Graffiti is art. Graffiti is not art. Wherever your opinion lies, it’s probably black and white. There’s no gray, no Cherry Red, Regal Blue, or Castle Rock, for that matter. Graffiti is either a blight on the landscape, or a form of expression encompassing the socio-political dynamics of the day.

Either way you play it, graffiti is not going anywhere. With corporations from Sony, Nissan, and Nike to McDonald’s, Coca-Cola, and the X-Games co-opting the form, graffiti is mainstream. Graffiti exhibitions have been shown in the bastions of “legitimate” art throughout the world, including the Museum of Modern Art, the Whitney, and the Smithsonian.
But whether graffiti is vandalism or art, there is an interesting question underneath all of those letterings and colors, and that question is motivation. The young kids of the ‘70s who began the graffiti movement are older now, and when asked about what it all meant, their answers were wide-ranging, thought-provoking, and complex.

An article in a recent issue of New York Magazine spoke to the early graffiti creators (referred to as “writers”), many of whom sat on different sides of the fence when it came to defining graffiti.
For example, Ivor L. Miller, author of Aerosol Kingdom: Subway Painters of New York City, called graffiti, “a younger generation’s artistic response to the public protests of the Black Power and civil-rights movements.” Writer MICO backs this theory, explaining, “Graffiti is a term that The New York Times coined, and it denigrates the art because it was invented by youth of color. Had it been invented by the children of the rich or the influential, it would have been branded avant-garde Pop Art.” Author Jeff Chang also ties graffiti in with hip-hop, as art form and political expression.

Yet, other graffiti writers hesitate to put graffiti into a political context. Writer RATE claims, “Graffiti is vandalism. If it becomes too legitimate, it loses part of what it’s about in the first place.” And SHARP adds, “I think what people are doing today is really destructive. I don’t see any artistic value in etched windows.”

One point that cannot be argued, in my opinion, is that graffiti has been, and always will be, a form of expression. Whether it’s art or not, it has been a way for youth to express themselves, their worlds, and their vision. “I think these guys are doing what they are supposed to be doing. If you want to be a true writer, a true rebel, you have to make do with what you have,” says MICO.

Ultimately, as writer LEE says about graffiti, “This movement is about movement. It is about reinventing itself. And it’s about the streets.”

Desiree Aquino

Talking recently with an acquaintance who, among other things, is a public relations consultant and environmentalist, the subject of Bush’s environmental policy (or lack thereof) based on his Christian beliefs came up.

I’ve heard this argument before; i.e., Bush disregards the destruction of the environment, perhaps even encourages it, because we are nearing the Biblical prophecy of the end of the world. But since I’ve caught only bits and snippets of this theory, I decided to do a little unscientific Internet search on the subject.

According to TheocracyWatch.org, “The Bush administration is waging a virtual war on the environment.” The president’s belief in the “end of times” allows him to take liberties with the environment and even help hasten the Biblical predictions he and the Religious Right adhere to.

Whether or not we are at the “end of days” or even believe in the Christian construct, the troubling issue is that the president bases his environmental policy for the country on his religion.

There are many leaders who believe that they are divine instruments of God, but the most infamous ones are dead (Jim Jones or David Koresh, anyone?).

Does Bush fancy himself a tool through which divine decree is done? Does he believe that destroying the earth’s natural resources will hasten Armageddon, thus ensuring him his rightful place in heaven as a holy steward?

It’s a thought.

Obviously, we know that no person, president or not, is unbiased in his or her decision-making. But when you’re deciding for millions of people, many of whom don’t share your same religious beliefs, how do you justify decisions that place them directly in harm’s way due to the effects of those decisions?

Do you dismiss the damage of global warming, pollution, and reliance on nonrenewable energy sources? Are you unconcerned about the extinction of wildlife, the destruction of rainforests, and the obliteration of precious natural terrain? Or are these the sacrifices one must make to ensure God’s will will be done?

Having been familiar with the Bible in younger years, I’m not quite sure why Bush and Co. have interpreted scripture to mean that we are not responsible for our environment. What I’m reminded of, though, is a passage in Genesis, the first book of the Bible, describing the days of Earth’s creation (Genesis 1:20-21):

20. And God said, “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the expanse of the sky.”

21. So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living and moving thing with which the water teems, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

Desiree Aquino

I recently caught a story online at MSNBC on the apparent rise of self-mutilation among college students. According to the article, a study led by a Cornell psychologist, 17 percent of nearly 3,000 Cornell and Princeton students had purposely injured themselves, with 70 percent doing so multiple times.

A general definition of self-mutilation (a.k.a. self-abuse or self-injury), is the act of purposely injuring oneself, either through cutting, burning, or other methods.

To most of us, the idea of self-mutilation is bewildering, bizarre, and disturbing. To those of us who’ve self-injured, it’s something else altogether.

Obviously, I can’t speak for anyone except for myself, and I am one of those individuals who, while in college, self-mutilated. At the time, there were many factors that contributed to my depression (that’s my own self-diagnosis) and, ultimately, to taking a knife and cutting myself. At the time, I’d never heard of self-mutilation, didn’t know about the “phenomenon,” didn’t know anyone who did such things. All I knew was that I needed a way to lay bare the pain on the inside to the outside.

The article notes that self-injuring is usually not considered a suicide attempt, and at the time of my experience, I wasn’t trying to kill myself by doing it. I think for me it was almost an alleviation of some kind; a way to express something that I could not verbally and a way to remove myself from increasing thoughts of suicide.

For some young people, the act becomes a rush, an addictive daily release. Although I never repeated it, I know that something changed for me when I did it. Oddly enough, I felt that things had somehow gotten lighter, that I could make my way through the “real world,” and that things would improve.

Perhaps it was the attention I received from my friends after they learned about my behavior and the care they took around me that gave me a sense of self-importance and esteem. Whatever it was, I can see how the act becomes repetitive, why it becomes seemingly vital.

Maybe self-abuse has increased, but it certainly is not new. The author of this study notes that even children as young as fourth grade have self-injured, with peers and classmates mimicking the behavior of one individual.

Whatever reasons lead people to self-injury, whatever temporary relief or help they feel from the act, the answer for me will always be same: there is a better way. Like other things once considered taboo, including depression and suicide, this practice needs to be discussed, and solutions need to be found — not to glorify or encourage the behavior, but to provide other, more positive outlets to let the inside out.

Internet resources:
www.selfinjury.com
www.nmha.org/infoctr/factsheets/selfinjury.cfm
www.focusas.com/Selfinjury.html
http://depression.about.com/od/selfinjury

Desiree Aquino

In the last issue of Ode magazine came a series of articles with the tagline, “How marketing could save the world.” In one piece about the power of marketing, uber-marketer Seth Godin proclaims, “Hundreds of thousands of Sudanese people have died recently because of bad marketing.”

Gasp.

But hold on a minute. There’s a method to the madness. Godin talks about the responsibility, or even better, the imperative of marketers to tell better stories. Marketing, he asserts, is about spreading ideas. And spreading ideas can be done through telling better stories. Not more positive stories, not spun stories, but better stories. Stories that matter and that make a difference in our lives, in the landscape of our world. Transformative stories that provide us with knowledge and move us to action.

As a marketer, I tend to agree with Godin.  How many of us prefer Coke over Pepsi? Or Nike over Adidas? You think these are all simply personal choices and preferences? Maybe. But we can’t deny the power of marketing. Hell, I’ve tried a product or two because I liked the commercial or the packaging, i.e., the story sold to me. And who among us hasn’t sung the praises of a miracle product to our friends and family members? When you believe in what you’re selling, it’s not that hard.

And therein lies the point. If we as consumers are drawn in by the story, or moved by the promise of merchandise, what amazing things are we capable of when marketers tell us better stories?

What if, instead of being bombarded by ads to buy this or try that, we were told stories about real ideas to help others, improve the environment, or invest our money in finding solutions to disease, hunger, and poverty? I know we’ve all seen commercials that address these issues before. But are these telling us better stories or providing us with inspiring, passionate ideas? Are we absolutely convinced to take the action that the commercial or billboard or brochure tells us to? Do we believe that we can make a real difference?

Obviously, some of us do because these ads wouldn’t run if they weren’t effective. But imagine if we all were convinced.

As marketers of consumer products utilize more and more sophisticated means to track our preferences, our buying habits, and what moves us to spend more money, it will be that much easier to get us to take action. Let’s hope that between all of these stories, some better ones, some with inspired ideas, find their way through.

Desiree Aquino

We’re going to have an endless parade of illegal immigrants here in our country.
— House Majority Leader John Boehner

As Mexican immigrants continue to be criminalized for making their way into the U.S., I think about my parents’ journeys to this country and how little they fit into the spin of what Mexican immigrants represent. Thieves, rapists, murderers. Lazy, slothful, deceitful.

My mother’s family came from Mexico via Texas. The oldest daughter, she made her way to California through the fields. Literally. My mother picked cotton, fruit, and vegetables and met my father, who found his way from the Philippines, in that same soil.

Starting a family, my parents put the oldest of their brood to work right alongside them, hours of walking, bending, picking in the sun and the dust. Lazy? Slothful? Not quite. And, as far as I know, they never stole, raped, or killed anyone.

Just as my parents don’t fit the stereotype, the overwhelming majority of Mexican immigrants don’t either. They don’t risk their lives to cross into a country that devalues their skills, asks them to do jobs that “we” wouldn’t do, and gives them no credit for their contributions.

We ask them to be invisible, until it’s time to get them the hell out.  

The cycle of criminalizing immigrants continues. Instead of buying the tired old stereotype trotted out every time the status quo feels threatened by the different-colored faces in their midst, “we” the people need to do a little thinking.

One of the easiest ways might be to look to our own family’s history. Why did our immigrant families choose to come to the United States? Do they fit into the stereotypes of immigrant criminals? We know the answers. Now, all we have to do is keep asking those questions before we close the doors on everyone else.

Desiree Aquino

Being fashionably ghetto fab these days is all about relating. Relating to the streets, to the hard knock life, to the college dropout. And fashion takes that relating into the world of retail, where what you wear is more important than who you are, and what you’re wearing declares that you’re down. When being fabulous means being ghetto, the fashion world once again co-opts culture, first from hip-hop, then Asian culture, then Latino culture, to co-opting what it means to be poor.

Fashion takes the creativity and ingenuity that comes from being poor and uses it for its own means. When J. Lo was riding on the six, what do you think she was wearing? Not the fur-soaked line of clothing she’s peddlin’ these days. But today’s underprivileged young girl is now expected to outdo herself — she’s the fashion icon who’s flat broke. She’s expected to show us the way to ghetto fabulousness. And how? By scraping together the scarce funds for a Fetish skirt, a Baby Phat top, or a pair of AKADEMIKS jeans. And for what? To look like what she already is — to look like she’s from the streets.

But dropping a couple of fiddies for a piece of mass-manufactured clothing to look like you know the ghetto life is not only counterintuitive, it’s counter-creative. Growing up poor involves creativity that comes from NOT having, not from buying a carefully crafted image of what “being ghetto” is supposed to look like, courtesy of a coddled celebrity.

But that’s not the message in fashion. Fashion takes what it likes and maligns and terrorizes it into submission until any meaning of culture is gone. Putting Buddha on a t-shirt does not a Zen master make. Taking a spiritual figure revered by millions, whose wisdom has been studied and time-tested for thousands of years, and reducing him to a fashion statement? Or turning the sounds of frustration and inevitability of hip-hop into a quest for mo’ bling, mo’ money, mo’ designer labels that a kid from the street can’t afford?

It’s good to look poor is fashion’s message, just as long as you’re not. Otherwise, how’re you supposed to buy all the brand-name crap they’re selling?

They say people in fashion are creative. Yet just as everything and everyone else, ideas have to come from somewhere. And drawing upon the resourcefulness and inventiveness of kids living in poverty to make a fashion statement isn’t very original. And it sure as hell ain’t ghetto fabulous.

Desiree Aquino

So the height of misogynistic movie splendor has got to be The Wedding Date. Marketed as a “chick flick,” this one proves just how desperate and blind we women really are. In this one, we’re supposed to believe that the beautiful, successful, but of course low self-esteem-plagued “Kat” falls for, wait for it … a male escort.

Hmmm, where do I start?

Well, uh, let’s see. Does the fact that he sells himself for a living make for a stellar character reference? According to the movie, “Nick” grew up in HippieFreeLoveLand, which makes it that much easier for him to turn his body into a monetary transaction.

Next up, or rather first off, what power-that-be is so strong to allow Kat to believe that she is not whole if she doesn’t show up with some major arm candy? Conveniently, it’s her ex, another emotionally stunted male.

Let’s not even go there with her stepdad, the pillar of wisdom figure who not only knows she’s kickin’ it with a male prostitute but approves of the match, urging Kat ever forward in her pursuit of the maligned and misunderstood alpha male.

And finally, there’s the fairy tale ending. Despite sleeping with presumably hundreds (or tens and twenties, at least), Nick the man hasn’t gotten jaded enough or rubbed the wrong way (pun intended) one too many times that he doesn’t believe in True Love.

And the lovely Kat (appropriately named) is The One. And she knows he’s The One. So off they go to presumably live happily ever after. And the question of his profession? Pshaw! The possibility of jealousy or even just queasiness on her part? Unthinkable!

No wonder women cry at the end of movies like this one. After having the idea that we are indeed the weaker gender shoved down our throats (literally, in Kat’s case), we’re supposed to believe that somehow we too can achieve this achingly happy ending, despite our deep-rooted flaws.

Women don’t cry at the end of chick flicks because we’re happy. We cry because we’re disappointed, defeated, and ultimately beat down by the message that we’re not whole without a man (for straight women, at least), that the imperfect, compromising, and difficult road of a relationship isn’t good enough unless the dude’s physically hot or, at the very least, rich, and that this is what we should strive for, this is the definitive goal for our fair sex, and if we’ve somehow found ourselves stuck with a man who deems it appropriate to scratch and burp in front of us, or worse, without one at all, we have ultimately failed in our quest.

So I’m a hypocrite, right? I must’ve sat through the damn entire film to write these things. Yeah, sure, I watched it. And yeah, I’ll even watch more chick flicks. But damned if I’ll be crying at the end.

Desiree Aquino