It was time to update the background. I tried the new blogger template designer thingy and I like the results. The only problem I have is that there are a lot of options, so I'll probably be changing it again (and again and again) over the next few days. "Where she stops? Nobody knows!"
I actually wish I could upload a picture that I've taken into the background, but no such luck yet. At least, I've not figured out how.
I considered for a brief time, changing the name of my blog, since I'm actually no longer in college. But I started this thing in college, and I plan on auditing a class next semester (Mandarin 101!), so it's staying.
Really nothing about this blog looks collegiate or adolescent, but hey! Pregnancy is supposed to be a transitional phase, right?
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Melodrama
Every day I am astonished at the number of young, unwed mothers around me. The last time I went to Meijer, I saw at least five. Six, if you count when I went down that aisle with all the mirrors. I guess I just never noticed them before.
It reminds me of when my parents and I were traveling through Pennsylvania when I was in middle school. There was a gas station robbery one town over from where our hotel was. The offenders were last seen exiting the scene in a white, unmarked van. You would be amazed at how many white, unmarked vans are on the highway! It was kind of creepy, actually...
Not that seeing young mothers around me is creepy, but you know what I mean.
You know what? As the song says, "Pregnant Women are Smug," (Garfunkel and Oats). Particularly, young unwed ones. This came to my attention last week when I went for another 1 hour glucose test. (I've not heard from the doctor's office, so another 3 hour test is not in order as far as I know.) I'd been waiting for about 15 minutes when an extremely pregnant girl and her friend came in. They couldn't have been much older than 12 or 13. My first impulse was to be protective of this girl, who must be so terrified and confused, from the little old ladies across the room who were looking at her like fresh gossip meat. Within five minutes, that impulse completely disappeared. She kept on looking at her belly and sighing, waiting to see if someone would notice. When someone did notice, she did her best to look as uncomfortable as possible, at which point her friend would say something like, "Are you having a contraction?" (she wasn't) or "I just can't believe there's a life inside of you!"
(I'm not putting down people who like to discuss the miracle of life, but saying the same phrase 20 times in a short period of time does not qualify as deep thought.)
From what I've observed in the last few weeks, four out of five young, unwed mothers are melodramatic. From the busty blonde buying hair-dye to the bursting-at-the-seams teen in pajama pants, all display airs as if their lives are just so much nobler than everyone else's and no one could possibly understand.
I have no problem admitting the fact that I'm judgmental. But if you ever see me put on airs like that, feel free to hit me.
It reminds me of when my parents and I were traveling through Pennsylvania when I was in middle school. There was a gas station robbery one town over from where our hotel was. The offenders were last seen exiting the scene in a white, unmarked van. You would be amazed at how many white, unmarked vans are on the highway! It was kind of creepy, actually...
Not that seeing young mothers around me is creepy, but you know what I mean.
You know what? As the song says, "Pregnant Women are Smug," (Garfunkel and Oats). Particularly, young unwed ones. This came to my attention last week when I went for another 1 hour glucose test. (I've not heard from the doctor's office, so another 3 hour test is not in order as far as I know.) I'd been waiting for about 15 minutes when an extremely pregnant girl and her friend came in. They couldn't have been much older than 12 or 13. My first impulse was to be protective of this girl, who must be so terrified and confused, from the little old ladies across the room who were looking at her like fresh gossip meat. Within five minutes, that impulse completely disappeared. She kept on looking at her belly and sighing, waiting to see if someone would notice. When someone did notice, she did her best to look as uncomfortable as possible, at which point her friend would say something like, "Are you having a contraction?" (she wasn't) or "I just can't believe there's a life inside of you!"
(I'm not putting down people who like to discuss the miracle of life, but saying the same phrase 20 times in a short period of time does not qualify as deep thought.)
From what I've observed in the last few weeks, four out of five young, unwed mothers are melodramatic. From the busty blonde buying hair-dye to the bursting-at-the-seams teen in pajama pants, all display airs as if their lives are just so much nobler than everyone else's and no one could possibly understand.
I have no problem admitting the fact that I'm judgmental. But if you ever see me put on airs like that, feel free to hit me.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Baby Says Jump
Lately I’ve been observing, with increasing curiosity, the miraculous little being inside of me. I wake up in the morning to the indescribable sensation of her little body stretching, growing, and dancing... on my bladder. Every day she gets stronger, and in the mornings she’s difficult to ignore. The problem isn’t just that I’ll wake up to her kicking my insides. After I get up to relieve myself, she keeps kicking. I have a feeling that early mornings are about to be a regular thing for me. What I don’t understand, what is truly miraculous about this child, is how she knows that it’s 6:00 in the morning without having windows...
God is up there smirking right now, and if you’ve ever tried to wake me in the morning, you know why.
I’m beginning to see little tendencies here and there. I can tell the difference between a kick and a hiccup, a “hello” kick and an “I’m not happy” kick (it’s rather like the difference between a pat on the back and a dope slap, just in the lower abdomen and from the inside), and a dance and a squirm. Dances are the best, and usually happen when I’m playing music for her (I put an earbud in my belly button—genius). Squirms amuse me, are usually accompanied by annoyed kicks, and happen most often when I play Mozart. (Irony?)
Baby also has this curious tendency to be completely quiet and behaved whenever her (very dutiful and responsible) father is around. Maybe it’s just me, but it really seems like, no matter how hard she is kicking beforehand, the instant I say, “Mengyao, want to feel the baby?” she stops. Meng thinks this behavioral trait is going to continue post-partum.
Besides the little one’s constant growing, there is really not a whole lot going on. My main source of income is being a professional granddaughter (they pay me to take them places), I‘ve managed to keep my room tidy on a daily basis, the nursery is more like a room where things are getting shoved, and last Monday we shaved the dog. Not much excitement… except for the dog.
Well, I just saw the mailwoman leave a box on our doorstep (my new room’s location has it’s advantages), which means that my package is here! (There’s something exciting. I cashed in some banking points for an Old Navy gift card and bought some more maternity stuff. My next post will probably be about pants.) I’m going to go see what the magic mailwoman has brought me!
God is up there smirking right now, and if you’ve ever tried to wake me in the morning, you know why.
I’m beginning to see little tendencies here and there. I can tell the difference between a kick and a hiccup, a “hello” kick and an “I’m not happy” kick (it’s rather like the difference between a pat on the back and a dope slap, just in the lower abdomen and from the inside), and a dance and a squirm. Dances are the best, and usually happen when I’m playing music for her (I put an earbud in my belly button—genius). Squirms amuse me, are usually accompanied by annoyed kicks, and happen most often when I play Mozart. (Irony?)
Baby also has this curious tendency to be completely quiet and behaved whenever her (very dutiful and responsible) father is around. Maybe it’s just me, but it really seems like, no matter how hard she is kicking beforehand, the instant I say, “Mengyao, want to feel the baby?” she stops. Meng thinks this behavioral trait is going to continue post-partum.
Besides the little one’s constant growing, there is really not a whole lot going on. My main source of income is being a professional granddaughter (they pay me to take them places), I‘ve managed to keep my room tidy on a daily basis, the nursery is more like a room where things are getting shoved, and last Monday we shaved the dog. Not much excitement… except for the dog.
Well, I just saw the mailwoman leave a box on our doorstep (my new room’s location has it’s advantages), which means that my package is here! (There’s something exciting. I cashed in some banking points for an Old Navy gift card and bought some more maternity stuff. My next post will probably be about pants.) I’m going to go see what the magic mailwoman has brought me!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Name Game
Greetings from a cool and comfortable basement! I'm in Chicago hanging out with my (handsome and much missed) boyfriend for the weekend. It's been nice to relax, see some friends, and generally chill out without worrying about having to do the laundry or let the dog outside. Mengyao's parents have been in and out with work, but I've spent the better part of today with them and have enjoyed getting to know them a lot better. After some (long awaited) meaningful discussion, I have determined that the Liang's are normal people who live pretty normal lives and want what's best for everyone.
(This is a discovery I've made with great relief. I can be honest and say I was afraid that the more they got to know me, the less they would be open to me. While most people will say that I am a great person and very easy to get along with, they will also tell you that I chose one of the least profitable careers in the country, that I am not a stellar cook or housekeeper, and that I am decidedly not Asian.)
The name discussion is being tackled head on at the moment. Top picks are (in alphabetical order): Alexis, Bridget, and Emma. The middle name (Chinese name) will be chosen by Mengyao's parents. For a while we thought we had all of this sorted out. Alexis and Emma both go very well with Liang, but I have to say that Bridget is a name close to my heart that I've always loved it. Alexis is a name that my (willing to compromise) boyfriend prefers over Bridget, but we find that both of us really like the name Emma. My parents prefer the name Emma also.
When the topic was breached with Meng's parents, we hit a snag. When Meng and I left the house to go see Shrek 3 (it was pretty good; I cried), Emma was the top pick. When we returned however, it had been discovered in our absence that the name "Emma" sounds rather like the Chinese phrase for, "Oh my gosh!" The name, therefore, has fallen slightly out of favor in the eyes of Meng's parents. Mengyao says it doesn't matter because in Chinese company we will call her by her Chinese name. I now want to call her Emma more than ever.
Opinions?
(This is a discovery I've made with great relief. I can be honest and say I was afraid that the more they got to know me, the less they would be open to me. While most people will say that I am a great person and very easy to get along with, they will also tell you that I chose one of the least profitable careers in the country, that I am not a stellar cook or housekeeper, and that I am decidedly not Asian.)
The name discussion is being tackled head on at the moment. Top picks are (in alphabetical order): Alexis, Bridget, and Emma. The middle name (Chinese name) will be chosen by Mengyao's parents. For a while we thought we had all of this sorted out. Alexis and Emma both go very well with Liang, but I have to say that Bridget is a name close to my heart that I've always loved it. Alexis is a name that my (willing to compromise) boyfriend prefers over Bridget, but we find that both of us really like the name Emma. My parents prefer the name Emma also.
When the topic was breached with Meng's parents, we hit a snag. When Meng and I left the house to go see Shrek 3 (it was pretty good; I cried), Emma was the top pick. When we returned however, it had been discovered in our absence that the name "Emma" sounds rather like the Chinese phrase for, "Oh my gosh!" The name, therefore, has fallen slightly out of favor in the eyes of Meng's parents. Mengyao says it doesn't matter because in Chinese company we will call her by her Chinese name. I now want to call her Emma more than ever.
Opinions?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Piranha Conversation Outtakes
I tend to see things in a rather satirical light. There are those among you who have been there when my edit button slipped...
I tend to not say all the things that I’m thinking. It’s better that way because half of my thoughts are along the lines of “your face” and “your mom.” (The truth is, actually, that most people don’t say all the things they’re thinking. Imagine, if you will, the President of the United States in the middle of his speech suddenly announcing to the press room how he desperately needs to pee. The funny thing is that everyone always says “I don’t say all the things I think,” as if it’s some great revelation or that they’re different from everyone else.) The problem is that I’m an external processor, and when I’m thinking something really powerful, it swims around inside of me like a piranha, eating up all the useful thoughts and dominating my tank of existence.
It’s funny what people will accidently say to a pregnant woman. Many of you know me as rather unforgiving with speech, and the fact is that until I have published this somewhere, it’s going to destroy my inner being. So here, arranged according to the amount of reaction I’ve had to suppress, are the things that people have accidently said, and the things that I haven’t said back.
7. "You just don't look pregnant to me."
This is usually said by people who see me on a day to day basis. It’s funny because, I feel pregnant. I remember once someone said this to me right after I pulled a round ligament as I was hobbling to class and clutching my side. Additionally, my clothes don’t fit, so every time someone says this to me (like the former co-worker I ran into yesterday) all I hear is, “Haven’t you always been that fat?"
6. "Are you sure it’s not twins?"
This one gets a blank stare. Between a three sonograms and two ultrasounds, I’m fairly certain there is only one bun in the oven. Thank you for your concern.
5. "Do you know who the father is?"
This is usually said by people who don’t know me very well, but it still makes me feel a little disappointed. I mean, I understand that being an unwed mother-to-be does not exactly spell out “pillar of virtue,” but most people have seen me walking around holding hands with this (charming and courteous) Asian guy, so it would follow that the (before mentioned charming and courteous) Asian guy would be the father… unless of course all Asians look alike to you, which may lead you to believe that I sleep around with a lot of Asians. If that’s the case, then I’d say you are the one with the problem.
4. "You know, so-and-so got pregnant in college, and…"
I think that this is an effort to make me feel like the speaker identifies with my situation. It’s a very nice gesture, but it really just makes them sound like a bad conversationalist. I really don’t care to hear how your friend/acquaintance/distant relative was left by her boyfriend/ostracized by her family/later arrested for drug use… unless of course you have some sage piece of wisdom to share in relation to this experience. No? Okay then. Stop talking.
3. "I'm not judging you."
Oh, yes you are. This statement is usually coupled with a very concerned and “understanding” look, and is often followed by…
2. "I just want you to know that Jesus loves you.”
I genuinely get annoyed at this one. I try not to, but here’s the thing: I grew up at a mission center. I attended Christian schools from kindergarten to my senior year, and I spent the majority of my summers visiting holiness camp meetings and going to a minimum of two church services a day. Now, I am not the first to pick up on things, but you’d think somewhere in my childhood I would have gathered that Jesus loves me. I actually had someone sit me down last month (literally led me to a bench and sat me down) and give me a formulaic five minute salvation sermon complete with a personal life story and an analogy—all because I told them I was pregnant. I guess the annoying thing is that each person says it like they’re the only person in the world who’s ever said it to me, or that people who know about Christ’s love don’t sin. Pfft.
And taking the place of number one (drum roll, please)…
1. "Does the father know?"
Okie dokie… “I think that you’re a great person and all, and I have no problem sharing this information with you, mostly because I’m not keeping it a secret, but you don’t seem to even know my boyfriend’s name. What makes you think I’d tell you before I told him?” Of course, that would be terrible and I’d never say that, but I think it, (usually) as I talk to two or more acquaintances without hushed tones in a public place. No, I just smile and tell them, “He knew before I did.” That opens up the opportunity for me to say all sorts of wonderful things about my (incredibly intuitive and level-headed) boyfriend, and the people leave feeling great about the (apparently very close) friendship we share because I’ve confided in them.
Now that I've sufficiently purged my mind of these thought consuming rampage-etts, perhaps I can put down Pratchett's Discworld series and dive into something a little more intellectual. Doubtful, but we'll give it a shot.
I tend to not say all the things that I’m thinking. It’s better that way because half of my thoughts are along the lines of “your face” and “your mom.” (The truth is, actually, that most people don’t say all the things they’re thinking. Imagine, if you will, the President of the United States in the middle of his speech suddenly announcing to the press room how he desperately needs to pee. The funny thing is that everyone always says “I don’t say all the things I think,” as if it’s some great revelation or that they’re different from everyone else.) The problem is that I’m an external processor, and when I’m thinking something really powerful, it swims around inside of me like a piranha, eating up all the useful thoughts and dominating my tank of existence.
It’s funny what people will accidently say to a pregnant woman. Many of you know me as rather unforgiving with speech, and the fact is that until I have published this somewhere, it’s going to destroy my inner being. So here, arranged according to the amount of reaction I’ve had to suppress, are the things that people have accidently said, and the things that I haven’t said back.
7. "You just don't look pregnant to me."
This is usually said by people who see me on a day to day basis. It’s funny because, I feel pregnant. I remember once someone said this to me right after I pulled a round ligament as I was hobbling to class and clutching my side. Additionally, my clothes don’t fit, so every time someone says this to me (like the former co-worker I ran into yesterday) all I hear is, “Haven’t you always been that fat?"
6. "Are you sure it’s not twins?"
This one gets a blank stare. Between a three sonograms and two ultrasounds, I’m fairly certain there is only one bun in the oven. Thank you for your concern.
5. "Do you know who the father is?"
This is usually said by people who don’t know me very well, but it still makes me feel a little disappointed. I mean, I understand that being an unwed mother-to-be does not exactly spell out “pillar of virtue,” but most people have seen me walking around holding hands with this (charming and courteous) Asian guy, so it would follow that the (before mentioned charming and courteous) Asian guy would be the father… unless of course all Asians look alike to you, which may lead you to believe that I sleep around with a lot of Asians. If that’s the case, then I’d say you are the one with the problem.
4. "You know, so-and-so got pregnant in college, and…"
I think that this is an effort to make me feel like the speaker identifies with my situation. It’s a very nice gesture, but it really just makes them sound like a bad conversationalist. I really don’t care to hear how your friend/acquaintance/distant relative was left by her boyfriend/ostracized by her family/later arrested for drug use… unless of course you have some sage piece of wisdom to share in relation to this experience. No? Okay then. Stop talking.
3. "I'm not judging you."
Oh, yes you are. This statement is usually coupled with a very concerned and “understanding” look, and is often followed by…
2. "I just want you to know that Jesus loves you.”
I genuinely get annoyed at this one. I try not to, but here’s the thing: I grew up at a mission center. I attended Christian schools from kindergarten to my senior year, and I spent the majority of my summers visiting holiness camp meetings and going to a minimum of two church services a day. Now, I am not the first to pick up on things, but you’d think somewhere in my childhood I would have gathered that Jesus loves me. I actually had someone sit me down last month (literally led me to a bench and sat me down) and give me a formulaic five minute salvation sermon complete with a personal life story and an analogy—all because I told them I was pregnant. I guess the annoying thing is that each person says it like they’re the only person in the world who’s ever said it to me, or that people who know about Christ’s love don’t sin. Pfft.
And taking the place of number one (drum roll, please)…
1. "Does the father know?"
Okie dokie… “I think that you’re a great person and all, and I have no problem sharing this information with you, mostly because I’m not keeping it a secret, but you don’t seem to even know my boyfriend’s name. What makes you think I’d tell you before I told him?” Of course, that would be terrible and I’d never say that, but I think it, (usually) as I talk to two or more acquaintances without hushed tones in a public place. No, I just smile and tell them, “He knew before I did.” That opens up the opportunity for me to say all sorts of wonderful things about my (incredibly intuitive and level-headed) boyfriend, and the people leave feeling great about the (apparently very close) friendship we share because I’ve confided in them.
Now that I've sufficiently purged my mind of these thought consuming rampage-etts, perhaps I can put down Pratchett's Discworld series and dive into something a little more intellectual. Doubtful, but we'll give it a shot.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Driven out of Solitude
Well, folks, I'm back. I suppose I should apologize for the long lasting silence, the unanswered messages and emails, and my tendency to ignore things that are not in front of me, but I simply just don't feel like it. Besides, I'm told I apologize too much.
Many of you, I'm sure, have thought that I've fallen off the face of the planet, or that I'm ignoring you. I have been ignoring you. In fact, I've been ignoring almost everyone, so don't take it personally. You know that comatose state that happens after finals? Before finals week was officially over, I packed up my entire apartment and put it in my parent's mini van, left behind the majority of my friends that I won't be seeing for a rather long time, said goodbye to my (dashing and incredibly sensitive) boyfriend, and plopped my self down in Springport, Michigan.
There's nothing much wrong with Springport. It's a very... small town. I remember when I lived in Kentucky thinking that Campton was small. Campton at least had a grocery store and a downtown. Springport has... an ice cream stand.
I really shouldn't complain. My parents are letting me turn their house completely upside down and they're not making me pay rent for it.
Anyway, given that finals week was also moving week and good-bye week, I decided to be sick for a while and have spent a good portion of the last few weeks sleeping. It's been nice.
"So, Samantha," you ask, "What is it that you have come out of the crypt to tell us about? Why are you finally breaking the silence?"
Well, I'll tell you.
I'M MIFFED!
Not that it was ever on the forefront of my mind until I began dating a (handsome and wonderful) Chinese man, but do you realize that there are almost no Asian Barbies? I suppose if I'd thought about it before, it would have registered that I'd never seen one, but after almost three hours of research on the internet, I have come up with only five Barbies of vaguely Asian persuasion since 1990. This includes the Mulan doll, which, to my utter dismay, now only comes in a princess outfit!
"But, Samantha," you tell me, "We've always known that Mattel Inc wants our children to believe they're not beautiful unless they're a bodacious blonde! You can't expect racial sensitivity."
Have you walked down the doll aisle lately? On all sides, not only can you see the buxom blonde trollop, you can also see her African American and Latina friends. I did see a picture of an Asian doll on a display case earlier this year. By hand-searching the collector's website, I found her online.
The three others I found were basically dressed as Geishas (though a discerning eye pointed out to me, the dolls marketed as Chinese were all sporting Japanese footwear).
I look back to my early days when my Barbies were my favorite pastime. I had names for all of them, family backgrounds and plot lines. My favorite was Teresa, who had straight brown hair like mine. I loved my dolls, and when I found out I was going to have a girl, it was one of the first things that came to mind. I was so excited at the thought of being able to share part of my childhood with my daughter. But what kind of message will she get if the only dolls that look like her are strange and exotic?
Barbie has brought on the appearance of progression. The new "Career Barbie" series has the dolls in TV chef settings and doctor's white coats. You can find these dolls in several ethnicities... but not Asian.
Thinking that perhaps it was something that the department had overlooked, I searched some of Mattel's other sites. They also own the franchise for Polly Pocket and American Girl, so I scoured those sites as well. There was no sign of Asian-ness anywhere to be found on the Polly Pocket site, but the site itself is so confusing and unhelpful, it wasn't astonishing.
What took me by surprise was American Girl, who I've always felt represented American history in a (somewhat biased but otherwise) all-inclusive manner. So imagine my chagrin when an hour of searching came up with one Asian doll, "Julie's Chinese friend, Ivy."
Take a good look, if you will... See, the thing that strikes me is that, besides her red outfit... she doesn't look Chinese!
(Wouldn't now be an interesting time to bring up World War II? Of course that chapter of our history would be too dark for American Girl. No wonder there's no Japanese doll.)
I just don't understand. Asian-Americans make up the third largest minority in the country! Is it because Mattel Inc. has been unsuccessful at marketing to Asian groups in the past? Or is it simply because they've decided adding a fourth ethnicity their collections would be too difficult? As the leading toy company of the decade, you'd think they'd have gone the extra mile.
So, tomorrow I think I'll make a few phone calls.
Many of you, I'm sure, have thought that I've fallen off the face of the planet, or that I'm ignoring you. I have been ignoring you. In fact, I've been ignoring almost everyone, so don't take it personally. You know that comatose state that happens after finals? Before finals week was officially over, I packed up my entire apartment and put it in my parent's mini van, left behind the majority of my friends that I won't be seeing for a rather long time, said goodbye to my (dashing and incredibly sensitive) boyfriend, and plopped my self down in Springport, Michigan.
There's nothing much wrong with Springport. It's a very... small town. I remember when I lived in Kentucky thinking that Campton was small. Campton at least had a grocery store and a downtown. Springport has... an ice cream stand.
I really shouldn't complain. My parents are letting me turn their house completely upside down and they're not making me pay rent for it.
Anyway, given that finals week was also moving week and good-bye week, I decided to be sick for a while and have spent a good portion of the last few weeks sleeping. It's been nice.
"So, Samantha," you ask, "What is it that you have come out of the crypt to tell us about? Why are you finally breaking the silence?"
Well, I'll tell you.
I'M MIFFED!
Not that it was ever on the forefront of my mind until I began dating a (handsome and wonderful) Chinese man, but do you realize that there are almost no Asian Barbies? I suppose if I'd thought about it before, it would have registered that I'd never seen one, but after almost three hours of research on the internet, I have come up with only five Barbies of vaguely Asian persuasion since 1990. This includes the Mulan doll, which, to my utter dismay, now only comes in a princess outfit!
"But, Samantha," you tell me, "We've always known that Mattel Inc wants our children to believe they're not beautiful unless they're a bodacious blonde! You can't expect racial sensitivity."
Have you walked down the doll aisle lately? On all sides, not only can you see the buxom blonde trollop, you can also see her African American and Latina friends. I did see a picture of an Asian doll on a display case earlier this year. By hand-searching the collector's website, I found her online.
The three others I found were basically dressed as Geishas (though a discerning eye pointed out to me, the dolls marketed as Chinese were all sporting Japanese footwear). I look back to my early days when my Barbies were my favorite pastime. I had names for all of them, family backgrounds and plot lines. My favorite was Teresa, who had straight brown hair like mine. I loved my dolls, and when I found out I was going to have a girl, it was one of the first things that came to mind. I was so excited at the thought of being able to share part of my childhood with my daughter. But what kind of message will she get if the only dolls that look like her are strange and exotic?
Barbie has brought on the appearance of progression. The new "Career Barbie" series has the dolls in TV chef settings and doctor's white coats. You can find these dolls in several ethnicities... but not Asian.
Thinking that perhaps it was something that the department had overlooked, I searched some of Mattel's other sites. They also own the franchise for Polly Pocket and American Girl, so I scoured those sites as well. There was no sign of Asian-ness anywhere to be found on the Polly Pocket site, but the site itself is so confusing and unhelpful, it wasn't astonishing.
What took me by surprise was American Girl, who I've always felt represented American history in a (somewhat biased but otherwise) all-inclusive manner. So imagine my chagrin when an hour of searching came up with one Asian doll, "Julie's Chinese friend, Ivy."
Take a good look, if you will... See, the thing that strikes me is that, besides her red outfit... she doesn't look Chinese!
(Wouldn't now be an interesting time to bring up World War II? Of course that chapter of our history would be too dark for American Girl. No wonder there's no Japanese doll.)
I just don't understand. Asian-Americans make up the third largest minority in the country! Is it because Mattel Inc. has been unsuccessful at marketing to Asian groups in the past? Or is it simply because they've decided adding a fourth ethnicity their collections would be too difficult? As the leading toy company of the decade, you'd think they'd have gone the extra mile.
So, tomorrow I think I'll make a few phone calls.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
IT'S A GIRL!
Now that the secret is out...
Sorry I haven't been posting. It's pre-finals week, and I'm moving next weekend. As soon as things are more settled, I promise I'll be a better blogger.
I should also apologize to all the people I'm not going to be able to see before I leave. I want to see you all... there's just not enough free time in a semester.
I'm off to dream about baby shoes.
Sorry I haven't been posting. It's pre-finals week, and I'm moving next weekend. As soon as things are more settled, I promise I'll be a better blogger.
I should also apologize to all the people I'm not going to be able to see before I leave. I want to see you all... there's just not enough free time in a semester.
I'm off to dream about baby shoes.
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