MELINDA LUISA DE JESUS: “MIRROR, MIRROR: REFLECTION AND DECOLONIZATION”
"Mirror, Mirror: Reflection and Decolonization"
Melinda Luisa de
Jesús
December 2018
In the Philippines and other
developing countries, the skin whitening industry is prolific and expanding
among native populations. However, this desire for white skin has dire health
repercussions, both physical and psychological. Many researchers in the field
of Filipino-American psychology attribute this desire for whiter skin to the
American colonial rule of the Philippines, which began in 1898 and lasted for
nearly fifty years. Historians often characterize the American occupation as
cruel and demeaning, leading to colonial mentality that has continued into the
post-colonial era. As a result, in order to ameliorate this dilemma, one must
explore how the internalized oppression and psychological state of the Filipino
people caused by America’s previous colonial rule of the Philippines
contributes to the success of the Filipino skin whitening industry.
—from “Colonialism’s Role in the Success of the Filipino Skin Whitening Industry” by Francine Singson
As the inventor of the poetic form “hay(na)ku,” I naturally
was delighted to see Melinda Luisa de Jesús create her mixed-media sculptures, including “hay(na)ku:
brainwash” (vinyl on mirror, 2018). Melinda created this piece for the Diversity Studies Faculty Exhibit, curated by Taraneh
Hemami, entitled “Home: Making Space for Radical Love and Struggle” at California College of the Art's Oliver Art
Center in April 2018.
Of the work that Melinda made work specifically for the
exhibition’s theme, she notes, “I decided to place my poems 'brainwash' and 'jealousy' on mirrors because Filipinx
America is all about negotiating the internalized colonial gaze, engaging with
imposed imperialist cultural baggage, and the struggle for decolonization.
These mirror poems allow the reader to experience our space of seeing,
re-seeing, reflection and action.”
In addition to “hay(na)ku brainwash,” Melinda made other
works utilizing viny letters on mirrored surfaces, such as "jealousy" (vinyl based on three small mirrors, 2018):
We are all accustomed, of course, to seeing ourselves in the
mirror. But it’s another matter to see yourself as a person of color reflected
with such words tattooed on your reflection as
… anything but
brown-skinned
brown-eyed
black-haired
loud
big
fat
different
or, whether or not you’re a person of color, to empathize
with the position of being taken over or losing control as you see yourself
reflected along with such words as
I love your poems
I hate your poems
I want to lick them,
chew the paper they’re on
savor each line
then
swallow them whole
make them mine
In "jealousy"'s small mirrors—and unlike with “hay(na)ku
brainwash”—there is no space where you can see (parts of) yourself
without the words also emblazoned across your reflection. The words invade the
reflected “you”; nor can the reflected “you” avoid their thoughts. This
impossibility of avoidance certainly reflects how victims or targets of racism,
misogynism and others can be placed, against their will, in situations out
of their control ranging over blatant attacks to systemic contexts.
The small mirror sculptures as displayed in the earlier exhibit
“Home: Making Space for Radical Love and Struggle.”
“hay(na)ku brainwash,” on the other hand,
offers a larger mirror expanse through which the viewer can see part of herself unmarked
by its hateful, violent words. Here is a photo of the artist in front of
“hay(na)ku brainwash” during its exhibition at “Home: Making Space for Radical Love and Struggle”:
Here is Melinda’s poem on the mirror of “hay(na)ku brainwash”:
hay(na)ku brainwash
Imperialist
washing machine
loaded with Filipinos
set
to “white”
watch us spin
add
extra bleach
cycle now complete
Despite the larger reflective space where its middle part is unmarked by text, it's still difficult to escape the thoughts forcefully presented by the vinyl words. As well, the effect can be more bludgeoning because you see more
of yourself reflected. There is more space here to see your self as well as look into your eyes after you’ve read and been
psychologically marked by the words. In turn, looking into your reflected eyes, you can see the
effects more clearly than if some of your vision (eyes) had been hidden by the
words (as is the case in the smaller mirrored works).cycle now complete
With the words tattooed across the mirror of “hay(na)ku brainwash,” you see the privileging of
whiteness as well as its un-ending colonial history. Looking at myself
reflected in the mirror made me "spin"--the experience elicits much grief, sadness and pain. I am Filipino
and much of what I am has been formed, against my or my ancestors’ will, by
U.S.-American colonialism and cultural imperialism.
Here are two incidents I remember from seeing my reflection in “hay(na)ku brainwash”:
Here are two incidents I remember from seeing my reflection in “hay(na)ku brainwash”:
—I grew up in the Philippines during the first ten years of
my life, and can still remember the groups of men at streetcorners catcalling
out—presumably as a compliment—to passing girls and women: “White legs! White
legs!”
—discovering my mother’s soap shortly after she passed and I
was clearing out her bedroom:
To quote R.L. Mendoza (from the 2nd link) below, such soaps as I discovered in Mom's bathroom maintain a “popularity owe[d] mainly to post-colonial, internalized racism.” Four out of ten
Filipinos use whitening soap (from last link below). My mother, born in the Philippines,
lived through World War II and the subsequent expansion of U.S.-American
influence throughout our birthland. The existence of these soaps and what they
imply—a disrespect (some call it self-hatred) for naturally browner
coloring and all for which that kayumanggi stands for—saddens me.
Here are some relevant links to whitening soaps:
In more recent work, Melinda delves further into colonial whitening through her series “hay(na)ku: polvo (for my siblings).” Polvo also is the Spanish word for dust. Melinda remembers her parents using Johnson’s baby powder when they were young; her parents called it “polvo.” Baby powder, when
applied, of course has a temporary whitening effect. Melinda likes “the
dual signifying of dust and powder”—that the powder, despite its whitening
effect and other benefits, is mere “dust.” She notes, “as in ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the desire for whitening, colonial mentality, the neocolonial reality is that of dust—death." She says, “This poem and sculpture reflect my animus, grief, and
reconciling, my coming to terms with my own racialized, gendered identity as a
Pinay among siblings who have very complicated and often negative
understandings of our Filipino-ness. These very different individual
conceptions of our familial and racial identities to me is emblematic of the
neocolonial condition for those of us born and raised in the US, for those of
us raised in the belly of the beast that sought to destroy us. I don’t think
it’s melodramatic to regard our racialization in the US in this way (but my
siblings would). To me Filipinx/American healing and decolonization can only
begin by acknowledging the profound violence that is our legacy as doubly
colonized subjects...."
The four parts of the poem "polvo" utilize two bottles of Johnson's Baby Powder placed atop a round mirror whose edge is inscribed with the words:
The four parts of the poem "polvo" utilize two bottles of Johnson's Baby Powder placed atop a round mirror whose edge is inscribed with the words:
"your decolonization belongs to you alone"
The following images present the front and back of a single Johnson's container:
4.
my
2.
you
you
put
baby powder
on your faces
the shame palpable
the fear
obvious
in this ridiculous
desperate
act
4.
my
unashamed
unapologetic
pinay-ness
triggers you
old
wounds reopen
powder won’t heal
it’s
not my
problem to fix
your
colonization
belongs
to you alone
It’s not just powerful but poignant. I believe Melinda would
not have created this work while her mother—who once patted her with Johnson’s
Baby Powder—was still alive. In fact, another recent sculpture is entitled "Hay(na)ku: Questions for Mom" and bears the text,
In other polvo works, Melinda directs her eye beyond her immediate family to serve up slices from her experience of being born and raised in a Pennsylvania steel town:
just
how dark
is “too dark”?
could
I ever
be “too white”?
Interestingly, when those reflected in the mirror are her children—son Stinson and daughter Malaya—the mirror sculpture garners a poignant as well as disturbing layer hearkening how culture is bestowed/inherited:
In other polvo works, Melinda directs her eye beyond her immediate family to serve up slices from her experience of being born and raised in a Pennsylvania steel town:
The texts on one notes:
1.
our
our
fucked up
childhoods in amerikkka
how
we tried
to blend in
when
we stuck
out, easy targets
amid
a sea
of white faces
Note of course the letter-play on the three “k”s n the first
tercet, coupled with the third tercet’s reference of unwhitened skin being “easy
targets.” Suddenly, baby powder doesn’t seem so innocent.
And innocence is also lacking in the other polvo whose text
recalls:
3.
lessons from a
lessons from a
steel town
childhood:
go
back where
you came from
monkey!
don’t your
people eat dog?
turn
the other
cheek, little brown
brother.
me love
you long time.
"Little brown brother" refers to what U.S.-Americans called Filipinos during their colonial rule. The last tercet's "me love / you long time" evokes how others deliberately speak poor English to POC whose skin color makes the white speakers assume their English is poor.
*
The one upbeat factor I see in Melinda’s sculptures is how Melinda arranged her words into the
hay(na)ku poetry form. (The hay(na)ku’s core is essentially a tercet with the
first line being one word, the second line two words, and the third line three
words--variations on the form are allowed). Even those aware of the hay(na)ku form which celebrated its 15th year anniversary in 2018, may not know of
the politicized aspect of its creation. That is, since English became
widespread in the Philippines as a result of U.S. colonialism, I (as its inventor) had wanted to
create a new English form so that we Filipino poets need not always write in
inherited forms. Indeed, the hay(na)ku was first announced to the world on June
12, Philippine Independence Day. June 12
marks the Philippines’ independence from Spain but is also the day that replaced
July 4 as the national holiday for “Philippine Independence Day” (the U.S. had
granted independence on July 4 to correspond to its Independence day and that
day was observed in the Philippines until 1962 when President Macapagal
replaced that day with June 12).
Melinda raises both Spanish and U.S.-American colonialism in
the last note or stanza at the bottom of “hay(na)ku brainwash”:
400 years in a convent
50 years in Hollywood—
and all I got was this poem.
When I read that last stanza/note, I remembered more than
one incident in my literary life when others—yes, other whites—would tell me,
“You’re so lucky to have your background/culture. At least you have something
interesting to write about.”
I resent that statement on so many levels. If I’m a good
writer, I would be able to write anything. Secondly, I’d trade in all my
writings to mitigate any suffering my people—and myself—have suffered from our
colonial past: for 400 years of Spanish colonialism and 50 years(-plus) of
U.S.-American colonialism, all I got is a
lousy poem?!
As I poet, I could continue on this vein … about how I
rarely write about myself, my family, my personal life in poetry in part
because I don’t want to serve them up as English fodder. This is the opposite,
of course, of the equally valid tack taken by Filipino and other POC poets and
writers to privilege stories of our/their culture. I mention my different approach
here only for its relevance: I (and many others) didn’t/don’t need to suffer as
a colonial in order to be able to write. Ideally, I would not want the
situation de Jesus writes about: “400 years in a convent / 50 years in
Hollywood— / and all I got was this poem.”
***
Prior to exhibiting de Jesus’ mirrored sculptures at North
Fork Arts Projects, I invited Melinda to feature her “hay(na)ku brainwash” sculpture
during the Hay(na)ku’s 15th Birthday Celebration, Sept, 8, 2018, at the
San Francisco Public Library. The crowd,
including many poets who have written/write in hay(na)ku, found her sculpture
compelling, as shown by some images of the crowd interaction below. The power
of de Jesus’ work attests to her wisdom in choosing the mirror—most of us
simply must be compelled to see ourselves and to see ourselves in the context
of de Jesus’ work was provocative. Indeed, from that event, other poets would
come to share more responses than mine to Melinda’s mirror sculpture—North Fork
Arts Projects is please to present these writers on “hay(na)ku brainwash”:
A conversation between John Bloomberg-Rissman and Marton Koppany (who came to engage in de Jesus’ work
despite being located in Hungary and seeing only the image of the work)
And now, here are some images of viewers interacting with “hay(na)ku
brainwash”:
Here, too, is Melinda Luisa de Jesús with her charismatic work—Salamat Melinda! You've created smart, effective work that will resonate long past its exhibit!
***
Notwithstanding such complications, the last word belongs to poetry: the deep truth in this hay(na)ku poem:
***
Finally, I'm moved to present a hay(na)ku poem written by Melinda for her mother ... for I would not want the sole mention of Melinda's mom to be tangled up only in the fraught issues raised by her powerful mirror sculptures—to do otherwise would be metaphorically to remain a victim of colonialism.
As with many mother-daughter or mother-child relationships (including mine), Melinda had a complicated relationship with her mother Eloisa, a talented knitter, baker, cook, seamstress, preschool teacher in the U.S. and a teacher of Tagalog, English, and Home Economics in the Philippines. But Melinda also notes,
As with many mother-daughter or mother-child relationships (including mine), Melinda had a complicated relationship with her mother Eloisa, a talented knitter, baker, cook, seamstress, preschool teacher in the U.S. and a teacher of Tagalog, English, and Home Economics in the Philippines. But Melinda also notes,
She
was a beauty queen and model, a well known folk dancer back home in the Philippines
in her day. She overly valorized conventional
white beauty couched as mestiza-ness and thinness when I was growing up, and
this really messed me up as a girl. She spent a lot of time telling me to “stay
out of the sun” when I was a kid, and encouraged me to pinch my nose “so it
won’t be too wide.”
Finally
doing Filipin@ American studies as a grad student offered me the stark
realization and comfort of knowing that these painful comments didn’t belong
just to my mom or my own family; they were endemic to our entire culture, a
legacy of our colonial past. Most of my
academic and creative work is a reaction to my mom’s worldview; I really wish
she were around to comment on these mirror sculptures!
Notwithstanding such complications, the last word belongs to poetry: the deep truth in this hay(na)ku poem:
***
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