It’s the equivalent of saying you go to a strip club for the fries.
I went to a Vietnamese coffee shop last night with a good friend and his cousin. I had heard of these places before and knew women were involved– presumably Vietnamese or some kind of Asian. The rough draft in my head was a dimly lit cafe with black lights, overpriced drinks, and young tarted up women in short skirts and tight tops. I thought the women must be beautiful, as subjectively as possible, and that they might hang out with the customers and chat and perhaps encourage them to buy another four dollar glass of iced coffee. You know, kind of like a modern but not nearly as talented, knowledgeable or classy geisha. Basically a pretty lady with inflated sex appeal who makes guys feel like spending more money.
Well, the pretty lady with inflated sex appeal was certainly there. Three of them, to be precise. One of whom was certainly Vietnamese (I heard her speak the language)– I am not sure about the other two, but I assume they were also of Vietnamese (and certainly) Asian ancestry. Lots of make-up. Lots of body art, too. I know that because the tattoos were visible from their mismatched uniforms: string bikini bottoms, halter bikini top, and lace thong. Oh, and six inch stripper heels.
This was their attire the entire evening when they teetered between three rows of small, round tables to fill drinks and take orders before perching at the head of the center row on a chair and repeating the process. That chair also served to be the stage of a little dance number during which time one of the ladies– the one with the super sized boobs on her size 0 frame– gingerly wobbled out of her heels and clambered onto the cushion to shake her bon-bon for the customers. She made sure to rotate as she danced to an urban hip-hop Top 40 hit so that everyone had a good view. I’d say she made about twenty bucks in tip once the single bills that the men– and one woman, who I imagine with disbelief, must be the girlfriend of one of the men– left for her on the table adjacent to her padded platform.
It was upsetting and pitiful. Upsetting because I’m a woman. Pitiful because they are women, too.
My friend called me judgmental– and I admit, I am being very judgmental here– for getting worked up and distraught by the shop. I mean, it’s a place for a man to go to for a nice cup of coffee served by a good-looking girl, right? How could it not be clear to me that it was the delectable, elusive iced coffee that attracted so many male patrons and not the waitresses in bikinis? I was angry. Here I am trying to work for women’s rights and help women improve their conditions and standards in life– and there I was announcing to my friend that the shop was worse than a strip club.
By doing so, I offended the dancing lady with the enhanced bust who was too dim to realize I was on her side and fighting for her right to serve coffee with her clothes on. She interrupted the increasingly heated discussion I was having with my friend and suggested I go to a strip club since I found her place of employment worse than one; I asked her if I had offended her and she retorted that she was not offended but that I was clearly offended and had said negative things about the trio; I clarified that I hadn’t said a single negative thing about the ladies– and my friend readily vouched for me, because it’s true that I hadn’t said a derogatory word targeted toward them– and that it was the men at the shop whom I found offensive. She apologized curtly and let me carry on.
Why, you ask, did I suggest this shop was worse than a strip club? I’ll gladly tell you why I found the Vietnamese coffee shop more offensive than a strip club. Both places objectify women. However, the motive is pretty damn clear in one but disguised in the other. I’m not saying I like the fact that women are still viewed as objects and things, but progress is slow to be made– particularly with regard to the substandard male, of which there are too many, and to the cranially challenged females who stifle progress and, well, permit and perpetuate this.
Like it or not, I’d rather an honest man say he’s off to the local boobie bar to get his jollies off than hear a man say he’s off to the Vietnamese coffee shop– you know, the one that has fantastic, to-die-for coffee– to enjoy a tasty beverage… served by girls heavily made up in a thong and pasties. (Yes, there are nights, I was told, when the ladies forgo a top and tack a sticker on that nipple and areola instead.) Who is a man fooling when he claims he is there to appreciate the women over coffee? Is it appreciation or is it objectification when a woman is called to work undressed and, from time to time, wiggle on a chair to earn her gratuity?
The argument at my table went on for about three hours with no end in sight. It was recursive. I continued to ask how is it that coffee is enhanced when served by an almost naked woman. My friend continued to demand that I not judge the patrons, the waitresses, or the shop. Body building, gymnastics, modeling, marketing, movie ratings, Starbucks, the invisible hand– a slew of digressions were covered. My issue was that effective waitressing doesn’t require a thong and bikini top. My issue was that there is a place for ogling women, and it’s called a strip club or the internet. A coffee shop off an inland highway isn’t a place for beach wear. Sure, the marketing is great– sex sells and we know it– but it’s not right to exploit people. To hear a man repeatedly insist it really was the coffee and nothing else that lures him to the shop was too absurd. If the women wore clothes, would men still choose to drink their coffee there? Highly unlikely. If a strip club didn’t charge a cover or require a drink minimum, would those very men be at a strip club instead of the Vietnamese coffee shop? I would say so, and I do believe any man you ask would say so, too.
It wasn’t the women who put me off. Well, allow me to correct myself– I thought two of them were beyond hope. One for having a smug “U just b hatin’ cuz Im butiful” glean in her eyes and smirk on her lips, and the other for getting huffy and not understanding my stance was anti-pervert-men, not anti-pseudo-stripper. It was only after they opened their mouths and confirmed they were fools that I decided they were stupid. It really wasn’t them, though, however unaware and however unintelligent, that bothered me. It was the men. I gave several a good, hard stare to make them squirm– and I know I can produce discomfort when I deliberately aim to. And yes, I aimed to. Very badly.
Because here were men who were too cheap to go to a gentleman’s club to get their visual pleasure. Here were men who were able to delude themselves into believing they were at the coffee shop for the coffee. Or tea. Or milkshake. Whatever. Anything but the women, that’s what they were there for. And that’s utter bullshit. No, I did not take a survey, but I don’t think I needed to– would any of those men have the courage to admit to an inquiring woman that the waitresses were just a hot piece of ass?
If coffee was what they were after, they could’ve easily gone to the local Starbucks or Pete’s or Seattle’s Best to get a customized cup of joe. However many shots of espresso, however many degrees, however many spoonfuls of foam and inches for cream. No, there won’t necessarily be smoking hot girls to serve you, but you’ll get your coffee just as you like it– and isn’t that the reason to go to a coffee shop? The coffee?
Well, yeah– until you’re talking of a Vietnamese coffee shop.
(N.B.: I originally penned this note on Facebook but want to share it here because, frankly, I still feel very strongly about this issue. This entry was originally dated 14th February 2011.)
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ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Okay, I admit, I was on Craigslist the other night searching for education jobs, non-profit jobs, administrative jobs, writing jobs, ETC jobs—basically any job, as well as decently paid psychological studies—when I thought, “Hell, so long as I’m here, might as well take a look at who’s looking for whom.” So, I started with the strictly platonic m4w (men for women)—many seemed suggestive of a more-than-friendly vibe. Well then, let’s get down to the meatier listings for mating already! Humiliation all the way, honey bun!
I didn’t enter any keywords in the search. Just scrolled through headings, selectively clicking on anything that caught my eye based on the dating specification I fall under: SAF. That’s single Asian female for those of you who are unfamiliar. I’m going to take a moment here to tell you that I’m straddling the fence that splits singles and couples. There’s a side of me that sort of wouldn’t mind a partner because in theory (operative phrase) it would be great to share my goings-on in life… but then there’s that other side of me that so adores my single status because, having been there and done that, I’ve learned well enough that theory isn’t the same as practice.
Anyway, one listing from a SWM (single white male) seeking a SAF turned me on—that is, it turned on my critical thinking and questioning. Here’s the premise in a nutshell: him, six foot three, big white guy, ER nurse, seeking a petite Asian girl of approximately five foot two for marriage, babies, and happily ever. It’s not the probable Yellow Fever that I’ve got a bone to pick. It’s not the question of marriage as a socially and religiously contrived practice. It’s not overpopulation. None of those made me think twice—I’m all for happiness and love, marriage for straights and gays, interracial coupling and reproduction. I am one of those people who do genuinely feel happy for others’ happiness.
It’s the physical pre-requisites that this man is searching for that made me pause.
I saw his photos—he’s a big, solid guy who is probably hovering at, more or less, 200 pounds. He is tall. Very tall. That said, he wants a petite Asian girl. Five two? Let’s be generous and say that’s 115 pounds (chances are, though, that a small boned and small statured Asian woman will weigh less than even that). The first question that came to my mind was, “How on earth are they going to get it on?” The following question was, “Is that not like having sex with a prepubescent?!”
I am sorry—maybe I just have a dirty mind and dive straight for the nitty gritty dynamics of love. But his preference for a shawtie (I say that with endearment), at his size and stature, rings a bit off for me. I try to reason that this specification is similar to, oh, a preference for blondes or Brazilians or big badunkadunks. Because blondes are more fun, Brazilians are hot as hell, and big booties mean more cushion for the pushin’. Following that generalization, then, itty bitty Asian ladies translate to—well, help me out here and fill in the blank. I’m not sure what dainty Asian women suggest.
I understand if, let’s say, a man is self-conscious about his own stature. Maybe he himself is a short stack (again, endearment all the way). Maybe he’s five foot seven and really doesn’t want to feel emasculated by a woman his size, and so he humbly requests, as only he can, a lady friend who’s shorter and remains so even in three and three quarter inch platform heels. Got it. I understand if that’s the case.
And I understand, too, that love happens, regardless of size. I’m not here to discount or dispute the foundation of many one-tall-one-short couples. Tony Parker and Eva Longoria is one such example—granted, it’s not working out for them, but that’s their story. My cousin’s husband is a few heads taller than she is and they’ve been happily married (with children) for almost a decade now. Again, the point of this piece isn’t to stamp my feet or hate on short girls with tall guys.
What makes me uncomfortable about this guy and his train of thought is that he wants an itty bitty girlfriend. I was thinking about this seriously—what if I dated someone who’s a foot shorter than I am? How would I feel physically? Regardless of whether my sex is male or female, I would be a big person looking down at my partner. This can’t be disputed—someone so many inches taller will ultimately interact with their partner on the down low, so to speak. Now, back to my role play—what if I dated someone who’s a foot shorter than I am? How would I feel psychologically? Personally, I would feel like the boss, I would feel like the man, and I dare say I would even feel like my partner were my accessory or toy. But that’s just me, and maybe it’s because I’m a girl that I have that accessory idea—women are always accessorizing, whether with sparkly things like rings, name brand fluff like an LV clutch, or dinky dogs a la Paris Hilton. It’s very possible that a man wouldn’t think of a woman as an accessorizing object.
Right?
The other thing about this guy’s quest is his request for an itty bitty Asian woman. Why a pint sized Asian girl? There are small white ladies, there are small Latina ladies, there are small black ladies… there are petite women in every ethnic variety. Granted, Asian women tend to be small in general. But, does his preference suggest that Asian women are sometimes viewed as novelty toys by big white boys? There is that stereotype about Asian women—docile doormat or dominatrix dragon lady. Is he a German shepherd looking for a squeaky chew toy?
I’m just asking because I don’t know what to make of it. Anyone with some feedback, please help me understand. Maybe I’m reading too much into his specification and maybe it is just a very simple law of attraction for him. But why does he feel attracted to someone so much smaller than himself? And, again, I must ask—why must the prospective petite girlfriend be of Asian descent? Keyword, folks: why.
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ABC Girl: A Bit Confused.
Questioning her identity, her origins, and her perception.
Filed under: Asian
As you may have guessed, I’m an American born Chinese girl who’s a bit confused and irritated at times by how I see Asians and my perception of how others see Asians. I was brought up much more Chinese than American and only recently realized that my Made in USA label was my way out from having to accept the nuances and nuisances of my heritage. No to Confucianism? Damn straight. I’m American born and raised. Period.
I still use chopsticks at home by default, and I know how to wrap wontons and cook tofu so it tastes good. Sometimes I go into stealth mode in public places by eavesdropping or operating in the mother tongue. Alas, I used to be a pushover when I was more in tune with my Chinese than American side, but now I’ll gladly make like the latter and tell you an uncensored and oftentimes profanity-laced opinion. I’m not politically correct because the world isn’t, especially for minorities. And please, don’t get me started on how the model minority has been exploited by mainstream America. I identify with both Chinatown and downtown but never feel quite at ease at either location.
Professionally, I’m an educator feeling the burn and thus looking to foxtrot out of the classroom and into another field. It’s a work in progress. I have a solid background in education and hate to let it go to waste (there’s that Chinese in me speaking), so I hope to use what I’ve got and apply it to other arenas, such as international development or publishing. Prior to teaching, I had wanted to be a lawyer; prior to that, I had wanted to be an editor; go back a few years further and my career ambition was chemical engineer. (I had to let that one go because I’m mathematically challenged. Shameful, I know, because I am, after all, Asian and supposed to be good at complex numbers.)
I’ve been told by countless friends that my writing is so entertaining to read… thus, here I am. I’m not convinced I want to be a writer, but hey, think of this as a peep show to my perspective on Asians, education, dating… the stories of my life, in essence. I’m going to warn you now that I might come off as prone to complaints and whines without cheese, but it’s really just reflective criticism– not a knee jerk reaction without any thought.
And finally, just a few bonus details about yours truly:
Loathe wraparounds, love aviators.
Much more wasabi than soy sauce.
Keep the coffee black, please.
I not so secretly want to learn how to play the accordion.
Secretly, I want– well, I can’t tell you what I want because then that would defeat the secrecy.
Welcome to my world. Touching is encouraged, photography strictly prohibited.
girlabc 