Rachel Young

thursday, august 16, 2001

Some days, you just have to get things off your chest. Today just so happens to be one of those days.

There are a few things which truly offend me. First of all—an attack on my religion. I am a Christian and have no reason to be ashamed of it. If I were put in a position where I had to renounce my faith or face death, I would gladly die with honor. My life is meaningless without Christ. I’ve encountered non-Christians who often complain Christians are judgmental, narrow-minded, and preachy. Well I’m glad to see that person was a lot more open-minded in making that stereotype. Don’t prejudge me.

Then there are the racial slurs and innuendoes which slip into the occasional conversation. I can’t imagine in this modern day and age that there are still some very juvenile individuals who would resort to name calling like chink or nigger. And though they may not use those exact terms, they might as well have with some of the comments they make. I’m stupefied every time I experience or observe some type of racial discrimination. Why can’t people understand we’re all human? We all feel, think, and hurt just like everybody else.

And finally (this is where I really go off), if you’re really looking to tick me off, make some male-chauvinistic remark and I’ll go ballistic. Women are not sexual toys to gawk and drool over. Nor are we hired service to be beckoned at the snap of one’s finger or the ring of a bell. True—most women may not be as physically strong as men are, but don’t doubt the immutable strength of a woman’s mind, heart, and spirit. And I commend those men who are gentlemen and know how to treat a woman with respect. Kudos to you.

Ok, I know I’m starting to sound like a bitter, enraged Asian girl, but you try being a minority in every respect and see how easy it is. It’s something I face every day of my life, and I become more and more aware of even the subtle hints of discrimination each day.

“Well Rachel, that’s just the way things are so deal with it.”

No. I don’t think so. It's not the way things should be. I’ve been reading a book with detailed accounts of Korean comfort women in Japan during World War II, and it makes me sick to my stomach. One elderly halmoni (grandmother) recounts how these men brutally forced themselves on the women, and how to this day, she can't even look at white liquids without wanting to puke. I can’t even begin to imagine how one survives through this. And simply telling them to deal with it is not the answer. These women are looking for a public declaration, apology and justice from the Japanese government, which refuse to acknowledge their accounts claiming it's a "massive deception". But what do these women have to gain by fabricating their stories?

I read stories and various descriptions of violent acts committed against women in both fiction and non-fiction stories. Here’s an excerpt from Ruth Ozeki’s My Year of Meats:

On all fours, he crawled into the dark of the bedroom and located the lump that was his wife. He stood up unsteadily, wrenched back the covers, and looked down at her. Her body was curled loosely on its side, her breathing light and even. Eyes shut, hands folded, she looked like she was praying. Her flannel pajamas, dotted with small lavender flowers, obscured her from neck to wrist to ankle. The pajamas infuriated him. He poked her with his toe. No reaction. He swung back a stockinged foot and kicked her as hard as he could in the stomach. She gasped but continued to lie there, as limp as a dead cat. The force of the kick, however, caused him to slip on the tatami and fall with a thump onto his bottom. It took his breath away. Legs splayed, he sat there and surveyed his inert wife.
“I know you are alive. You’re playing dead, but I know you are alive.” He crawled over and straddled her and rolled her onto her back. He covered her mouth and pinched her nostrils closed as hard as he could and waited for a long, long time. When she still didn’t respond, didn’t crack an eye or even gasp for breath, he lifted her by the front of her flannel pajamas.
“Open your eyes!” he screamed, inches from her face. “Breathe! Look at me!” And when she didn’t, he punched her squarely in the jaw. Her head flew back as his knuckle split her lip, and a thin dribble of blood ran down her jaw. He flipped her over onto her stomach so he wouldn’t have to look at it. He pinned her to the floor. “You liar, you liar . . .” As though she were struggling or fighting back, as though to control her, he put his knee into the small of her back and pulled down her elastic-waisted bottoms, exposing her thin, pale buttocks. Still she didn’t move.
“So I guess it doesn’t matter where I put it, does it?” he muttered, as he unzipped his pants. “In the front or in the back, it’s all the same. It doesn’t matter where, because you are a sterile, useless woman.”

People don’t think things like this ever happens. Well, think again. I had a friend who personally went through this kind of torment and when she finally opened up to me and told me of her experience, I wanted to see this monster face to face and give him a bit of his own medicine. Her story is the inspiration behind the song "Shine".

Sometimes I feel like there's so little I can do, but I strongly feel awareness is the first step.

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