The media portrays Asian men as sexually repressed, have no balls, and relatively unable to express emotional depth. Many times Japanese men are shown as incredible businessmen, highly skilled swordsmen, and having deviant sexual tendencies. Think geishas, think girls in plaid skirts, think hentai. As a storyteller, I’m told to avoid clichés as much as possible. But clichés often have a kernel of truth and can be used to establish a level of comfort when grounding a story, such as a family man that has a loving wife with a son sitting at the breakfast table, while his little sister taunts him about a girl that he likes. Where do we go from there is where the story can exit the norm and become unique.
But let’s get back to us repressed and also sexually deviant Asian men. This sorta kinda sounds like a paradox like jumbo shrimp or military intelligence. I think deviant behavior comes from being shackled, whether it is physical or implied.
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One day at work, I was telling the story of my second laser tattoo removal session. The basic procedure is this: I sit in a room, the nurse applies numbing cream, which doesn’t numb crap, wait for twenty minutes, and the doc comes in and blasts me with his laser. And, yes, it freakin’ hurts. As I was waiting for the numbing cream to not work, I relayed to my coworkers that I had seen my first breast implant, three in fact. In front of me was a tray with three different implants: one clear, one not so clear, and one smoky—foggy—cloudy? Looking around, I saw no cameras, so I reached out and cupped them. They all had different consistencies, different buoyancies, but felt familiar, real. One of my coworkers said that was a little inappropriate. Here we are, the corporate world. It’s the one thing I hate about that world, we’re all supposed to be vanilla—white washed of any personality or individualism. We’re restricted of any human connection, or allowed any human connection that doesn’t offend anybody. But anyone who gets offended by me is not my fault.
And people wonder why some go postal.
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent—Eleanor Roosevelt
Blackfish, or as my mom would say, brackfeesh-eh. Blackfish is a documentary about orcas and what happens when they are kept in captivity for the sole purpose of our entertainment. For the thirty to forty years that humans have kept orcas in slavery, there have been incidences of them attacking and killing their trainers. And in that range of time, marine biologists have found that orcas are extremely smart, have strong emotional and familial ties, live within their families their entire lives with lifespans that compete with human beings.
The film centers around one particular “killer whale”, Tilikum. He’s killed three trainers with the parks denying any type of responsibility. The interesting part of the story is that there are no records of any wild orcas ever attacking a human being and have been classified as highly aware and gentle animals. It’s only when they are captured as calves, torn away from their families, and kept in captivity do they ever exhibit any kind of deviant behavior. Many experts on the film express amazement that so few incidences have occurred, especially since these orcas are locked up at night with little room to move. Imagine having the whole ocean as your backyard, then being locked up in a container is limiting to say the least.
And people wonder why they go postal.