Hooray for you, Mari Sasano.

I should also mention that immediately after returning to town, we went to see Offensive Fouls, a play for teenagers about interracial romance.

It’s a good topic to open up discussions on racism that go beyond, “It’s bad” and “I’m not one.” It’s really complicated, and for some people they never really get a sense of how much it totally sucks for those who are potentially the targets for it. Certainly, dating someone who is might be the first glimpses for young people, who are told that Canada isn’t a racist country and that we’re all colour-blind.

And it brought up the idea that people of colour in this country also struggle with their own self-hatred, that we often beat racists to the punch by being scared to admit that we are different, and that it’s our responsibility to bring stuff up even though it’s really hard.

I know that there was a time when I would make Asian girl jokes sometimes to shock. I stopped, because I realized that a lot of people don’t yet see the irony in that and that what I was doing was reinforcing stereotypes and making people feel OK about thinking certain things about me. No thanks.

I don’t remember what movie it was from, but as an African-American mother said to her self-deprecating daughter, “There are plenty of people who will do that for you. So stop doing it to yourself.”

That’s what people don’t understand when they say, “Oh, but my friend is (Asian, native, gay, Jewish) and they don’t mind when I say that. In fact, they use the word themselves.”

What’s happening is they’re trying to make you feel comfortable, and avoiding being labeled an outsider. No one likes to be singled out as being different, and beating you to the punch is a way to demonstrate that you can include us in those “jokes,” even if it does more harm than good. But that’s human nature.

Racism is racism, and sometimes we say those things first to get it over with. Doesn’t make it right, and I no longer allow myself or others to do it either.

So after my excellent nap, Paul came back and Trevor called so we made some dinner and a movie plans. We ended up at Casino Royale, and it’s excellent.

There have been efforts to make James Bond seem less embarrassingly retro: he’s tried only shtupping one girl at a time, they made him quit smoking, and so on. But Bond movies had seemed to have gotten a little stale, a little formulaic. It’s been years since I’ve really looked forward to seeing one, and that was for Michelle Yeoh, who ought to be given her own major movie franchise for upstaging what’s-his-face every time she was onscreen.

But Casino Royale is actually good! We get to see James Bond become who he is, and his character is no longer romantically suave, but romantically fucked up. The first car we see him drive is a FORD. An accountant, of all people, has to teach him what a real dinner jacket looks like. And then there is the post-traumatic distress. No wonder he drinks! No wonder he can’t maintain a relationship!

Of course, there’s still plenty of quipping, action, and exotic locales. But when the edge-of-your-seat moment is a card game, you know it’s much more than a BOOM!CRASH! movie.

Oh, and Daniel Craig is an actor. That certainly helps!

So I got a notice in the mail telling me that I’ve won the lottery– the civic duty lottery! Yes, for the first time in my life, I have been summoned to a jury selection. I was excited, but not as excited as I was when I heard that illustrator/musician Raymond Biesinger was also on the list!

We jury pals gathered in the Law Courts this morning, after passing a quick security screening (the usual metal detector/wand swipe). There were about 150 of us, and after having our summons form scrutinized by a bold blonde jury officer (Diane, I think her name was), we were seated in the courtroom. We were shown a video about the jury process, which was made in the ’80s complete with flashy cube-swipes, big frizzy hair and formal shorts that were wrong the first time they tried it. Our potential jurors were in a light mood– one particularly popular moment was when a squirrelly lookingman with a moustache was dismissed from the selection.

We were asked to leave the courtroom as they put away the AV equipment, and when we returned, we were ready for our selections. First, they took attendance. A clerk went down the list,calling names. We were to call, “Present” when we heard ours. I noticed that a young man had been seated in a box; this was the accused. Once we determined who was and was not there, the judge entered. We were asked to stand until the judge asked us to sit. He then asked the clerks to send a warrant for arrest for those who have missed their summons more than once; if this was the first time they failed to show, they were to be summoned again before July.

Then the clerk drew names from a little lottery drum. Twenty people were called, each one was given a chance to explain if they thought they should be excused. If they had no issues, they faced the two lawyers,who would state “content” if they were OK with the juror, or “challenge” if they were not. Six out of the first 20 made it onto the jury.

It was interesting to see who would get onto the jury. Some appeared immediately unsuitable– a few young men who seemed to have bad attitudes were obvious dismissals. But other times– a librarian Raymond recognized from the Strathcona library, for example– was sent back to the peanut gallery. 20 more names were drawn, and when they went through that list without filling the jury, a few more. At the last minute, a dude with a hipster haircut asks to get dismissed from the jury, and he is let go. And then another! So, on the edge of our seats, they go on to draw five more names. Of those, one is placed on the jury, so the judge asks for another draw.

It was exciting. Neither Raymond or I had our names drawn, much to our disappointment. The chosen dozen jurors and two alternates were led to a back room, for who knows what. They were to sit for three days starting on Monday. But it was a tantalising look into the judicial system. Someday, I’ll get past those doors…