Question 9

This March I will be receiving a short survey. I will be asked ten simple questions about myself. Questions which are supposed to let other Americans know who lives in America.

I look forward to participating in US Census 2010. I've never done it before. Ten years ago I was so insignificant that I never received my questionnaire or a personal visit to my home.

But the question causing the most controversy this year is "Question 9". The question which asks us to identify ourselves racially. Well, just by looking at me, one could say I was black. When I read casting calls I look for the letters "AA", for African American. Ask my great grandmother and she might just call me negro. I happen to answer to all of the above. When writing I often refer to myself as "The Negative Negro". The word negro doesn't bother me. Should it? Once upon a time it was the commonly used word to identify those born of African decent and currently living in America. Then someone got offended and we started calling ourselves colored. Then someone else wanted to be radical and we chose the specific color black. Then some one wanted to be politically correct and we have settle on the term African American. For now. I feel African American is the most presumptuous, being that I cannot trace my lineage any further than South Carolina.

One day, while surfing the web, I happened upon "The Racial Slur Database". It's pretty funny. It reminds one of why they should be offended by the names, letters and number which may identify them racially. According to this database, anything other than your first name should mean a complaint to human resources. They say "AA" could also be a reference to "double A batteries, which you use for a while then throw away". I guess. If you say so. But I'm still not offended. "Akata-West African (Yoruba) term for African-Americans. Meaning ancestors of slaves or cotton picker". I'm also not offended by this. My ancestors did pick cotton.

The attempt, in including the term "Negro" as an option for identifying oneself racially, was an attempt at inclusion. Some Negros don't consider themselves to be black. Some African Americans will never answer to negro. If you don't like any of the options, choose Hispanic. They are asking you to identify yourself. What do you think you are?

I know a girl who is half Filipino and half black. When she was in elementary school and she was asked her race she identified herself as Filipino. Her teacher called her a liar and she had to have her Filipino mother visit the school to right the wrong. But if the kid identified herself, what gives her teacher the right to question that? Answer as you see fit. The government is not trying to offend you. They will accept the answer you give.

My first Thai Massage

I just got a massage in North Hollywood. A scandalous experience and I shan't return. I just wanted to go someplace within walking distance because I was completely loaded on Vicodin. I like to treat myself sometimes. Don't judge. So, I make my way to a Thai Massage place just blocks away from home. I've glanced at their neon sign on occasion and wondered what a Thai Massage experience might be like.
It was 6pm and very dark. I entered the room loudly so as not to walk in on anything. "Hey, hey, hey. Whats going on in here? Hello?" I thought perhaps they were closed. But this was just the first clue that I was not in for a fun ride. I look to the left, just above gold Buddha's bald head at a sign which reads "NO Sexual!". First of all, who prints signs in broken English anyway? Is there no proof reading at the sign shop? No sexual what? No sexual innuendos? No sexual T-shirt graphics? Finally May Ling sashays to the front lobby, polishing off her two piece chicken meal and wiping her hands on her jeans. Why was she wearing scrubs on top and jeans on the bottom? Was she supposed to be working the front desk? Maybe she didn't think she would have to stand. Then she says, with a confused look on her face, "How can I help you?" Um, is this not a massage boutique? All signs said "run fast, run far", but I could hardly move due to the Cabernet I used to wash down the vicodin.
They have me dress in silk boxers, which must have had an owner once upon a time, and a silk shell cut open in the back, like a hospital gown. of course I put it on open in front because the last time I was in a hospital I was getting a breast exam. I could swear she glanced up at the nearest "NO Sexual" sign to remind me of the house rules and I apologized frantically and turned my shell around. I didn't want any sexual.
For the next hour I was pulled, smashed and bent in ways I never want to experience again. I think they were mad at me for actually wanting a massage because they just started making up moves. Massaging bones, rubbing back and forth over cartilage. "That is not a knot lady! Its my knuckle!" All the signs were there. I should have just left. But now its done. And when I pass that glorious neon sign boasting one hour Thai and Swedish massages, I am no longer tempted to stop.