By Kollengode S Venkataraman
Ethnic jokes are taboo in this society. And being a minority ourselves, we often sneer at those who stereotype others through such humor in public. Jokes based on differences in gender and sexual orientation are also considered in poor taste, in any case, in polite circles. Unlike in other societies, humor based on politics, religion, and sex — the three principal preoccupations of man since time immemorial — is a socially forbidden fruit in the US, shared only within the privacy of cohesive groups. Since many of us in our heart of hearts would laugh at some of these jokes, but cannot do so publicly, racy late-night stand-up talk shows on cable channels have become popular. What we want to relish, but cannot do so publicly, we wallow in solitude, in the seclusion of our homes in front of television sets. An Archie Bunker, it seems, is in every one of us.
In fact, several Indian versions of Archie Bunker have always been with us. Living in India, mostly within our caste and language based cohesive areas, our languages and dialects are replete with expressions, idioms, and phrases offensive to people of other geographic areas, caste, linguistic, and religious groups. The opportunity is so limitless, and the indulgence is so pervasive that people in India have learned to take them in their stride.
The logic, if there is any, goes something like this: Everyone offends, or at least is free to offend, everyone else. And therefore, no one is offended. This mutual contempt and the psychological divide among peoples are the theme of many hilarious potboiler films in India.
Growing up in Madras in a rough neighborhood in the 1960s, working among earthy miners in central India in the 1970s, and later, among blue-collar workers here, have enriched my life. Along the way, my vocabulary also is enriched with some of the choicest offensive epithets man has ever created.
Politicians inadvertently jeopardize themselves in using humor injudiciously. Often, their personal beliefs become transparent in their humorous(?) quips rather than through their well-thought-out position papers on issues. Remember the furor in 1984 over the then Vice President George Bush’s bravado in Houston that he whipped their little ass in debating Mrs. Ferraro? Such humor is not always a male monopoly. In the Pennsylvania governor’s election a few years ago, our then Auditor General, Miss Barbara Hoffer, called Governor Casey an Irish redneck from Scranton. In a single sweep, Miss Hafer earned the wrath of two politically active groups of voters, Irish Americans and blue-collar workers, and partly helped Casey win the election. It looked as if she had both feet in her mouth.
Raymond Morley, the early 20th century American political writer, once said, “A political war is one in which everyone shoots from the lip.” Looking at the carnage caused by the latest internecine wars in the former Yugoslavia, in Kashmir, Sri Lanka, Punjab, and perpetually in the Middle East, one cannot help admiring this core virtue of democracy, its other nuisances and aggravations notwithstanding. Candidates losing restraint over verbal assault in political campaigns is, any day, preferable to political leaders losing restraint over artillery assault in military campaigns and civil wars.
Humor is our natural way of breaking the monotony and relieving the stress of daily life. That is why we instantly identify ourselves with comic strips that needle nameless and faceless supervisors, subordinates, lawyers, doctors, accountants, politicians, engineers, colleagues, spouses, and spousal relatives. Aah, spousal relatives! Why is that while mother-in-law jokes are common among women in India, in the US, it is the men who are averse to their mother-in-law? For our children here, we have leveled the playing field at least in one respect. Living a bicultural life in the US, both our men and women growing up here will be, to put it charitably, uncomfortable with their mothers-in-law.
Why do people stereotype? Stereotyping is an oversimplified, subjective attempt to find patterns in human behavior. Faced with a bewildering array of information, we subconsciously seek patterns, hoping to make some sense out of our observations, so that we can anticipate the outcome of future interactions and events. While the practice of finding patterns in any phenomenon is the foundation of science, it is hopelessly inadequate for understanding human beings. No sooner we develop a pattern of understanding Homo sapiens, than we come across exceptions. As in rules in French grammar.
In a multicultural society such as ours — Am I referring to the US or India here? — not only the majority of or the dominant minority stereotypes the minority, the weak minority also stereotypes the majority or the dominant minority. And further one minority stereotypes all other minorities as well.
I know you are wondering, “So what’s the point here?” For an answer, read below.
Having arrived in India in 1979, I am living in the US for the 17th year on many fronts — almost none of them worth mentioning here — I have exceeded the American National average. I have the misfortune, some of them self-inflicted, of changing my residence eight times. Living in the Midwest, West Coast and Mid-Atlantic states has shattered several of my preconceived views about life in the US.
In one of my worst years, I logged 25,000 miles in my car. My older daughter, now seventeen, changed her preschool four times before even starting kindergarten. I am a modern-day Gypsy. My mobility is primarily on account of the marketability and portability of my education and technical skills. Like the inscrutable Romani language of the Gypsies in Central Europe, I too have my specialized arcane dialect full of technical terms, equally inscrutable to the uninitiated as the Romani of the Gypsies, understood only by people having my specialized technical background.
With so many moves under my feet and on my automobile wheels as well, I can vouch that moving is stressful. The stresses associated with moving, psychologists say, are second only to those on account of bereavement, divorce, and losing jobs. With all the possessions we accumulate over the years, moving household goods by ourselves requires enormous patience, strength, and skill. Luckily for me, my possessions are actually burdens. Or very few, thanks to the sport and lifestyle my mother and brother drilled into me while I was young.
During one of my moves from Cleveland to Pittsburgh, some time back on their appointed day in summer, the movers’ crew came to my apartment. Andrew, the head of the crew, was tall and massive, with his unkempt beard and hair. He reminded me of Bud Spencer of Spaghetti westerns in the 60s. From the tattoos on his massive shoulders, topless women in G-strings were winking at me with malicious intent. On seeing him, I had visions of a menacing member of a motorcycle gang.
In the four hours that we left the apartment in his care, his crew packed all our burden of life. In twenty-plus cases, I still cannot forget the sight of Andrew effortlessly carrying the washing machine and dryer and loading them into his cavernous 18-Wheeler truck. Within my mind, I had already subconsciously stereotyped Andrew, an unsophisticated, rough-and-brawny redneck.
A few days later, Andrew, with his crew unloaded our boxes into our rented townhouse in the Pittsburgh suburb. In the new place, my 5-year-old daughter was quietly cranky, not having her familiar friends, not even having her familiar toys. It was summer and it was what weathermen call a 3-H Day. Hot, humid, and hazy. And Andrew, as he was unloading, was profusely sweating. He saw my daughter restless, irritable, and crying. He also saw us getting irrational and angry at our daughter, with my behavior becoming more and more unpredictable, to put it charitably.
From his 18-Wheeler, from the pile of several boxes, Andrew first found the one box containing toys, opened the box, and gave it to our daughter, her toys and tricycle. Telling no one in person, “OK, that should make you, that should make her happy.” And sure, it did.
I do not know whether Andrew studied child psychology in school, or if we even went to school. But he sure understood child psychology and child behavior — and adult behavior too. He would have chuckled within himself seeing my irrational behavior towards our veiling 5-year-old.
Later we opened our boxes. Not even a single piece of our burden was broken or damaged. Even the most fragile pieces. A couple of handcrafted flowers made of fabric that my mother gave me years ago. Very intact.
I didn’t recognize that Andrew’s hands were not only large and strong to move heavy objects, but also supple and dexterous enough to handle fragile items. His effortless handling required not only strength but also skills for balancing the load. He not only understood child and adult psychology, but he also had the presence of mind to use it
Afterwards, over cookies and freshly brewed coffee, we chatted for some time, and Andre left. During the conversation, he asked about our coffee blend. He was a coffee connoisseur, I understood because of he lived in Seattle, the coffee capital of the USA.
In short, he was quite different from the stereotypical portrayal when I saw him last.
While I worked in the forests of Madhya Pradesh decades ago, in our own mining township, we had a middle-aged man, always chewing pawn (tobacco) and always in the spotless pajama even when he went to work. From his appearance and his accent when speaking English, I stereotyped him as an unsophisticated government Babu, or clerk.
I saw him later engaging in animated discussions comparing the hedonistic lifestyle of modern times with the philosophy of pleasure of Charvakas who lived in India in the Vedic times. He was also a music enthusiast. Having lived all over India, he had the good grasp of both Hindustani and Carnatic music. He was the antipode of my caricature of him.
I am now older, greyer and a lot balder. And hopefully also a little wiser, I would hope, having recognized that, like rules of French grammar, every human stereotype has exceptions. Many exceptions, I would hope. ∎