Trapped in the Land of the Free

Lately I've been thinking a lot about my future--about success and happiness. I have really been wondering whether I want to make it in a conventional way, or whether to go off the beaten track to make my mark on the world. I've always known that I have a special potential--but what have I been doing with it? Is it just naivete? Everyone thinks they're special and that they're going to do something big to change the world. Then, they live out their lives to find that they've been trapped within the confines of societal convention.

I don't want to be that way.

I came to college because that's what I thought you need to do in order to be successful. But that's not always true. If I found my success in another way, school (which I hate anyway) would be more of an option than an obvious step. So after college, then what? Start from the bottom and reach my peak of success at 35, then plateau for the rest of my life? That sounds really terrible. I want to get to a position where I have power and influence early in life, so I can spend the rest of my life making productive changes. You need both power and influence--in other words, money--to make a real difference in the capitalist society of individualism that we work within.

There's a certain pull to the entertainment industry, because the audience is so large and widespread. And most of all, impressionable. Even the uneducated, the specialized, and the so-called isolated are affected by the messages from advertisements and the mainstream media. I want to be recognizable--famous by name (face isn't so important) so that I can give a voice to the unfortunate victims of circumstance. To make a change--a real noticeable difference and not just live a mediocre life and be forgotten when you die--you have to play by the rules to succeed in the world that we live in now--a world controlled by big companies, large banks and government officials. And if I don't get there, how can I live a life under the circumstances I exist within that I find worthwhile? What can I do for a long time that I enjoy, and can make money from?

Somehow, I don't think continuing along the conventional path will satisfy me. Too much build up and due-payment to end up somewhere that may not be worth it. Our generation's visionaries didn't do what the world told them--most dropped out of school to pursue their ideas. My problem is I don't have an idea or talent to run away with, and I spend all my time distracted by useless school to be able to come up with it. At the end of the day, I've always seen myself to become a name the world recognizes.

So, the question is...how do I get there?

The Two Way Window

Her small hands bathe in a waterfall coming from a silver tube, gently caressing the bubbles between them. She ties the baby blue ribbon of a yellow half-skirt with embroidered crimson butterflies around her waist, her favorite apron that she calls, “a dress without the back.” Jennifer Shih, amateur pastry chef and teenage cook extraordinaire, is ready to bake a pumpkin pie.

Shih pulls a silver and black instrument from a drawer next to the oven, an IKEA can opener and hikes the jaws of the device on the curvature of Libby’s 100% Pure Pumpkin, quickly glancing at the side of the can as she does so. Slowly, she turns the knob on the can opener and the smell of aluminum yields to a strong scent of Thanksgiving. Then, Shih removes the package of frozen piecrust from the refrigerator. She takes another look at the recipe on the Libby’s can for instructions. “I don’t usually use frozen pie crust, but it’s so convenient. And delicious,” she says.

A small spot of gray mystery mars the edge of the ghostly tan frozen piecrust. “Mold?” Shih wonders aloud. “Maybe an oil stain,” she says, and chooses the second piecrust hiding beneath the imperfect one.

Her swift fingers, as if on keys of a piano, touch the oven screen buttons to preheat the oven to 425 degrees Fahrenheit. Shih’s eyes search the counter and glisten as she reaches for Libby’s pumpkin. She removes the half-separated metal circle as she reads the label on the side. 15 ounces of Libby’s pumpkin, “close to one pound!” she says excitedly, plop into Shih’s companion: the Artisan 5 Quart Kitchen Aid Mixer. Shih glides around the small kitchen as if ice-skating on a wintertime rink. “Where is the granulated sugar?!” she exclaims, followed by a comical, “Oh,” spotting the sugar right at eye level on the counter. She carefully measures and then heaps 1½ cups into the mixer’s bowl.

The hungry silver jaws of the can opener prey on the aluminum of a can of evaporated milk. Why not regular milk? “I don’t know,” Shih says, “It’s Libby’s Famous Pumpkin Pie recipe,” and after a pause, “from the pumpkin can.” Shih’s eyes twinkle in the light again as she peruses the can’s label and pours in the thick milk.

Next, she pulls out a small container of McCormick’s pumpkin spice mix, only a second choice to Trader Joe’s Pumpkin Spice she says, because it has real lemon peel and the cinnamon isn’t as finely ground.

Like an artist evaluating a fresh piece, Shih considers the mixing bowl and a glint emerges in her eyes. Shih’s idea leads her to the cabinet, pulling out a navy Morton container with the infamous logo of girl in the rain, and measures out one teaspoon of salt. With a laugh, Shih says most may think it’s weird to add salt to a dessert, but it helps to bring out the sweet flavors.

Like an expert, she cracks three eggs on the counter with one hand, to avoid inverting the shell. The air is heavy with the smell of cinnamon and anticipation.

Suddenly, the twinkle in her eyes vanishes—then, a squeal of panic. Shih intended to bake only half of what the recipe would yield, and forgot to adjust the portion of eggs. Her eyes dart from the mixing bowl, a milky mystery with three blank suns floating on top, to the label on the can, to a mug on the counter. To avoid an extra custardy pie because of the excess eggs, within seconds Shih has scooped out the extra eggs before they mixed in with the batter, a rich orange the color of a sultry sunset. She exhales deeply and meditates for a moment on her quick rescue.

Shih places the mixing bowl on her Artisan Kitchen Aid mixer and activates it, and her eyes cloud with memory as she recounts the history of the cooking tool. Her mother bought it for her onher 16^th birthday, she says. The mixer is a vibrant, pastel orange to rival the pumpkin mixture. Her mother picked Clementine orange to match her personality at the time—bright and lively, ready to take on the challenges of the kitchen. For Shih, it’s not just a mixer—it’s a time machine. She says that her mother’s gift symbolizes a faith in her as a baker, a passing down of a family tradition that Shih hopes to bestow to her children in the future.

Once more, Shih washes her hands in the sink and fondly looks over at the Kitchen Aid. When it breaks down, she says, she tells everyone that it’s sick. At the sound of the word, the sink begins regurgitating her discarded raw eggs, making a loud suction sound as if the eggs are begging for a second chance. Sylvia, Kitchen Aid connoisseur and Shih’s mother activates the garbage disposal, putting the persistent eggs to sleep. Again, Shih studies the side of the Libby’s pumpkin can to make sure she didn’t forget anything. Satisfied, she pours the smooth and runny golden brown pumpkin pie filling into the piecrust, asking Sylvia to supervise. After observing quite a bit of extra filling in the bowl, Shih’s older sister Juliet takes a look at the seemingly defective second piecrust and removes the strange gray circle. With a shrug and a wide smile, Shih pours the rest of the batter into the other piecrust, filling about three-quarters of it. The eggs need not have died in vain after all.

After she places both pies inside the warm oven and sets the timer for 40 minutes, Shih crouches in front of the closed oven door and peers through the window. She looks at the pies as if seeing them for the first time. Before standing, she notices her own reflection in the oven door window, recognizing herself along the way.

The Class Without Class

View: http://tvshack.cc/tv/Boy_Meets_World/season_2/episode_23/

In modern consumerist American society, “the media...have become the most important ideological battlefield” (Grossberg et al 216). Ideology is rooted in the very culture of our society, making itself known through various media by reinforcing or questioning the norms of the social order it describes. The dominant, accepted ideologies make up the status quo, defining both class and familial structures that are regurgitated back to society through films, television and newspapers. In this way, the ABC television series “Boy Meets World” upholds the dominant ideology of class by juxtaposing Cory’s nuclear family, well off and therefore functional, to Shawn’s working class family that does not adhere to the traditional family model and is subsequently problematic.

“Boy Meets World” is a seven-season comedy show about average teenager, Cory Matthews and the life problems he encounters, with a lesson and example of his growth in every episode. The twenty-third episode of the second season, “Home,” strongly depicts the class differences between Cory and his best friend, Shawn Hunter, as well as the distinctions between their family lives. Shawn’s father Chet leaves town to chase his wife Virna, who ran off with their substandard trailer home in search of a happier life. Both parents abandon Shawn, who therefore has a rebellious and trouble-making personality, and feels caged and misfit under the stricter family rules of the Matthews household. With Cory’s parents frustrated after three weeks with no word from Chet regarding his return, Shawn sets out on his own, with the understanding that no one wants him, and  so he gets in trouble with the police later that night. Shawn’s young, unmarried English teacher Mr. Turner assumes responsibility for rebellious Shawn under the conditions that he will obey the rules and behave himself. The class differences affecting the life chances of the Matthews and Hunter families are embedded in the ideologies of class and family.

The accepted ideology of class is a way of understanding the world in terms of economic success that is prevalent in media culture today. According to Mediamaking, “Ideology is a particular way of thinking and seeing the world that makes the existing organization of social relations appear natural and inevitable,” (Grossberg et al 193). Karl Marx, who analyzed the class ideology in terms of the capitalist bourgeoisie and the working class made up of proletariats, claimed that, “the dominant ideology of class upholds a system of social relations in which the proletariat is exploited” (Lecture, 22 July 2010). Thus, the working class exists under a false consciousness, in that the ideology obscures the true nature of social relations, and their belief systems are controlled by higher classes. Although Marx does not account for a middle class, his socioeconomic theory does affirm the existence of a class above the workers that have a substantial amount of ideological power, “the ability to define reality in particular ways,” over the working class (Grossberg et al 193). The hegemony, or “maintenance of a consensus about how the world works,” of class ideology is that those in upper classes have worked hard for their wealth and status whereas the lower classes are lazy and unmotivated, and therefore unsuccessful (Lecture, 22 July 2010). This worldview on class is strongly upheld in “Boy Meets World.”

In this episode, Cory’s well off family fits the ideological assumptions characterizing the upper-middle class, compliant with the hegemonic ideology of class. For example, in terms of the dominant class ideology, the wealthy are considered hard workers who struggled against the odds in order to succeed in a capitalist system. This work ethic is inherent in their ideology, the way of thinking that dictates the way they lead their lives, and its practice generates well-deserved economic status and wealth. The Matthews family is a case in point of the dominant ideology of class. For instance, Cory’s father Alan has a steady job as a manager at the grocery store, evidence that it is necessary and profitable to start small and gradually climb up the capital ladder through persistence, skill and hard work. Furthermore, Alan’s patience and long hours at his job, despite his lack of passion for his work, exemplify the committed work ethic necessary for success in America. The monetary fruits of his hard labor are depicted by the set and appearance of the characters on the show. Throughout the episode, Alan is clean-shaven, dressed in business attire with an expensive watch, and his wife Amy is fashionable, made-up and adorned with jewelry, exemplifying the ideological assumptions of class. The Matthews live in a large two-story house with several bedrooms, a spacious living room and kitchen, all of which are generously furnished and well cared for. The three Matthews children also lead comfortable lifestyles. The eldest, Eric, often asks for money from his parents to spend on his dates with frivolous girls. Cory buys lunch and dinner out of the house for himself and his friends, and mentions the material comfort his parents provide and  expresses his fear of living without his costly things. Even six-year-old Morgan accepts a bribe of one dollar by her father to leave the room and watch television on the big screen so that he and Amy can discuss Shawn’s predicament in private, indicating that money is, to an extent, disposable to the Matthews. The children are endowed with material things—Morgan has many toys and clothes, and the brothers have a computer, television and boom box in their room. Thus, the Matthews family adheres to the mainstream ideology of class because the patriarchal breadwinner of the household, Alan, has worked hard throughout his life, and as a result leads a comfortable and privileged lifestyle for himself and his family.

On the other hand, Shawn’s working class family does not fit the criteria for the status quo regarding class, and consequently, they do not prosper, upholding the dominant class ideology. The mainstream ideology of class claims that conversely, those of a lower class are lazy and unproductive, and have only themselves to blame for their own financial struggles. Shawn fits in to this portrayal of the working class, indicated in the episode “Home.” His family does not have a steady income, or even a permanent residence. Chet cannot hold a job for more than a few months, preferring poorly planned get-rich-quick schemes that contradict the work ethic encouraged by the ideology of class. Shawn lived in a run-down trailer home before his mother drove away with it, and his parents did not have any financial plans for Shawn whom they left behind. He also does not obey his high school teachers or take his classes seriously, apathetic towards the prospect of higher education because of the mental application it requires. The Hunters are perceived as careless and lazy, contrasting the values of hard work and sacrifice that promise financial stability. The situations and images in the episode substantiate the consequences of defying the behavioral expectations of the dominant ideology of class. Although this episode spans over several days, Shawn wears the same clothes everyday, wearing a single outfit for the last three weeks that he has stayed with the Matthews. His personality is that of a scavenger, unrefined and aggressive, evident when Shawn drinks milk directly out of the carton and Amy marks the container with a black “S,” only to reveal that the entire refrigerator is filled with similar containers that Shawn has contaminated. Shawn also cuts the sleeves off of a sweater that Mrs. Matthews bought for him, and cringes when she patched up his torn and dirty jeans, indicative of his rugged upbringing. Furthermore, he has very few possessions, able to fit all his belongings in a single duffle bag and even having to borrow Eric’s bathrobe and Alan’s shaving razor. Shawn and his family do not fit the conventional mold of families in terms of class, but still affirm the hegemonic ideology in that a lack of hard, dedicated work correspondingly yields a lack of material wealth and comfort.

The ideology of class advocates for the mainstream, exemplified by the functionality of Cory’s upper-middle class family. The Matthews, a typical nuclear social unit, abide by the traditional conventions of class and family, and are therefore successful. Since Cory’s parents have raised a normal family, their children also act in accordance with social norms, a product of complying with the accepted ideology of class. For example, Eric is determined to reach his academic potential, and is seen obsessively studying for the SAT exam in order to go to college which will later in his life, dictate his class. He also helps their next-door neighbor, Mr. Feeny, with the gardening in exchange for counseling on preparing for the college entrance test. Cory is obedient as well, following the “9 o’clock curfew on a school night” that his parents have established (“Home”). Moreover, the family is unified, openly communicating even their small problems with one another and reaching rational, agreeable solutions. The Matthews exemplify the dominant class ideology, and are therefore socially and economically prosperous. The series interpellates, or “calls individuals into a certain ideological frame,” middle class families into the position of the Matthews family, who are represented as well-off and functional in the show (Lecture, 27 July 2010). The audience is interpellated into a situation of comfortable socioeconomic background, similar to the lives led by the Matthews, in order for the audience to relate to the show in terms of its identity. “Boy Meets World” puts its audience into this position because these audiences have the financial capability to consume the media, and accordingly depicts this group in a positive, successful manner to stimulate further profits. The families mirrored by the Matthews benefit from the portrayal of conforming to the status quo yielding life success, because this representation becomes the way of thinking of the general public. This interpellation positions the audience in terms of its cultural and social identity, characterized by “Boy Meets World,” so that society will associate nuclear families like the Matthews with success and functionality.

On the other hand, the Hunters as an unconventional family that are members of the working class, are consequently dysfunctional, supporting the hegemonic ideology of class. In line with Chet’s irresponsibility in reaction to his wife’s abandonment, Shawn is similarly headed towards an unsuccessful future. In spite of his parents’ financial instability, he disregards school as a waste of time instead of viewing education as an opportunity for economic mobility. His behavior in this episode affirms the consequences of being raised in an irregular working class family. Shawn repeatedly runs away from the Matthews’ home, sneaking out the window proclaiming, “I don’t do bedtimes, I don’t do curfews,” in response to Cory’s insistence on following his parents’ rules (“Home”). Shawn is belligerent in his attempts to control his own life since his parents do not take care of him. After leaving the Matthews’, he is caught by the police for vandalizing the local school, and does not show remorse for his actions. Furthermore, he is openly disrespectful to his teachers and caregivers, defiantly addressing Mr. Turner’s counseling with, “We’re not in class. I don’t have to listen to you” (“Home”). Shawn is clearly troubled and his family is fraught with problems, evident in Shawn’s sense of loneliness and abandonment when he shouts, “None of you want me. Well, that’s fine. I don’t need any of you. I never needed anybody” (“Home”). The Hunters are a lower class and non-nuclear family and Shawn serves as a product of the ensuing dysfunction. Because of the Hunters’ nonconformity to the traditional notions of class ideology, and irregular family structure, they are seen as problematic and unsuccessful and therefore support the dominant class ideology as an example of the consequences of challenging it.

“Boy Meets World” upholds the hegemonic ideology of class by juxtaposing Cory’s middle class family, conventional and therefore functional, to Shawn’s lower income family that does not abide by the traditional family model and is subsequently dysfunctional. Though these ideologies are represented through media, they are entrenched in the values and institutions of society. Those with ideological power wield it to their benefit, regardless of the consequences on the people, whose “identities are less stable and unified than they were in previous generations” (Grossberg et al 252).

Works Cited

Grossberg, Lawrence, Ellen Wartella, and D. Charles Whitney. MediaMaking: Mass Media in a Popular Culture. London: Sage, 1998. Print.

"Home - Boy Meets World - TV Shack." TV Shack - Tune in. Web. 03 Aug. 2010. .

Media Studies N10. Lecture, 15 July 2010.

Media Studies N10. Lecture, 22 July 2010.

Media Studies N10. Lecture, 27 July 2010.

Subject to Objectification

    According to Jean Kilbourne, “Mass communication has made possible a kind of national peer pressure that erodes private and individual values and standards,” manifested in the media texts dominating American culture, and adversely affecting social groups (Kilbourne). This pressure for social acceptance is embedded in advertisements, particularly those selling an illusion more than a product. A semiotic analysis of Sean Combs’s perfume ad, juxtaposed against Aviance’s Night Musk cologne advertisement epitomizes the degeneration of social equality between sexes. Despite gender differences in their target audiences and dissimilar historical contexts, both Sean John’s Unforgivable Woman and Aviance Night Musk fragrance ads exemplify male dominance and the objectification of women in their strategic marketing appeals to the consumers.

          As a modern brand advertising in the 2000s, Sean John’s perfume ad for Unforgivable Woman is directed at young women, utilizing consumer association with lovemarks and affective economics techniques. Sean Combs, more popularly known as Puff Daddy or P. Diddy, founded his company Sean John in 1998, hopes of creating a multi-product enterprise including music, clothing and television shows (Pegler). As a result, his brand is not only associated with his own celebrity persona, but has become a lovemark, a brand that “reach[es] your heart as well as your mind, creating an intimate, emotional connection that you just can’t live without” (Lovemarks). Sean John’s logo, a distinctive cursive signature, is present on all Combs’s products including sportswear, fashion apparel for men and later women, accessories and of course fragrances, so that his dedicated fans can recognize the new products he has released. P. Diddy, a rap artist who became entrepreneur mogul Sean Combs, uses his own fame and recognition to advertise his products. Fans of his music are likely to buy records that he has produced, clothes he has made, and perfume he sells, due to their “loyalty beyond reason” characteristic of a lovemark brand (Lecture, 15 July 2010). Typically, Combs’s dominating presence in his perfume ad for Unforgivable Woman released in 2006 is selling not so much the product, but rather himself. The target audience of the advertisement, which is likely to be featured in a women’s magazine like Glamour or Cosmopolitan, is the demographic group of women in their teens to late twenties who read these magazines, a large part of the “niche market that has gained considerable attention…a major market for films, TV Shows, CDs…and fashion” (Grossberg et al 109). This demographic segment, in addition to the target audience for women’s magazines and the advertisement itself, is the generation that remembers Sean Combs as Puff Daddy, then consuming his music and now his products. The women of the target audience who associate themselves with Sean John consider it a lovemark, and thus are more likely to buy the fragrance. The ad itself features Sean Combs with his arms around a woman who has her eyes closed, a romantic intimacy that is an example of affective economics, a “marketing strategy that tries to determine the emotional underpinnings of consumer buying decisions” (Lecture, 15 July 2010). A woman’s yearning for the close embrace of a man makes this ad relatable to young females, and therefore more profitable. The historical context of this ad is the modern era, targeted towards young women through the use of affective economics and lovemarks. The marketing strategies of affective economics and lovemarks are representative of advertising techniques of the new age, fitting for this 2006 ad.

          Aviance’s Night Musk, on the other hand, is a 1983 advertisement aimed towards working males in their twenties and thirties, also using affective economics as a marketing tactic. The Night Musk ad depicts a young man coming home after work, an advertisement likely to be found in a men’s magazine that is likewise geared towards consumers of the young male professional demographic group. The slogan, “Put it on…and have an Aviance night” is catered toward men represented in the Aviance advertisement, who under the illusion of the ad, would buy the cologne in hopes of sexually conquering an attractive woman. In this way, Aviance uses affective economics to appeal to the sexual desires of aroused men by selling the experience of a pleasurable night more so than the Nigh Musk fragrance. This type of “pseudo-spiritual marketing” eliminates consumer regard for the actual product, but rather allows the advertisements of Aviance to “become more than just a mark of quality [and] become an invitation to a longed-for lifestyle” (The Persuaders). The Night Musk ad was released about thirty years ago, during the transition between the early advertising of product qualities of the 1950s and the new age of emotional branding and celebrity endorsement (The Persuaders). Although the target audience of Aviance’s Night Musk is primarily young males, the consumers have been categorized into this specific demographic, similar to the audience segmentation of Sean John’s Unforgivable Woman.

         The Unforgivable Woman by Sean John ad contains several indicators of male dominance and female objectification. The product name itself is evidence of the woman’s burden, as “Unforgivable Woman” alludes to one woman in particular: Eve, tempted to eat the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden, an “unforgivable” mistake after which women have been considered inferior, evident in modern advertisements. Although this product is targeted toward female consumers, a man—who is the creator of the product—is a large focus of the advertisement, signifying the masculine presence in not only the product Sean Combs endorses, but also in the consumer choices a female customer makes. A woman may buy this product, but it was sold to her by a famous and influential man who is immersed within the product—his face in the advertisement, his signature on the bottle, and his fame’s influence over the consumer’s purchase. The syntagmatic organization of the text refers to, “its organization, how its signs are connected in time or space” that is vital to the overall meaning of the advertisement (Grossberg et al). For example, Sean Combs’s overshadowing position in the advertisement is domineering, pinning the woman against a wall and territorially wrapping his arms around her waist and neck, not protectively but rather overbearingly, indicating his authority over her. While the woman’s head is passively tilted and dependent on the wall and his arm behind her for support, the man’s head is steady and independent, in control of both of them. Sean Combs’s accessories are a sign, or “elementary unit of a system of meaning,” of wealth and superiority (Grossberg et al). He has an expensive-looking watch, a diamond earring, a large ring and sunglasses, whereas the woman is unadorned, therefore perceived as simple and lesser. The syntagmatic dimensions of this media text are indicative of the masculine superiority evident in the advertisement. Moreover, the paradigmatic organization, “the potential substitutions that one can make without changing the syntagmatic relationship” further reveals the male-dominated elements of the advertisement (Grossberg et al). For instance, in the ad Sean Combs’s eyes are open and alert, instead of closed where he would be considered emotional and therefore vulnerable. His detached countenance is also proof of his sense of superiority—if he were attentive and truly intimate with the woman, she would have some dynamic of power over him as well. The absence of physical indicators of the man’s romantic engagement creates a hierarchy in which the male is on top. Therefore, Sean Combs’s Unforgivable Woman ad indicates evidence of male superiority in advertising culture.

          Aviance’s ad similarly contains substantiation of male supremacy in its campaign to sell cologne as an illusion of sexual conquest. The most overt example is the woman’s revealing leg framing the ad. She is wearing a bright red high heel, indicative of passion and sexuality. The woman is lying down on the bed, suggesting that she has been at home, idly waiting for her lover to come home from work. Housewives and women who do not work are perceived as helpless and dependent on their male counterparts who provide for both of them, eliminating any element of gender equality from this ad. Furthermore, the face of the woman is not even included and she is regarded as irrelevant except for her seductive bare leg, whereas the man is completely visible. The syntagmatic organization of the ad shows the man as the centerpiece, the main attraction, with rays of sunshine cast upon him like a spotlight. The woman’s legs surround him, glorifying his masculinity to communicate to consumers that the Night Musk cologne will attract a similar and desirable lifestyle. Both the woman and the man have their legs split, a sexual invitation drawing attention to the sexuality promised by the Night Musk product. Paradigmatically speaking, the inclusion of the woman’s face and body would give her dignity and respect, but instead the ad uses an anonymous display of temptation, objectifying women as sexual pleasure and not equal beings. Dressing the man in pajamas or house clothes instead of a suit and tie would suggest that he too is a homebody, and not a working man of self-worth and respectability, but the ad wishes to express the higher value of a man versus a woman.

          Despite the different target audiences of these ads and their distinctive cultural periods within which the brands marketed their products, both advertisements objectify women while exalting the man in their campaign to sell fragrances. Jean Kilbourne argues that advertisers transmit messages emphasizing the need for superficiality, beauty and flawlessness, and “women are especially vulnerable because [their] bodies have been objectified and commodified for so long” (Kilbourne). By comparing fragrance ads released over a span of thirty years, the sexism in advertising proves to be as prevalent and socially destructive today as it was in 1983.

                            Works Cited

Aviance Night Musk for Men. Digital image. PZR Services. Web. 19 July 2010. .

Grossberg, Lawrence, Ellen Wartella, and D. Charles Whitney. MediaMaking: Mass Media in a Popular Culture. London: Sage, 1998. Print.

Kilbourne, Jean, (from Gender, Race and Class in Media), “The More You Subtract, The More You Add: Cutting Girls Down to Size”

"Lovemarks: Sean John (Nomination)." Lovemarks: the Future beyond Brands. Saatchi & Saatchi, 2010. Web. 19 July 2010. .

Media Studies N10. Lecture, 15 July 2010

Pegler, Martin M. "Designer Boutiques." Stores of the Year: No. 15. New York: Visual Reference, 2005. 82. Print.

The Persuaders. Dir. Barak Goodman and Rachel Dretzin. PBS. Frontline, 09 Nov. 2003. Web. 20 July 2010. .

Sean John Unforgivable Woman. Digital image. Ace Show Biz. Web. 19 July 2010. .

"Be Prepared."

Meet Jacqueline—an uptight, Jewish redhead with a sassy attitude and enough money to keep it and her friends, at the same time. Enter Amy, my Jewish/Hispanic neighbor with a big heart, but even bigger wallet. Lastly, there’s Hannah—a sweet, Southern-raised girl, also Jewish by way of loaded stepfather. These are the Jewish American Princesses of Bellaire, Texas. Oh, and they’re also my best friends. I’m a fifth-grade nobody with brown Indian skin, a strong sense of frugality and a big brain to match my round glasses and clumsy feet.

Rule 1: All backup girls of the JAP trio must discuss boys for a full 30 minutes daily.

“So Alyssa, which guy is cutest out of all the fifth grade?” asked Amy. Truthfully, I had a crush on Cameron, her current boyfriend—or whatever that meant at eleven-years-old—for longer than she did. But that was a definite “no-no" in hoping to hang out with the cool, rich girls. So I picked the first boy I saw, whose name I don’t even remember.

Rule 2: All backup girls of the JAP trio must take part in weekly slumber parties.

“Oh my God, I can’t wait for this Friday’s sleepover!” squealed Jackie. “Now that I let Nathan kiss me on the lips, I’ll give you and Hannah a couple tips,” she said to me with a smirk.

“Actually, I got my first kiss last year from Cody,” replied Hannah calmly, and continued eating her Wonderbread sandwich. So that left me, the last girl in the group who had yet to be kissed by an actual boy. Waiting for that Friday’s sleepover seemed more like a fifth-grade death sentence, and leaving Saturday morning was my release from the cell of self-pity, social inmate number: 2PATH3T1C.

Rule 3: All backup girls of the JAPS trio must join the Girl Scouts.
After begging, crying and compromising, my mom finally agreed to pay the hidden fees required in joining Troop 4387, to keep my place as a JAP backup girl. I walked into my first Girl Scout meeting, overwhelmed with a sense of discomfort. It was the weekly sleepover, but worse because all the white Jewish girls’ white Jewish moms smiled tantalizingly, with nametags pinned to their argyle sweaters and offering around sample cookies.

“Let’s get started, girls!” exclaimed Jackie’s mom—Troop Leader, informally but universally known as the Jewish American Queen. “Who knows the Girl Scout motto?”

“Be prepared!” cried the incumbent Girl Scouts together. I sat awkwardly in my seat, drowning in the shock of green sashes, sisterhood and fundraising that I had jumped through hoops to be a part of.

By sixth grade, I abandoned my post as a groupie of the JAP trio. My yearning to belong, to fit in, to be accepted had somehow dissipated, after realizing that my treacherous Indian skin seemed surprisingly golden-bronzed. That, and the Queen made a jibe at the mere fifty-two boxes of cookies I sold compared to Jackie’s three hundred-six. I did learn from that first Girl Scout meeting though. In a world of racial tension, the best motto is to “be prepared.”

The Baby with the Salt Water

Close your eyes. Imagine the wondrous point on Earth where the two giants of the world meet: land fades into sea. Listen to the soft whooshing of waves, gently crashing onto the shore. Smell the salt in the heavy air, letting the moisture penetrate your pores. Feel the powdery, damp sand squishing between your toes. Press your feet into the ground as the water overwhelms your footprints and then withdraws, erasing the evidence of your presence. Now, open your eyes and see the vast, boundless edges of the ocean, almost curving at the horizon under a blood-red sun setting in the distance. The beach.

Despite the loud chatter of enthusiastic participants around me, the serene setting of the ocean around me instantly put me at ease. It was the Partnership Walk at Santa Monica Pier, a charity event sponsored by the spiritual leader of Ismaili Muslims, the Aga Khan, to help eradicate global poverty. This day, October 25th 2009, was special for first times. For the first time, I came home from college for the weekend, to cure my homesickness and participate in the Walk. For the first time, I was visiting Santa Monica—the closest to Hollywood I have ever come in my years as a Southern Californian resident. For the first time, I was spending the day with an impossibly attractive Ismaili boy I met on the Golden Gate Bridge at the San Francisco Partnership Walk. For the very first time, I was witnessing the baptism in the ocean of a young child by a large group of African American Christians, unusually drawn to them but unsure of the social protocol surrounding this sacred ceremony.

On a whim, the handsome Ismaili boy—who donned an adorable white Fedora hat—and I, accompanied by several acquaintances around our age, strayed from the designated Partnership Walk path down Santa Monica Boulevard. We were lured to the beach by the sound of the ocean water, shining under the Californian sun. Finally reunited with my favorite landscape, I remember feeling the giddiness and inexplicable electricity between the boy and me, as we shed our socks and shoes off our feet to converge with the sandy skin of the shoreline. As I allowed the cool water to rush up against my ankles, which drew back into the ocean leaving ripples around my toes as the sand imprinted my feet, my faithful nose couldn’t help but detect the wafting scent of marinated barbequed meat and freshly baked cake on a train of white tables under several large white tents nearby. The food tantalizingly beckoned to my friends and me, and one of the boys I was with jokingly suggested to “crash” the party in order to eat the food without invitation. As I looked over at the group of people surrounding the white canopy tent, my eyes met a unique ritual.

About forty African American males stood waist deep in the ocean, wearing white robes, encircling something that the man in the middle of the circle seemed to be holding in their hands. Twenty or so women, also dressed in white gowns, looked on from the shoreline, their lips whispering mysteries. A few of them had rosaries weaving effortlessly between their fingers. Strangely, my eyes fixated on the scene, capturing my mind’s attention to make sense of the incident I was observing. At this point, I felt a gentle nudge on my arm as someone whispered that I was staring. I tore my eyes away from the water and looked to my left. The nudge came from the beautiful Fedora boy, who looked unfazed and a bit concerned.

“What’s going on? What are they doing?” I asked him curiously.
“It’s an ocean baptism. They are christening their baby in the water, to symbolize the cleansing of sins and the union of the Christian with Jesus Christ. It’s common in Los Angeles to see cultural traditions all over the place. Like a melting pot, whose fire burns California,” he answered with a twinkle in his eyes.

I looked on as waves tumbled over the baby, resting gently in strong arms as the surrounding men began to recite psalms from the Bible. The scene seemed so serene, so beautiful and so orchestrated despite the rambunctious set of twins shouting and splashing water right by the tents, an intense game of beach volleyball on the court just behind the Christians, and my group of friends, tossing a football to each other nearby, aloof to the ceremony taking place only feet away from us.

It seemed as if the ceremony was entirely removed from the beach scene. No one besides me was transfixed by the calm recitation of prayers and unity of the black Christians. I asked my friend about the social context around the religious ritual. “Does this happen often here? Why doesn’t anyone even notice them?”

A bit puzzled at my fixation on the baptism, he replied, “Well, it’s a private ceremony. We don’t participate with them because it would be like we were interrupting their privacy. It is a personal event, shared with family and close friends…why are you so interested?”

I had no answer to his question. Why was it that the baptism I was witnessing had some kind of possession over me, attracting my eyes and sparking my curiosity? Perhaps it was the baptism itself, so natural and communal and different from the way the Ismaili boy, his friends, and I were accepted into Islam. We too were just babies when we took the bay’at, an Arabic word meaning allegiance. Our parents held us, as infants, in the mosque just like the black father dressed in white held his baby in the sea, as the leader of the daily ceremonies sprinkled holy water on our faces. No food, no party, no crowd, no beach. Yet there was something intriguing about the ocean baptism I was witnessing. I remember feeling a strong pull towards these people, but reluctant to walk over and ask the questions swirling around in my mind. Why? I found myself experiencing a peculiar internal battle. What was it that was stopping me from joining them? Perhaps I felt like an intruder, peeping in to what the Fedora-clad boy called “a personal event,” taking place in the public eye only because the ocean is communally owned. It seemed vital to respect their space, and allow them to share this important moment with their young loved one. Torn between finding out more about the ocean baptism and remaining within ethical boundaries, my traitorous eyes couldn’t help but look over to witness the closing of the ceremony. The baby was wrapped in a clean white towel, as the adults brought him back to shore and handed him to his mother. She adorned an intricate white headdress but simple white cotton gown, closely embracing her son who had just become a true Christian like her—a spiritual recognition of the black tradition within him.

After the men came out of the water, the reception celebrations commenced. The child was brought back to Earth, ready to participate in the joys and sorrows the world had in store for him. The foil was removed from the trays of barbeque and the tantalizing smell captured the attention of even the football-tossing high schoolers I arrived with. The din and enthusiasm of the feasting Christians was almost infectious and I found myself smiling at their happiness. I, like one of the young boys I was with who had suggested earlier, was even considering “crashing” the party by acting as if I knew the newborn to get to the food, , starving for not only the barbeque and cake, but also for the meaning behind the ritual I had just seen. The jubilant celebration of the christening was equivalent to the symbolic meaning behind the baptism. Each seemed equally significant, the union of the spiritual and material worlds. Somehow, the party still held my captivation. As the mother of the newborn turned away from her gaze over the water, she met my eyes. For a moment, I felt exposed, ashamed for watching them so closely. To my relief, the corners of her salt-parched lips slowly turned upward. She then raised her head towards the sun, shut her eyelids and smiled broadly, the chocolate skin of her baby’s cheek glistening in the sunlight against her chest like the shimmering water of the Pacific.

Close your eyes. Imagine the history of the ocean. Its age, its experiences, its eternity. The sea is like a collection of untold stories, wading in the water but never washing up to shore. It is the host of such extensive memories throughout time, records of which are covered by foamy waves and high tide. Now, open your eyes and consider the knowledge embedded in the grains of white sand. Imagine the wondrous point on earth where the two giants of the world meet: the beach.

White Trash

Gafoor in 1972

The ‘70s in England was a time of mod revival, swingers and passionate protest. My father, Gafoor Jaffer, was right in the center of the peace signs and government rebellion—an ultra-hip Beatles fan and handsome youngster combined, popular among his friends, and quite popular among the ladies. In a word, my dad was groovy. In 1977, he worked as the head of the Presentation-Slides Department in a London photography company. Gafoor often clashed with the office runner, a young British courier at the cheeky age of 15. This boy often addressed the employees of the office with pathetic attempts at condescension while experimenting with the latest trends in speech. Eventually the boy had grown tired of shooting the insult of ‘fruit’ after a male worker in the office muttered in response, “If I were a homosexual, you’d better keep your pants on,” and abandoned the use of ‘chump’ for similar reasons. The runner’s favorite nickname for Gafoor was ‘jaffa,’ a jibe scorning his last name Jaffer, insinuating that my dad was sterile and unmanly. The professionals in the office, including Gafoor, regarded the runner as young, foolish and subordinate, and overlooked his defiance with a casual shake of their heads.
One morning, my father sauntered into the office as usual and took a seat at his mahogany desk, his bell-bottom pants swishing at his ankles. While he made phone calls to clients and transformed negative film to slides, the runner handed out mail and filled the boss’s coffee mug. The runner flung some envelopes to Gafoor with a sneer and a cheery, “Morning, Paki!”
Gafoor paused, his thumb in the nook of the envelope he was opening and slowly looked up at the runner as he said sternly, “Don’t call me a Paki.”
The boy made a face and continued to distribute the mail. Several hours later, the runner completed his duties and sat impatiently on his shaky stool behind a worn table. That day, the company had received a large order of film development. As Gafoor returned from the dark room and sat down at his desk, the young boy chided, “How’s it hangin’, ya Paki?”
My dad slightly shifted his stylish aviator sunglasses down his nose as he tilted his head forward and replied in his Oxford English accent, “Call me a Paki one more time and I’ll take care of you. Understand?”
The messenger dismissed Gafoor’s threat as a weak sense of humor. Later that day, the runner went around the office, taking note of sandwich orders for lunch. He finally came to Gafoor’s desk, who requested no ham because his religion prohibits the consumption of pork. “No hammy for the Paki?”
The boy, in fact, did not understand. And so, my father lifted the boy onto his shoulder and dumped him into the nearest trashcan. The runner continued to curse him in all the sorry British slang he knew, and the words repelled off of Gafoor as easily as if they were raindrops on a windshield. Gafoor rolled the dustbin out of the office and into the crowd of the outdoor courtyard, dusted off his hands, and went back to work.
Incidentally, my father is not Pakistani. He was raised in East Africa, and his roots lay in India. The slur of ‘Paki’ is insulting to a Pakistani, carrying the weight of unprovoked societal prejudice and a history of imperial dominance. It is even more offensive to one who is not a Pakistani. The term dates back to the colonization of Pakistan, in which the British officials would refer to South Asians collectively as ‘Pakis’ in a derogatory manner, emphasizing their inferiority and subjugation. In Britain during the ‘70s, Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis were all labeled as ‘Paki’ or ‘Wog.’
Originally when my father told me this mischievous story, my sisters and I were giggly and deeply impressed. At the time, I saw my dad as a light-hearted comic, refusing to be offended by petty insults. However, how did my father really feel? When racially scrutinized and mocked, his instant reaction was to counter his humiliation onto his aggressor, the poor messenger boy. And yet the bitter discomfort of race differences still lingers on our tongues. Probing my father for his true sentiment towards the slur yielded only the conventional excuse: it was all in good fun. Digging deeper revealed that my father did not know how to handle the racist remark and to this day regrets that he did not sit down with Doug and explain to him the impact of his words, so that he could prevent the possibility of such an offense to another. At the very least, despite its pertinence to the situation, the lessons of that day have dissuaded my father from ever, even in retaliation, using the hip and modern slang term: white trash.