Ok this is seriously cool

A friend of mine just got word of this >>> http://www.faceresearch.org/demos/average

You basically put pictures online and it recombines them into what it would look like if they had an offspring. LOL now before you laugh at my example (both the same sex / female's) just think about how cool it is in general. Now go off and make some mixies

Example:


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Hello my fans and fellow mixed readers out there!
Let me first start off this blog by saying happy new years to you all! I hope you all had a superb christmas as well. This being my first blog since the kick off of the new years I'd like to share a little bit about what's going on at my uni since I just got back. Heck ..I could write about anything but honestly I can't think of much and I'm not about to do the "happy new years" - "what I did" release..err not just yet.

So there are in addition to A/PI groups on campus, a new breed of Hapa groups (Hapa: part asian part something else--usually applied to half asian half white but actually means mixed, derived from hawaian slang--google it), and groups for people of mixed race. When we played Mt Holyoke, some girls from "Mixin It Up"-- the mixed race club on campus. I think one of the biggest affirmations of what Slanty Eyed Mama is about, is when younger AAs and particularly Hapas just want a picture or an autograph or a t-shirt. I grew up reading George Wolfe and Alice Walker because I was looking for people writing about being different and yearning to be part of the bigger cultural whole. Whoopi goldberg was a revelation because in so many of her monologues she was talking about feeling one way inside, while being perceived in a different way from the outside. That is the kaleidescopic experience of the Hapa.

When I saw my first real drag queens in Australia I had that experience again. The paradox of having two spirits, many aspects to our physical, historical, ancestral and psychological selves that was injected into our DNA resonated for me in drag performances-- which were playing out those issues in the gender arena. Which is why forever I will be a drag hag.

I have always said (in the most narcissistic way) that people in America of mixed race carry an important role in educating people about race and in breaking the hard walls of assumptions that close in the racist mind. In our biology lies the chemistry of possibility. In our mixed blood lies the fundamental truth that human beings can and will transcend ideas of race to find common ground. We are also vessels for alienation and loneliness-- in our in-between status. If it is a fundamental truth that people want community, that people want to feel like they belong, then the mixed race person is immediately given the challenge of being different from every single person in their ancestral families with the exception of their siblings and /or some cousins. It's no big revelation that when a Hapa kid goes to visit white family s/he is the asian kid and when s/he goes to visit the asian family s/he is the white kid in the family. So where do you fit in if in your own immediate family you are different from everyone? And what is the big deal anyway? You're still the son/daughter...So what is the big deal?

Firstly, everyone always points to high school as a place where we all try to "fit in" with clothes cool clubs, music, being popular etc etc. Kids have breakdowns over owning the right runnign shows or getting excluded from a peer group. So if your biology sets you up to never ever fully be "like" other people, especially early on, the potential for anxiety and self bashing increases i think. The other big deal is the need for us to classify. To label and organize our reactions to people based on names and i.d.s we assign them-- race religion sexuality -- all in the pursuit of knowing which group you fit into. If your family is mixed, you now are outside many of those labels. You can be a freak. You get asked the dreaded "WHAT are you?" a constant reminder that you are other; marginal; non-mainstream; not 'normal'; different; unrecognizable as a peer to other people.

This outsider status is our burden and our genius.

Our burden is to try to feel good while always having to explain (and feel like we have to justify) who we are based on an outward reaction to our look.

The genius is that piece by piece we can build a new vision of multiculturalism that needs must include everyone if the world's children are to be honored as they morph and change the hues of our collective skin. And our spiritual brothers and sisters will be made in the shared experience of all different kinds of mixed race people. The dialogue will have to transcend the particulars of race and move into how we can make the world work for all the people.

I love that in addition to A/PI social and cultural groups on campus, that themixed kids are starting to find each other and talk about stuff. I hope they become the problemsolvers, the mediators and the free thinkers I know they can be. That they move beyond feeling the "what are you stigma" to actually finding interesting, dynamic and healing answers to that question that may lead the whole world the assumption that we are all related and all belong.

This weekend I attended a state fair and the folks from naturally more peanut butter sent me a free sample. Here is my take...

I have to admit I was skeptical, after all their tag line is "what peanut butter should be," and that's a pretty tall order to fill.

Naturally More contains 25% more protein and 50% more fiber than regular peanut butter according to"THEIR" label. They've added egg whites, wheat germ, and flax seed. That sounds healthy, but not necessarily yummy.

After stirring the peanut butter I gave it my knife test: does the peanut butter drip off the knife because it's got a bit too much oil? Yep. Runny peanut butter is never a happy thing for me.

I struggled to keep an open mind, and took out a spoon for a straight-from-the-jar test. Gritty. Again, not a happy thing for me. But the flavor was good! And in spite of the unpleasant texture, there's something compelling, almost addictive, about the flavor. I usually save good-tasting but bad-textured peanut butter for baking, but I've eaten almost half of the jar with a spoon.

The fact that it's full of flax seed and flax oil is a huge plus. Highly recommended as a mega-food, people add flax to their diet to boost their immune systems, fight cancer, and improve cardiovascular health. I'll be buying a replacement jar of Naturally More soon. I might try the organic variety, and they also have an almond butter product. I didn't expect it to work out this way, but I'm such a fan now I may spring for one of each!

Conclusion: I APPROVE!

I sometimes find myself identifying as mixed..other times as asian (refer to my Being hapa blog). I've come to find myself at peace when I threw away religion at the age of 18 and embrace atheism. I hear and have even seen a title of a mixed author's called "Finding wholeness as a multiracial person" and it brought back my nostalgia of when I was trying to transition out of relgiion. I'm now wondering if this "finding wholeness as a multiracial person" has a similiar tag attached to it. Does anyone out there feel remotely the same? Because I have a hunch that the two are similiar.

The dirty red carpet beneath your feet, the fake gold dragon hanging on the wall with two big Christmas lights for eyes, you shuffle in. You hear noises. You can almost understand what they're saying. Of course the only Chinese you know is about food, cleaning or petty gossip, perfect for this occasion. You are second generation. Sort of. As you walk in you feel it, the feeling of being watched. You think to your self, "I'm just as Asian as them. I do well in school, I eat weird animal parts and I follow stupid superstitions." Yet you know it's not good enough. You walk and try to blend in, your hair dark, but not dark enough. You look out and see brown highlights. But you know yours aren't’t the same. The old ladies with age spots are the worst. They don’t even try to hide it. They look over to see you walk in. It started outside on the streets of Chinatown, but here it's worse. White people don't go to dim sum. Not really. Not this one. This one is for real Chinese people. You feel connected to your culture. You feel proud. Your white father left at home. This is a family occasion, a mid- year family reunion, but you are the only one. The stares are never bad, never evil, never cross, just filled with curiosity. She looks at you. You push you hair back to show your Asian bone structure. You stand close to you relatives so everyone can see the family resemblance. Sort of. You hope. You desperately hope. You've heard it all before. It's always good. "Oh you so pretty, pretty girl." You love it. But still it stings. So onward you go, past some tables to the wall. Then the war begins. You squeeze into the corner. The round table with seats for 10, the pink table cloth; you look down at your napkin, the tea cup, the small plate and you feel it. The waiter comes, he has the chopsticks.2 extra plates and tea cups because the table was set for 8 not ten and you see it. You see it coming. You knew it was coming all along since the second you walked in. He looks at you. Wonders, looks again and again. Waiters always look. You hear it. The metallic clanging, the cool silver, you scream in your head. "Doesn't’t he see me. Doesn't’ he really see me. It's not like he hasn't been looking. He can't be that stupid. Can he? Of course he is. They all are. He's a waiter. And they always do this when my sort come." It can't be avoided. It's too late. It's happening. You can't stop it. You're angry. Its silly but still you can't help it. You heart gets sad. You meet him in his eyes, yours hazel, his black. It stings as it comes down. You get the sense that you're being branded. But you are. The metal, the pain, it's all the same. It's coming down. The world goes into a slight slow motion. You scream in your head. "I'm Asian. God dam it. I'm Asian. The dark hair, the round face, the slightly slanty eyes. Sort of." You have tendencies to be delusional. And then it happens. It hits with a thud, a metallic thud. He did it. That stupid son of a bitch did it. He did it. He gave you a FORK. A DAM FORK, The utensil you secretly hate. You know how to use chopsticks. You've used them since you were four. Dam FORK. You look at him. You look at your mother. She says in Chinese "no she likes to use chopsticks." So he takes it away and puts the sticks down instead, the pain already there. So you spite him. You spite them all, even though you know that that piece of Choy will be hard to pick up, and even though all your full Asian relatives will ask for a fork, you refuse. You keep your dignity. Who needs a FORK? Not me. I'm Asian.