Charmins, Chicken ’n’ Rice, Potatoes, and Alternicans
I worked all over, from Chi to Manhattan to Cali; met folks from pretty much everywhere else. Now I’ll be the first to admit that it’s wrong to say “all” about any group—everyone’s an individual and people are different, good and bad; but I will say this: Socially speaking, Corporate America can be a lot like high school—lots of little cliques and clubs, which a good three-quarters of the businessfolks I’ve met belong to. Near as I can tell (besides the geeks, ex-jocks, etc.), there are four major cliques:
Charmins
White, squeezably soft, and often full of crap. Charmins will rock V-necks and khakis; wrap blouses, capri pants, chunky heels, cargo pants, and hip-huggers… Mini-skirts, collegiate sweats, and cheerleader-style shorts with their school/sorority on the butt… Steve Madden, Kenneth Cole, and Nine West shoes… or whatever soulless uniform DETAILS/COSMO/ELLE declares fashionable that year.
Charmins usually come from Big Ten schools or places where most of the minorities they knew were athletes. Many join frats, golf, play fantasy leagues, fawn over nondescript, anglo-fied hotties and throw keggers until age 30. They tend to have and most every SNL skit-turned-movie on DVD.
In their world, the Beatles are God, Kurt Cobain is Jesus Christ and techno is the Holy Spirit. Eating ethnic cuisine makes them experts on ethnic people. (See: alpha males, frat boys, and Jimmy Kimmel.)
Charminas (female Charmins) join sororities, pull Girls Gone Wild stunts, and plot to become desperate housewives by 28. Many talk in raspy “college girl” voices and rock ponytails pulled thru baseball caps well past 30. (See: Soccermoms, suburbanites, MILFs, etc.)
Charminas, along with their potato counterparts (see next group) have a uniformed walk: Shoulders slightly hunched, arms folded like some kind of yuppie force field that can only be breached by other Charminas. This walk often comes with a broomstick-up-the-butt posture, “I’m about to whine” facial expressions, minimal awareness of immediate surroundings and extreme indifference to anyone not exactly like them.
Charmins usually come from Big Ten schools or places where most of the minorities they knew were athletes. Many join frats, golf, play fantasy leagues, fawn over nondescript, anglo-fied hotties and throw keggers until age 30. They tend to have and most every SNL skit-turned-movie on DVD.
In their world, the Beatles are God, Kurt Cobain is Jesus Christ and techno is the Holy Spirit. Eating ethnic cuisine makes them experts on ethnic people. (See: alpha males, frat boys, and Jimmy Kimmel.)
Charminas (female Charmins) join sororities, pull Girls Gone Wild stunts, and plot to become desperate housewives by 28. Many talk in raspy “college girl” voices and rock ponytails pulled thru baseball caps well past 30. (See: Soccermoms, suburbanites, MILFs, etc.)
Charminas, along with their potato counterparts (see next group) have a uniformed walk: Shoulders slightly hunched, arms folded like some kind of yuppie force field that can only be breached by other Charminas. This walk often comes with a broomstick-up-the-butt posture, “I’m about to whine” facial expressions, minimal awareness of immediate surroundings and extreme indifference to anyone not exactly like them.
Potatoes
They’re basically Charmins with melanin—if you peeled off their skin, they’d have no ethnic flavor at all. They often struggle with self-hate and detachment from their heritage and community. Potatoes go tanning, view dating within their race/ethnicity as ‘interracial’ and miss the irony in both. They’re often the lone minority in their group and 
insult other minorities in order to help maintain their “Charmin’s mascot” status.
Chicken ‘n’ Rice
Charmins and Potatoes whose flavor comes from other cultures’ seasonings. They’re culture vultures. They’ve been known to rock knit hats and caps and brims cocked over one eye… hip-huggers/low-rider jeans with exposed thongs… have tribal tattoos but zero interest in tribal people… Some have dreadlocks, cornrows, etc. and adopt ethnic vernacular and mannerisms. Others brag about their interracial sexcapades or their def poetry skills. Besides fueling gentrification, Chicken ‘n’ Ricers along with Potatoes make-up many companies’ diversity initiatives. (Think: MTV’s core audience and 99% of Hollywood.)
Alternicans
In lieu of genuine individuality, Alternicans are just different for difference’s sake. They isolate themselves from mainstreamers by wearing thrift-store gear, rehashing grunge/punk/industrial trends, and going out of their way to embrace all things “artsy” or “alternative.” (See: most punk/alt. underground types, etc.)
No matter which group I hung with, it was one skull-softening convo after another: Random SNL skit reenactments. Must See TV, David E. Kelley and Larry David show recaps. Sex and The City/Bridget Jones’s Diary-style relationship rants. Guys whining that their weekend was “one big sausagefest/ swordfight.” Endless Entertainment Weekly and People synopses. Grown, college-educated women referring to men as: Boys, Hotties, and Hookups. Random Glamour and Marie Claire surveys and dating tips. Debates over who invented the blues—The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, or Eric Clapton. Constant Howard Stern worship. Random Seinfeld-isms. Debates over who’s more beautiful: Mel Gibson, Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell? Rampant fawning over the latest PLAYBOY/MAXIM/FHM “it” girl. People saying: “quirky,” “happy camper,” “zeitgeist,” “post-modern,” “kitschy,” “campy,” and “cheesy” 15 times a day. And endless statements made in soft noncommittal inflections and followed by pauses… like they’re questions even when, like, you know they’re not? (Know what I mean?)
James Baldwin once said that, “the American ideal, after all, is that everyone should be as much alike as possible.” The Hustle leverages this truth to create constructs; not in the name of organization or efficiency or unity; but constructs in the name of control. The first step of control is division. Once you divide a person from all that gives them identity, independence, and community they’ll look to you for those things. And if you can front like you’re a good substitute for those things they’ll happily control themselves for you. That’s why these goofy cliques and mindsets exist in business and society—people have been hustled into believing they’re necessary for acceptance and success.
Everywhere I worked people bought into theses and similar social circles hook, line, and sinker; and God help those who didn’t. One minute they’re smiling in your face, working with you, partying with you, even having sex with you. Next thing you know, they’re circling the wagons and putting you in your place. Sometimes it was subtle: an off-color remark, an insensitive underestimation or omission. Usually it was blunt—slurs, blatant discrimination, etc. But regardless of the method, the message was always clear: You are not one of us.
Still, I felt sorry for them. It seemed like they were always chasing something, buying something, or trying to maintain and protect some weird standard of humanity. But it didn’t stop me from being a potato: I played the game—kept my eyes closed and rationalized everything I saw while they were open. I tweaked my speech, tailored my dress, flipped my attitude and even my ideals just to be down. I did everything I could to buy into it, to fit in, to accept and be accepted. Why? Because like every human being, I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. Also, the last thing I wanted was to lose out and go back home. (Again, work was play; home was work.)
No matter which group I hung with, it was one skull-softening convo after another: Random SNL skit reenactments. Must See TV, David E. Kelley and Larry David show recaps. Sex and The City/Bridget Jones’s Diary-style relationship rants. Guys whining that their weekend was “one big sausagefest/ swordfight.” Endless Entertainment Weekly and People synopses. Grown, college-educated women referring to men as: Boys, Hotties, and Hookups. Random Glamour and Marie Claire surveys and dating tips. Debates over who invented the blues—The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, or Eric Clapton. Constant Howard Stern worship. Random Seinfeld-isms. Debates over who’s more beautiful: Mel Gibson, Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell? Rampant fawning over the latest PLAYBOY/MAXIM/FHM “it” girl. People saying: “quirky,” “happy camper,” “zeitgeist,” “post-modern,” “kitschy,” “campy,” and “cheesy” 15 times a day. And endless statements made in soft noncommittal inflections and followed by pauses… like they’re questions even when, like, you know they’re not? (Know what I mean?)
James Baldwin once said that, “the American ideal, after all, is that everyone should be as much alike as possible.” The Hustle leverages this truth to create constructs; not in the name of organization or efficiency or unity; but constructs in the name of control. The first step of control is division. Once you divide a person from all that gives them identity, independence, and community they’ll look to you for those things. And if you can front like you’re a good substitute for those things they’ll happily control themselves for you. That’s why these goofy cliques and mindsets exist in business and society—people have been hustled into believing they’re necessary for acceptance and success.
Everywhere I worked people bought into theses and similar social circles hook, line, and sinker; and God help those who didn’t. One minute they’re smiling in your face, working with you, partying with you, even having sex with you. Next thing you know, they’re circling the wagons and putting you in your place. Sometimes it was subtle: an off-color remark, an insensitive underestimation or omission. Usually it was blunt—slurs, blatant discrimination, etc. But regardless of the method, the message was always clear: You are not one of us.
Still, I felt sorry for them. It seemed like they were always chasing something, buying something, or trying to maintain and protect some weird standard of humanity. But it didn’t stop me from being a potato: I played the game—kept my eyes closed and rationalized everything I saw while they were open. I tweaked my speech, tailored my dress, flipped my attitude and even my ideals just to be down. I did everything I could to buy into it, to fit in, to accept and be accepted. Why? Because like every human being, I wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. Also, the last thing I wanted was to lose out and go back home. (Again, work was play; home was work.)
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness,
this sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes
of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of
a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
—W.E.B. Dubois2
this sense of always looking at oneself through the eyes
of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of
a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
—W.E.B. Dubois2
