry.

I was talking about this with a couple of Australian friends about a week ago. We talked about the fact that there is often a (jovial) stereotype of Australians having a tendency of being a little bit more racist than other nationalities; not in an offensive manner, but similar to the way the British moan about the French.
They mentioned how there just isn’t the same turbulent history in Australia when it comes to race if compared to places like Europe and especially the U.S. They boasted that, with innocent light-heartedness, they could happily bring up someone’s race as a point of humour without anyone being offended. They used words like, “gollywog” as a point of reference.

When I heard gollywog said aloud, I genuinely recoiled back into my chair out of shock. For anyone outside the Commonwealth and is confused as to why this word made me react like this, here is a short explanation courtesy of Wikipedia. Basically, I would never even think out using that word, and would always associate it with the offensive manner with which it was used for such a long time. Thinking about it, I could probably count the number of times I have heard it said aloud on one hand.
The same goes for the “N” word. A word I am apparently so uncomfortable with I can’t bring myself to type it.

All that said, and even considering the strength with which I believe that using terminology like this should be avoided at all costs, part of me greatly envies my Australian friends. Why am I scared of a couple of words? Why can I not just accept difference of race as a fact and be comfortable talking and even making jokes about it? Neither I nor even my parents are directly connected to the history that has tainted those words. The fact I have a problem with them almost seems to insinuate that I myself could still not be over the fact that, yes, some of us are paler than others.
Is Australian society just that much further down the road of recovery than the rest of the word when it comes to getting over that gaping hole in history where your place in the world was determined by the amount of melanin in your skin?

Would the Vogue incident have been as controversial if it were a black model being portrayed as white? I don’t think so. But then the modelling industry has a long history of discrimination of black models, and there was never a “whiting up” equivalent of minstrel shows.

But how long will we, as a global society, let history force us to tip toe around the colour of people’s skin?

If reading this blog made you feel a little bit uncomfortable, then ask yourself why. I have felt prodigiously awkward writing it, and I am finding it very hard to pinpoint the reason.

Finding Something Shiny

Anyone who is subscribed to this blog will know the sporadic manner with which I update. That said, I do feel I have to apologise. I have had wistful thoughts of being the next Charlie Brooker or Caitlin Moran; my judgemental fingers quivering upon the pulse of the British nation, my opinion that more objective for being in China. Covering stories like the “blacking up” scandal seen in Vogue a week or so ago, the new wave of young sailors taking to the high seas to traverse the world and my generation’s apparent addiction to the Interwebz have genuinely been considered as blog topics.

This happens so often; I have the whole piece virtually written in my head. Then, alas, I find something shiny, like Nick and Norah’s Infinate Playlist streamed on some site, and all hope of writing anything is subsequently lost.

It is a frightfully sad thought, but if I were to be paid for this then I would probably be more motivated. I would sit down in the trendy café, in a manner very similar to my current one, and type away about the wonders of democracy, the struggles of the third world and how much we all hate Jan Moir.

I have, however, yet to receive the traffic or demonstrate the reliability of someone worthy of being paid for something like this. Woe. Is. Me.

I have been thinking about the future a lot. I know! How very un-Buddhist of me; I should be living in the moment and all that, like Jonny Wilkinson, but it’s been fun sort-of-not-really planning my future.

The more I think about it the less I can see myself moving to China and working here after I graduate. From people I have talked to this seems to be the only real option for graduates of Chinese and, quite frankly, I don’t like it.

I don’t know what this says about me, but I think the fact I am so away from YouTube and the “community” when I am here has a big thing to do with it. I feel like I was doing so much with rhymingwithoranges when I was back home: the charity work, Summer in the City, working on lots of different projects, and all of a sudden they have all been put on hold.

I feel like I could still have something of a YouTube franchise here. There are some fantastic video shows here; Sexy Beijing, Danwei, that I feel I could find a niche somewhere. I have been thinking that, when my Chinese gets better, I could start doing interviews with some interesting people here. I already have a couple in mind.

But then, I don’t know, I feel like it would be miniscule in terms of what I could do back home.

Maybe I’m not looking at the big picture enough. Am I really going to be on YouTube for the rest of my life? Am I going to be able to make a living from it? ‘Cuz, let’s be honest, I’m no viral sensation.

Also, if I choose to focus on YouTube I will, inevitably, end up falling into some kind of media. I have always kind of been wary of choosing journalism as my profession. No offence to any journalists who happen to read this blog, but I have always thought that that job tends to be full of talkers, not doers. I want to be a doer, can I be one if I choose this direction? I mean, it’s all very well promoting debate etc etc, but most of the time I feel like I’m preaching to the converted. I don’t want to be a preacher either.

I also have to consider what I am going to do after summer 2011, when I graduate and am set loose into the real world. Should I do a Master’s? If I do, what should I do? Where should I go? It’s a scary proposition.

At this point in the blog I think I would usually be expected to wrap up with some kind of conclusion and evaluate what I have learnt through this train-of-thought journey. But honestly, I‘ve got nothing.

Ooh! V V Brown’s album on Spotify! Shiny.

Accentos

I have just been pining to write today, so I skipped the second half of my morning lessons today to come back home, strip down to my boxers (it is still quite warm) and type you something.

Last night I, despite having had no more than six hours sleep in the past three days, went out with some of my new multi-cultural pals. Inevitably, as we are all language students, we got onto the topic of language learning and more specifically our accents. I continue to cause a stir with my reserved English tones, constantly contrasted with those of our American friends. A large majority of those on the table, including a Frenchman, one girl from Sweden and one from the Philippines, all said they wished they spoke English with a ‘British’ accent.

I chose to not be my usual, pernickety self and avoided asking which ‘British’ accent they wanted. I would usually run off the absurd number of different forms of annunciation packed into a country not that much bigger than the state of New York; Scouse, Jordi, Cockney, Brum, RP 等等. To be honest it has simply become a way for me to show off a bit, “Look how many accents I can do!” Foreigners don’t need to know my Liverpudlian is in fact probably closer to Irish, and my attempt at Scottish sounds suspiciously similar to French.

I especially turned to the French guy, asked him, “Why?” English sounds wonderful in the thick French accent that tumbles out of his mouth, and after all, why would you want to disguise where you are from? Are you not proud of being French?

I realise in retrospect this was a some-what lame and ridiculous argument. I was clearly just playing devil’s advocate for the sake of it – I blame my tired self. I have a tendency of just go looking for confrontation when I haven’t had my beauty sleep.

Now I think of when I speak my languages. The only one that I speak well enough, in which I can be considered to have anything other than an English accent, is my Spanish: laced with Catalan inflections from years of working there every summer. I am clearly not trying to fit in; ever tried to pass as a Spaniard when you have pale skin, blue eyes and wear nothing but Topman? It rarely works. But the way I speak tells a story; it carries the residue of everyone I have ever spoken to and has evolved because of the very human desire to fit in.

My own English accent has always kind of bothered me, purely because of its schizophrenic nature. Over here I speak a fairly standard form of English, not quite RP but not quite Cockney. It is the accent American will try (oh so hard!) to imitate. I basically have a very androgynous accent when I go abroad, I sound like I am another generic Londoner. This annoys me greatly; I am an Essex Boy and proud.

When I am back home, however, the way I speak wobbles all over the place. My parents are from other sides of the country; my Father from Essex, in the east and my Mother from Bristol, in the west-country. My tongue can never decide which it wants to be; Bristolian or Estuary English. It has always made me question how genuine the way I speak is and have never been sure if I have been subconsciously forcing it (paradox?). I remember times at YouTube gatherings when my accent has been all over the place, because of the mix of people there and their ways of speaking just screw with my brain.

But I guess the way I speak will always change, whether I am at home or abroad. I will flit between the London accent, impossible to place, the country-bumpkin Bristolian or the Essex Boy who greets everyone with, “’Ello sweetheart!” or, “y’aright mate.” Part of me wishes my brain would just make up its mind! But I guess as long as people here continue to tell me my accent is ‘cool’, I suppose I can’t complain.

Jazza
-杰仁

Full of Melodrama

Well, it’s been a long time.

China decided to crush even the smallest hint of internet freedom over the celebrations for the 60th anniversary of Communist rule, meaning my apparent internet presence has been reduced to zero. Unfortunately normality was not restored after the celebrations as I had hoped, so alas; my life continues with a gaping wound where Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and BlogSpot used to reside. I have not, however, been as absent as I may seem. I am able to read all comments on both rhymingwithoranges and JazzainChina videos and get any Facebook messages emailed directly to me. So I have been aware of goings on, just unable to join in. It’s almost as if I’m a kid off school because he is sick, able to see the kids playing in the playground from my window but cut off from the outside world…

Now that’s melodrama if I’ve ever seen it. (In retrospect this melodrama continues…)

If I am one hundred per cent honest I am still having a rocky experience in China-land. Over the holiday I got pretty close to a nervous breakdown, was seriously considering dropping out and coming back to England, maybe taking up Japanese Studies instead.

Money has been one of the main burdens. I believe this transition would have been made much easier if my debit card were never stolen. The bank have insisted in sorting everything out through the post, I can’t tell them what to do with my money through email which, to be honest, is probably 100 times easier than China post anyway. I have been lucky in that so many of my friends have offered to lend me money – I am incredibly blessed.

Another issue has been the Chinese language itself. Needless to say, it is a challenging language. I feel like I am on a plateau at the moment and that that plateau isn’t very high up the mountain range at all. It is rare for me to get into any conversation more complicated than, “Where are you from?” “How long have you been studying Chinese?” “Do you like Chinese food?” I appreciate this is a stage one reaches when learning any language, I just haven’t experienced it for a long time. I suppose I got too comfortable being the guy who was good at languages. I suppose it’s good to be out of that comfort zone. Oh, and by the way, I moved back down to the B group of classes, but a higher one than the one before. I am much more content there, it’s for the best.

Finally, and probably most importantly, I have found myself becoming more and more disillusioned with China. I have been questioning why I chose this language, this culture, this people. When we did our cruise down the Yangtze I saw a China I was less than impressed with. Wonderful monasteries and temples turned into garish tourist attractions and ways to make a quick buck. There was one temple that even had a ghost train built into it – not a word of a lie. But the Chinese people seem to lap this up. They will readily buy the tat, take a picture of themselves making a peace sign next to the painting or relic, then move swiftly on as the tour guide tells them through the megaphone about the statue that was erected in 1994. This has probably got a lot to do with the people who we were touring with, I realise that there are swathes of people who love and appreciate their country’s culture; but I begin to fear that they are few and far between.

China is what I am going to make it. If I find myself struggling with the language, I need to find myself a language partner or do volunteer some shifts in the hostel a friend of mine runs. If I am having issues with money I can swallow my pride, take up my friends’ offers, borrow money and pay them back when I can. If I feel disillusioned about the Chinese people, the Chinese culture, then I go out and find the parts of China that I fell in love with in the first place. To be honest I have forgotten why I chose this subject in particular in the first place. I can have fun rediscovering the reason. I am lucky enough to know enough Chinese people that can help me with this – my flatmates for one.

I am a tough cookie, it’s a family trait. I am more than capable of getting through this, making the experience my own and growing because of it. I have various methods of keeping me sane. One is BBCiPlayer. Radio four is my saviour; the home of Women’s hour (don’t judge), The News Quiz, Just a Minute, From Our Own Correspondent and Chain Reaction to name but a few (speaking of which, someone should turn the concept of Chain Reaction into a YouTube channel). Along with various Guardian podcasts they make me feel like my damp country is just outside my room.

Spot has also dragged me up by my garters. Boxing, and soon swimming (oh how I have missed it) are like meditation for me. There is also a triathlon that I am planning on taking part in later this month; I really should start training for that. For me sport is the best way to relax, and maybe even pick up some new vocabulary… however useless in day to day life. 拳套!

I have some awesome friends as well, both here and scattered across the globe who have been quite simply delightful. If you have sent me the smallest message on Facebook, send a pointless email or even said, “Hi” to me on Skype to just be swiftly ignored (I rarely log out so get a lot of missed messages), then thank you.

This post has quite frankly been more for me than you, but kudos if you read all 1000ish words up to this point. Blogging is a wonderful form of therapy and I promise you my experiences here have by no means been as grim as I seem to make out. If you want to see happy, check out http://www.youtube.com/JazzainChina - for some reason I can only ever write when I am angsty.

As ever, thank you for reading. I am now going to listen to desert Island discs with Ellen MacArthur.

Jazza
-杰仁

Editing for Universal Consumption

I don’t think I am going to talk specifically about China here. If you want updates on my time in China I have set up a YouTube channel here.

I am getting to meet a lot of new people of all different hues whilst I am here. Being in an international department this is, I suppose, to be expected. I am making a conscious decision to try and avoid the British people (there are over twenty students from Sheffield University here and four of us from Manchester,) although I am conscious it is wonderful to have them as a fall back if I ever get sick of being the only Brit in the class. It is one of the hand-full of reasons I decided to move from the middle ranging B group; where all the Brits are, to the more challenging A group. I didn’t come half way across the world to blend in.

It’s wonderful. An Aussie girl and I are often told we have the same accent (really?) and I have been grilled about the Empire and the fact Pakistan was created by me and is therefore my fault; it’s good banter. Mary Poppins’ chimney sweep-like accents also seem to follow me wherever I go in the world.

“’Ello Guvna!”

Culture clashes do seem to be frequent though. An American from my class recounted an awkward moment when he was having a conversation with a German guy and a Polish girl. He was describing a night out where he had consumed a few too many alcoholic beverages, describing himself as, “Blitzed!” There was an awkward pause after which the German chuckled, “Haha, very funny joke.” Bless the three of them.

I myself am having a culture clash of my own. A close friend of mine from Manchester who is also studying here (read her blog here) has been very on the ball and bagged herself a man with outstanding efficiency. The two are an adorable couple, he being from Wisconsin and her from Durham; the two have their fair share of misunderstandings. I like the guy very much and regularly try out morsels of British wit on him…

People who know me well will be familiar with the fact that I will take the piss out of you, more or less constantly, if I like you and I believe you have the balls to handle it. I enjoy a to-and-fro of casual insults; it’s a way of getting to know people as well as their humour and is fantastic at demolishing any kind of bravado, pretensions or awkwardness.

I have come to the conclusion that this too, along with the Empire and ‘Chim-chiminey’, is a very British characteristic. So much so, that it has been suggested by Miss Durham that Mr Wisconsin may not be too keen on it.

Initially my thoughts have been, “Man up, strap on a pair.” But then I remember that the rest of the world does not function along the same social guidelines as The United Kingdom of Great Britain Land. I am also, frightfully British. I need to carry Earl Grey around with me whenever I know there won’t be a Tesco near-by – and let’s just say I am grateful to the fact that all British newspapers, as well as the BBC, are 100% free and available on the Interweb. Imagine having to use CCTV, CNN or even Fox for my periodical news nourishment, perish the thought!

However, there is a whole world out there that doesn’t read The Times every weekday except for a Tuesday (when The Guardian has a simply wonderful education supplement). Maybe, for both me and Mr Wisconsin, I should tone down the tsunami of sarcasm and banter that seems to erupt from my mouth every time I meet someone new.

I’m not changing, oh no, I am simply editing myself for universal consumption. After all, I still have the Brits to crawl back to every time I need someone to have a friendly, if heated, discussion with.

Rolling on...

Right, I’m finally here; I am finally no longer panicking about moving to China for the next year, I am finally not stressing about what to remember, what to pack, what to leave. I am finally just happy that I am going, that I have this opportunity.

I was scared the world would move on without me – nearly to the point that I thought I would come home next year and I would literally be replaced by an upgrade of me – just as political but with twice the cool. I then realised no one could equal me on cool. (jksloljks)

The last twenty four or so hours have been insane. So many texts, messages and general love coming my way – it has been inevitable that I have unintentionally not replied to peoples’ attempts at contacting me. If you are one of these people I apologise but I hope you will understand the intensity of the past week or so.

Summer in the City, the UK YouTube community’s baby, was last weekend. I helped organise, I had an amazing time, I welled up on the train home. I couldn’t have asked for a better (unofficial) send off. I loved every second; the selling, whether it were the publications (mine and Paul’s baby) or the musicians’ merch. or Johnny’s Tees on the Saturday night. It was an awesome way to meet new people – just wandering round the gathering and chatting to people as I convinced them their lives would not be complete without The SitC Pub/ Dave’s new album/ Johnny’s Dead Blob Tee etc.

One of the fantastic things about the weekend was the fact people from all over the planet came. We knew we had marketed it like that; as a global gathering, but I don’t think any of us organisers would actually let ourselves believe that anything like the number of foreigners would make the journey. Americans, Dutch, Belgians, Australians, French, German and for some reason an awful lot of Canadians came. We were this little cultural melting pot in the middle of London – it was just mind-blowing.

And the gig at the Luminaire: it was quite simply delightful. I had a massive grin on my face for the whole evening. I nearly cried when I saw Mhazz play her set – bearing in mind I have known her for close to two years, back when she was writing songs about me, Alex and Liam – I saw her as a grown up woman for a first time that night and it was wonderful. I have a habit of subconsciously adopting my friends, so I feel almost parental pride when they outdo themselves – it’s silly but contributed to a lot of the warm fuzzy feeling that night.

When Dave performed I sat on the stage and just swayed and sang – then panicked at his last song and ran to re-open the shop to sell all his wares. Tom and Greg weren’t too shabby either.

We are already looking towards SitC 2010, the Facebook group is up and it will be even bigger and better. I think this is why I was so freaked out about leaving for Nanjing – leaving all these prospects, so much stuff is happening now in my world. I am missing out on the RNLI project, SitC 2010 as well as other things. It’s a shame.

But then who the hell gets to go, study and live in China? I am blessed, whether it’s by Allah, God, Buddha or Lady Luck – roll on Nanjing, roll on China. I will speak to you guys soon.

- 杰仁

Climate Camp

I went to Climate Camp today, the beginnings of it anyway. I wrote this about it; it's a bit more jounalisty than what I am used to posting on here, but I still hope you enjoy it.

Climate Camp 2009 started at twelve, noon with six locations throughout London, revealed through text to people that had signed up to the event on the website. We started our journey outside the Bank of England where tattooed and dread-locked individuals mingled with the suited bankers of the city. Orange shirted stewards gave out leaflets on how to deal with police searches whilst journalists clicked away with their cameras and tried desperately to find out who the person in the highest authority was so they could interview them. The atmosphere was relaxed but with an air of apprehension about how events would pan out for the rest of the day; people swapping stories about which clause they were stopped under during the G8 protests and debating whether kettling would be used again at this demonstration.

After an hour of hanging about and a couple of awkward but essentially harmless encounters with Bobbies on the Beat, our leaders informed us that we would be taking the DLR towards the Cutty Sark. Our group weaved its way out of the city towards Greenwich – journalists ever present, close to outnumbering the activists.

We reached the common at the top of the hill, the towers of the city still menacingly close; a banner declaring, “Capitalism is Crisis” flying defiantly below them.

Tepees are being erected around us, the bold amongst the protestors climbing their peaks and waving at passersby and the patrolling police. There are certainly hopes that the police will learn from their mistakes during the G8 and give the campaigners the chance to express themselves freely, but each person we have spoken to remains wary.

Regardless, spirits are high with workshops and lectures planned throughout the duration of the camp making this more than just a chance to wave a few banners and grumble about the police. The happy campers will be able to learn how to reduce their carbon footprint; attending workshops on how to build wind turbines and compost waste, as well as ways to deal with the media and the police.

The high flyers in their dockland apartments overlooking the camp will no doubt be tutting to themselves and rolling their eyes at the campers’ naive attempt to change the world. But these activists mean business – and with compost toilets and copious amounts of vegan sausages, anything is possible.