Not a nurse and I don't sell DVDs.

It must have been in my earliest days back in the UK when it happened. England may have been my birthplace, but it still seemed foreign to me. I had just started my second job and it was payday. To celebrate, my workmates and I popped over to the pub for a cold one, as you do. I was enjoying a cold cider when a felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and another patron at the pub was facing me and asked, “ So mate, you got any DVDS?”

I raised an eyebrow and replied, “Sure, I get them from HMV ( a popular music and video store in the UK).” He looked at me with the same puzzled look that I was giving him, then promptly apologised and moved on. I rejoined my friends and asked them if they understood what that was all about. No sooner had I asked, I spotted a Chinese man enter the pub, backpack in tow and proceeding to go table to table offering his pirate DVD’s for sale. Mystery solved and stereotypes perpetuated. 

Everytime I go to a party and I get asked if I am Asian. I say I’m Filipino decent and then they ask which hospital I work at. After all, I’m a nurse, am I not? Aren’t all Filipinos working abroad nurses or health care assistants? Or was I a domestic helper? Or did I work at a hotel as a waiter?   Great. I guess they want a sponge bath next or help with their luggage.

Actually, my mother was a nurse and my father did work as a waiter at a hotel. Noshame in that at all. My parents always made us aware of the possible racial stereotyping my brother and I could face in the UK. We used to laugh it off when we were younger. My friends growing up were practically a Benetton advertisement.  Made more ironic that one of our neighbour’s was a card carrying member of the British National Front. Still, they came over for barbeques. I thought little of this when we moved from the UK to go to the Philippines.  I would not really say I worried about it much until I returned years after.

It takes a different turn when you come face to face with the darker sides of racism. Weeks later the pub incident, I was riding a double decker bus on my way home. I sat upstairs as I usually would. I wasn’t paying much notice to the other two passengers, except for one of them proceeding to sing a drunken ditty. I didn’t pay much heed, until the one of them stood up and went down stairs in a huff. I then noticed the song the other person was singing. It was a take on Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.” Except the words were being twisted and he was talking about nailing people of a particular race to a wall. My stop was coming up next and I went downstairs. The passengers there then began to ask me how I kept my calm after being goaded by the racist idiot.  

Then it hit me. 

I was the target of the song. 

I was the one he said ought to be nailed to the wall.   

Suddenly, it wasn’t that funny. 

This wouldn’t be the last time. I got pelted by snowballs full of stones as I walked home during my first winter. I had garbage dumped in my front yard. I had people mouthing off garbage to my face, insulting me a surprising variety of racial taunts. Ironically, they never got it right. They called me everything under the sun, except Filipino.

Sigh, I can’t even get racially abused correctly.

I still go to the pub with my friends. No one asks me if I sell DVD’s anymore. But just to play safe, I leave my backpack at home.

 

Guilt trip

Ever act as if you're asleep on the train to avoid giving up your seat?

I don't.
I just sleep anyway.

All about... the justice delayed and justice denied.

You know why they don't make many movies about jury service? OK, there was "12 Angry Men, " but that was an exceptional film. But, if they did make a film about the British jury service, you most likely would have whole bunch of scenes consisting of people sitting around waiting for something to happen.

Not exactly riveting viewing.

But when you do get called, it's nothing like what you expected. Perhaps, we have been spoilt by popular media. We see the Law and Order series (in it's various incarnations) and read the John Grisham novels. But reality can be silly, shocking and more often than not, disappointing.

Sometimes the judge can be a real character, trying to keep a trial moving on with good humour. A prosecutor can put a whole court to sleep with a closing argument that could be a bedtime story. Listening to transcripts of interviews can be like listening to a very bad radio drama, tempered by a posh prosecutor trying to do their best impression of "East London" dialogue. And don't even think about laughing in court.

Tough, innit?


It costs £8,000 to open the court to try a case. This does not include paying the judge, the prosecutor, the clerks of the court, the bailiffs and the defense lawyers, if provided by legal aid. It also takes up to a year to come to a Crown court after being passed on from the Magistrates court. So, when you sit in court a listen to a trial that is going to end because of lack of evidence or a poorly constructed case by the prosecution, you have to groan at the waste of time and money.


But seriously, sit in a jury. Listen to the arguments. Look at the evidence. Try to come to a decision, beyond reasonable doubt. It's not always black and white.

Sometimes, deep down you think someone is guilty, but the prosecution just hasn't brought a strong enough case. When that doubt lingers and you decide there is reasonable doubt, you waver for an instance but you make your choice. Sometimes, you find them guilty, sometimes not.

And sometimes you make the wrong decision.

You have to live with that. 



Perhaps, we can't handle the truth.

Let's try this again...

I could spend a considerable amount of time trying to explain just how many times this blog has had false starts. I could bore you with excuses, but the fact remains I became uncomfortable writing. At least, for public consumption.

But then, what good is a writer if no one can read his work?

So, let's try again.

Once more, with feeling.