#I'm going through all my hundreds of screenshots and getting emotional can you tell

[m-m-m-myysurana]

I'm so normal about them.

[weraceasone]

Hi Elle (and anyone who reads this)!

This is going to be a long ask/rant so get your snacks and drinks ready (sorry in advance)

What does it mean to be a “real man” or how does one act like a real men? I’m really confused. Yesterday I tweeted that I love seeing the new generation of F1 drivers being friends and complementing each other and even hang out together outside of racing. All of a sudden I get a couple of tweets of people being mad about what I said: “they should act like real mean instead of showing their soft side everytime.”

So I asked one of them on Twitter: what do you mean by they should act like a real man? To this question I got a lot of ignorant answers like: They should man up, stop being shy, handle criticism like a man and stop crying about negative comments. (PS: What’s wrong with being shy?)

I’m half Dutch (hallo daar!) and I know that in our culture we can be very straight forward and honest (maybe too honest). We can also be very critical but what’s wrong with showing your REAL emotions when a comment hurts you? F1 drivers have a lot of pressure like we all know and of course it’s a hard world (bla bla bla) but that not an excuse to kick them when they’re down.

Seeing drivers being disappointed or even sad about their race or the comments people make on the internet does not make them less of a man (whatever that means). I mean how would you feel if almost everyone on social media is clowning you or laughing at your results? Ignore it?? St some point it’s impossible to ignore it when it’s presented right in front of your face. We put way too much pressure on these boys. At the end of the day they are human beings with real feelings.

When I see people hate on a certain driver it makes me so sad. You can be critical, nothing wrong with that, but let it be constructive criticism, something they can use to better their driving skills. But things like “you suck as a driver” “you don’t deserve to be in F1” is in my opinion mean. Look how people treat pay drivers. I think it’s disgusting how they talk about them.

I really hope that in the near future the F1 community will talk more about this topic and mental health since FIA wont do shit about it. It’s very important because the way some of us are ralking about these drivers can cause some serious damage to their mental health. Isometimes have to check myself when I talk negative about a driver.

Speaking on mental health actually applies to any sport and not just F1.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. This was weighing on my heart and I had to vent about it lol. I know this is all over the place but I hope that you and anyone who is reading this will get what I mean and I'm very curious what you think about this.

Ik wens je alvast een gezond 2021! ✨

hey Anon!

you know… lots of men have been angry with me on the internet before. one time somebody screenshotted a post of mine that pointed out the differences between people on Twitter reacting to Kimi’s radio messages and people on Twitter reacting to Lewis’ radio messages, and that person put it on Twitter without my permission and without my context. I had to read through hundreds of tweets calling me all sorts of degrading words and everything they insulted me with somehow always came back to me being a girl. it was the core of every insult they wrote. and you know, it’s funny until it isn’t. it’s funny until I decide; “this is going too far, and this is where I draw the line”. yet, I told myself to be thankful because it is nothing like it could be. I am thankful because they don’t actually know who I am, or where I live. I am thankful because I guess those men are good men, after all. they are good men because even though they said all those things, I know they will not act on it. they are good men because even though they just dehumanized me for being a girl with an opinion, they will still kiss their unknowing wives goodnight and they care for their daughters in a way they one day didn’t even believe was possible themselves.

when a driver shows even a sliver of emotion it’s “girly” or “he’s acting like a woman”, because apparently there’s nothing worse than being a girl. I remember Ziggo Sport making fun of Lando’s laugh because “he sounds like a girl”. however, the comparison with a woman is never made in a positive way, because being a woman is a pitiful state of being for these people. yet the phrases “be a man” and “grow a pair” will always refer to a state that we should aspire to be in.

and when I dare to write about it; I am the eternal man-hater. I am a man-hater, because pointing something out and the only conclusion being sexism, is my fault. it is my fault that writing about women in motorsport will somehow always end up on the topic of sexism. it is my fault that not writing about it, is somehow still writing about it. but the truth is; I don’t blame these men for the things they were told, I blame them for not looking beyond that. I blame them because I know the things they say on the internet will somehow always find a way to translate back to real life and I already feel sorry for the kids who will get their dad a tie or shaving cream or a fishing kit for father’s day, for Christmas, for every single birthday, because they never made a true emotional connection with him, because that’s stupid and unnecessary. I blame them because they don’t realize that the things they write, the thoughts they share; do have an impact on the people around them. I blame them because ever since I have gotten into this sport, there’s always a voice in the back of my head telling me that I don’t know enough, that my opinions aren’t good enough, because I’m a girl and I’m a girl and I’m a girl.

being an F1 driver isn’t easy, especially in this day and age where you don’t just have to deal with the pressure of being and staying in the team, but also with the unwarranted for opinions from people all over the internet, who think showing emotion is synonymous with being weak. but, at the end of the day; why do we watch this sport? would we still watch if it weren’t for the joy we get out of it? where would we be as fans, if we didn’t hope for the best? why are we only allowed to talk about the happy emotions?

the things we say on the internet, the thoughts we put out there; they always find a way to plant certain thoughts into our minds. and I’m not asking for anybody’s sympathy, because I can care for myself. I can braid my hair and neatly fold my clothes and I let myself sing off-tune and I let myself have an opinion on this sport, regardless of those men on the internet. but the thing is; the way we are online, is a reflection of the real world. if there’s never a man who dares to talk about his feelings; I will keep crying at videos of men doing nice things and your daughters will too. we will see a man quitting his job to be with his kids, a man speaking out about feminism, a man cooking dinner for his family and we will all keep on saying “you know, he doesn’t have to. he doesn’t have to”. because somehow, they never have to.

(I’m sorry this basically turned into a rant, Anon. this is also the longest answer I have ever written. it was a whole page long in Word. ik wens jou ook een gezond 2021, en allemaal fijne en leuke dingen🧡)

[me-on-set]

Harrowingly Strange

When was the last time you had to face a moral dilemma? I am still reeling. I actually just got home. I think I invented a new selfie style. I wanted to take a photo of my makeup on and off.

As I currently write this, I am not an actor but instead have been doing background work for the past year. I've occasionally been a featured extra and was a body double once.

It's fascinating, seeing and doing the work that embodies being on set.

A couple of days ago, I received a message from a casting agency that had my headshot asking to submit my photo for a featured non-speaking role with a local production company. It was a one or two day shoot at $200 per day. I said yes and I got the gig.

When you are cast, you get an email the night before with details about the set location, start time, special instructions, and wardrobe. This show I booked was for a reenactment TV series about real world events. The exciting news was that this particular episode revolved around a crisis that occurred in my parents' homeland. I was to play someone at home seeing the news on television, and then in a second scene complain to police of their incompetence. I was asked to bring leisure clothing one would wear at home.

When I first started being an extra, I would bring my clothes in a backpack, trying really hard not to care too much. That behavior did not last. I found my interest stumbling forward into a natural evolution. I started taking luggage to neatly carry my wardrobe options. I found that I would mostly get cast as a mid-30's businessman. This led me to comfortably bring my outfits in a garment bag. It's funny how familiarity can grow your views.

For today, I packed shorts, sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, a pair of runners, and a pair of flip flops. I got these flip flops during my last vacation with my mom overseas in her hometown. I also brought some henley shirts and arrived on set in khakis and a short-sleeved polo because there was also a mention of button-ups being an option.

The majority of work involved as an extra is waiting. It's a good idea to bring a book, although in this day and age, occupying oneself with a smart phone is a much more fulfilling time killer. I didn't end up using any of the clothes I had brought except for my belt and my runners. After my hair and makeup were done I decided to satisfy my curiosity by searching keywords of this specific production. I searched the name of the character I was to reenact. Adding quotations to strict strings of words, I had soon discovered the event I was going to portray. This was when my moral dilemma began.

I was born and raised in North America by immigrant parents who arrived in their early 20's. The typical experiences had by people of color paint a relatively positive mural that represents my upbringing. Having visited my ethnic country many times throughout my life, I felt, and still feel, a deep connection to the motherland. This connection is common for others like myself, powered by identity in a time where life will sometimes present it as a limitation. Conversely, this only strengthens cultural pride.

The role I was to play was an international representing their countrymen against the very country I identify with. Pangs of uneasiness flooded my body. There was another featured role performer who had an earlier call time. We sat together in the holding area. He was cast to play the part of a family member learning the news of the event. What surprised me more was the fact that he was a recent immigrant from my country of ethnicity. Us both, cast in roles of coincidental conflict of interest?

When it comes to acting, the only other time I recall having feelings of apprehension was during a big budget movie filmed in a church. I was a church goer among a sea of church goers seated in church pews. We were instructed to portray the enjoyment of a church service. Some of us were selected to stand and sway to the Christian music. Some had their eyes closed, head tilted to the ceiling, palms facing up to the heavens. As easy a physical task that is, I instead opted to clap along to the band and pretend to really feel the sounds of my favorite music. I know it's just acting but I was driven by the thought of my mom seeing me do anything other than that on camera. So, I coursed the music through my veins. I know the history of the band members, the albums, this music moves me, pretend.

I received my paperwork and read it over a cup of coffee from craft services. It was standard paperwork that I've filled out over a dozen times before. I looked at the inviting exit door. I was parked right outside. This is not that big of a deal, is it? I imagined this TV episode making its way to the news overseas, the citizens all over the world deeming me a traitor for perpetuating a negative image, not merely through action but through representation against them. Against us. Am I selling out? For two hundred bucks?

I thought about getting up and leaving. I thought about all of the hard work that people have put into this specific production. If you haven't been behind the scenes before, it is quite the trip. An assortment of heavy duty cables line the floors, taped in place. Racks of props in designated areas. The backstage crew zip around in sync, bursting with walkie-talkie sounds and hollers of instruction. There is a commonality in the many interactions, their minds tuned into the goal meant to be achieved. This is their career.

This is my hobby. I am a prop. Would leaving this put a blemish on my record in the local film community, or the film industry as a whole, because I wasted everyone's time being sensitive? As I languished, I get a message from my best friend and I tell him I'm on set. I tell him:

For some reason, that makes me feel better. I just might be able to work with that mentality. The other guy has finished. He returns his wardrobe and collects his belongings. I ask him if he knows what this show is about. We speak in our language among the English-speakers. I ask him if he thinks people back home are going to be mad at us. I ask him if he knew we were going to be doing this. He seems ok with it all. He said he was there during the actual event. He's new to the industry. We laugh about how we can pass as different races. This is his first time being on camera. He said he enjoyed the experience. I ask him if he'll continue. He said yes. I hope he does.

Finally, wardrobe is set and I am wearing a navy blue golf shirt and some gray slacks. I want to feel good, like the other times I've worked. How can I get that feeling? They're calling me on set. They adjust the lighting while I sit in front of the camera. A fog machine fills the mock living room belonging to my character. When the camera rolls, there is a fake TV in front of me that I am to watch casually at first and then grow increasingly interested as the live footage I am pretending to watch unfolds. I am supposed to build up into a frustration with the host country. My country. As I understand it, the real guy is being interviewed and I am the reenactment; the illustration of his side of the story. I do the scene. Twice. Filming took less than 5 minutes total. The whole time I was thinking about my mom. I can remember it still, a few hours ago today, the director describing the gradual transpiring of the footage to guide me. To help me see a reason to be frustrated on camera. It wasn't helping. It's not his fault. I don't think it's anyone's fault. I don't think they even knew why I would be uncomfortable. I don't think they knew much about the countries involved in the event. They even spelled the city name wrong. I don't even think the takes were that bad.

I wish it wasn't about my country. If it were different, I feel like I could have given more - like I had done at the church.

It's unsettling to perform make-believe, but for myself I have managed to apply a mental exercise that immerses me into a character; to actually be the person. The trick is to relate. To tie the emotion to a real memory and relive it. If it had only been about another country, I'm sure I would have enjoyed the process a lot more.

I'm writing this and I was hoping it would help me shake away this dread. Thoughts of regret imagining if I had only researched the keywords sooner. Maybe I would have cancelled. But that wouldn't have been better. I would be blacklisted and never cast as another role again. Or maybe I'm being dramatic. Hey, that's good for this line of work, right?

I honestly hope the final cut looks great. This is the biggest role I've ever been in. They gelled my hair funny like a nerd, I had on large framed glasses, just like the portrayed, and they put makeup on my upper lip to hide my dark, clean-shaven stubble.

When I got home, before I washed my makeup off, I took a before and after mirror selfie because my face looked comedically smooth. Taking the pictures reminded me of when I was sipping coffee in the holding area. I had taken pictures of my paperwork. I remember my mind racing. The feeling was like gathering license plates and insurance information after a collision. You know, just in case I have to stand trial, my cultural membership in jeopardy. I can review my situation with a lawyer to see what I can and can not say during a variety show interview that is getting my side of the story after viral, captioned screenshots of me flood the internet with embarrassing memes, stamped into history. Jesus Christ, that would be the worst. Here I go again with extreme maybes. It's an entertaining curse that I will forever be engulfed in my own hypothetical torture.

Anyway, here's that selfie I invented:

Yeah my bathroom mirrors are dirty.

I can't wait for my next job that I can cleanse my palate with. I really hope I can accept today as purely an actor's portrayal, and not a turncoat betrayal. This can't be my last go at acting. I ate some of my country's food for supper. I feel a bit better. I'm wearing a shirt that is emblazoned with our country's sports hero.

I have always been excited to see the final release of a production I am in, except for this one now. Uncontrollably, my perverse curiosity into the film world is only strengthening, so I don't think even the worst thoughts can slow my future participation. The silver lining is that the uncomfortable bar is set to a new level. I could reenact a murderous deviant now without batting a moral eyelash, I like to think. All for the sake of film.

- WSS, February 8, 2019