When asked, chances are most Americans wouldn’t have a clue about the Hmong hill tribe of Thailand and their culture. Which is fine. Most people can’t afford airfare to Thailand and have directed their interests elsewhere. What is really disturbing is that after visiting Hmong villages, members of Burger King’s “Whopper V irgins” campaign still don’t have a clue about the Hmong. Oh. Except that they really like Whoppers.

Recently, Burger King’s Miami-based advertisement agency, Crispin Porter & Bogusky, spearheaded their newest campaign entitled Whopper Virgins. In this campaign a research team hired by Burger King performs “The world’s purest taste test” by rounding up people who are “completely off the grid” and have no awareness of Burger King’s or McDonald’s advertisements. Once brought to the closest city, the research team asks the virgins to sample and choose between Burger King’s Whopper and McDonald’s Big Mac. Guess which one comes out on top.

The campaign consists of a television commercial series and one 10-minute online “behind the scenes” segment (www.whoppervirgins.com) explaining the ins and outs of their experiment. 

The first of the commercial series shows “remote Chiang Mai villagers” brought out of their village and into the city for a taste test comparing Burger King’s Whopper and McDonald’s Big Mac, leaving its audience wondering what “The Whopper V irgins will decide.” After “the Whopper Virgins have spoken,” research shows that the Hmong do, in fact, prefer the Whopper over the BigMac. Who would have thought?

The online segment goes a bit deeper. Filmed documentary style, the research team takes its audience onsite, showing some Whopper Virgins in their natural habitat for the later half of the segment. It also shows the virgins all dolled up in their most traditional dress, and placed against a sterile background, taking a bite of both the Whopper and the Big Mac. After some contemplative chewing, and for most, a struggle with approaching the burgers in the first place, the virgin points at the one they like more. And wouldn’t you know it? The Whopper won!

The man who seems to be the leader of the research team, simply because he is the one who speaks the most (they never give his name) claims the experiment is an exchanging of cultures.

“People seemed to really like the whopper so going back to their villages and sharing things about both of our cultures is something we want to do,” mystery leader man said.

However, the documentary fails to show such an exchange. Instead, we learn about the difficulty behind hooking up a propane tank in a foreign country (which, by the way, was their “number one challenge.” Not language barriers, not understanding customs. This is most likely due to their failure to acknowledge both of these elements, save the use of translators in the defining post-taste moment.) We never learn what their traditional dress means, what their staple food is, or an explanation behind why they prefer the Whopper over the BigMac beyond their pointing hand. We don’t learn where their food comes from nor do they learn the story behind the ingredients in America’s two leading fast food sandwiches. 

Having spent a month in the Northern hill tribe villages of Thailand conducting my own research (that did not involve American fast food, or anything American at all, really) I feel confident in saying that had the Hmong been informed of the pesticides and fertilizers used to grow the lettuce and tomato or the types of butchering performed to place that meat patty between two pieces of bread they would have vomited on the spot.  I am not about to assume expert status on the Hmong culture, but I do know a few key items Burger King’s research team clearly does not.

1. Meaning behind a smile: In most Asian cultures, especially those found in Thailand, a smile is not always congruent with happiness or acceptance. In fact, smiles are more likely used to smooth over an awkward moment or to save face for any parties involved in said awkward moment. So when a villager takes the burger wi th a smile on their face, it does not necessarily mean they are excited to sink their teeth into a Whopper.

2. Animist beliefs: While blended with other belief systems, such as Christianity, Northern Thailand hill tribes practice animism. They believe that every person, animal and plant has a spirit that should be respected. Therefore, when killing animals to eat or to sacrifice for religious practices, the animal’s soul is honored in return. Correct me if I am wrong, but I doubt Burger King, McDonalds or any American chain restaurant honors the soul of anything they put in front of their customers.

3. Agriculture: Typically, members of a Northern hill tribe in Thailand, such as the Hmong, grow a large majority of their food on shared plots. They can look at the plate in front of them and tell you exactly where each ingredient came from. Everything is fresh and homegrown. They eat the way most eco-savvy Americans wish t hey could: local and organic.  When considering that fast food relies on mass production, I think it goes without being said that neither Burger King nor McDonalds is local or organic.

I don’t believe that because of these differences Burger King is wrong in sharing the Whopper with the Hmong. Yet, I do believe, that because of these differences Burger King should have informed the Hmong of what they were sampling. The Whopper and everything behind it is the antithesis of their lifestyle. To withhold such in formation from them is cruel and manipulative.

While an exchange is what the audience is sold, an exchange is not what the audience gets.  Per usual, Americans rush in with an agenda and exploit those they deem a lesser people to manipulate and utilize to serve their own interests.  But, over fast food burgers? Really? What’s next? Pepsi vs. Coke? Crest vs. Colgate? Do Americans really have no better reasons to collaborate with cultures different from their own aside from settling the long-lived rivalries between two products that are essentially the same?

And for the record, I am a Whopper Virgin (gasp! An American Whopper Virgin? What a rare breed!). And, especially after this, I plan to stay that way.

But I am not Hmong, so don’t take my word for it. To find out what the Hmong think, click here.

Nora Seilheimer is a regular blogger at the Kosmopolitan who lives in Chicago. She writes about her life and travels to Czechoslovakia and Thailand at 

http://nseilheimer.blogspot.com/

My sophomore year at Kalamazoo College, I sat in my first Women’s Studies class feeling like the furthest thing from a “sister.” I entered the classroom and was immediately smothered by analytical stares. Apparently dating a football player and wearing a short jean skirt to show off my new French pedicure were the two worst possible decisions I could have made. Walking with my head ducked into my chest for the first time in my life, I took my seat and sat completely still, not making a sound.                 

We started the class by going around the circle sharing experiences in which we felt like we were treated differently based on our sex. The conversation immediately spun into the deep issues. In the time period of one class I learned more about this classroom full of strangers than I had about my roommate of two years. The girl to my left had been raped by her high school boyfriend, the girl to my right had been sexually assaulted by her best friend’s brother, the girl across from me grew up being molested by her uncle, another was continuously beaten by her father whenever her mother wasn’t around. Others shared stories of helping their best friends through abortions, or of a teacher who gave them a lower grade because they wouldn’t play into their sexual predator games or of their mother who bounced from one abusive relationship to the other, only to find themselves stuck in poverty and confusion.

Then, it was my turn. My classmates looked at me expecting a gut-wrenching story of how my father would beat me if I ever talked back, or how my volleyball coach promised me playing time if I promised him the same. Come on, you’ve got to have something. I opened my mouth to speak but only let out a shortness of breath. I had nothing. I sat there with my empty palms upturned and limp on the desk. This secret world of hate and brutality jumped out from behind my sugar-coated bubble and scared me to death. My fear transformed into tears that spilled onto my lap leaving small, dark dots on my jean skirt. I felt a warm hand rub my back as the professor excused my turn. Somewhere to my left I heard someone whisper, “That football player boyfriend of hers must beat her.”

Rape and assault happened to statistics, not to me or anyone I knew. They were words on pamphlets I was handed in my high school health class, scenes from the WB’s hottest new series. I had grown up with two exceptionally strong parental figures who stressed equality between the man and woman of a marriage. I grew up with scabbed knees and greasy hair.  My parents told me it was okay to sweat; it was okay to be loud. I was raised to believe in my immeasurable power, especially because I was a girl. And because of this, as perverse as it may seem, I was mad.

As we organized our action projects for domestic violence awareness month, I felt increasingly disconnected from not only my classmates, but from the experience of women. To be honest, I didn’t really understand what exactly I was creating awareness of. Sure, I understood the technical definition of domestic violence, but I had no consciousness of its consequences, its various manifestations or its aftermath. How could I encourage my peers to become more aware when I only had experience of tip toeing around the issue?

At my breaking point, I did what most lost young girls do: I called my mother. After first thanking her for a picture-perfect childhood, I demanded the noise. My mother, the only woman I have ever known to throw a brick through the window of her back door when she forgot her house key at work, kindly shattered what separated me from knowing.

“Do you want to know why I married your father?” she started. “I married him because he was everything my father wasn’t.”

My mom spoke for a straight half hour about her abusive alcoholic father. Thirty minutes and the balled up silence unraveled into a flat plain of truth. It was all laid out in front of me filling a new broad horizon, our broken silence. Suddenly, I understood why equality was such a stressed issue in our house.

“Did he ever hit you, Mom?” I asked with my fingers crossed.

“No, your grandma took a lot of the heat…” she trailed off.  “Don’t ever let her know that you know this, it would break her.”

“Mom, it sounds like she’s already broken,” I replied.

There has to be some reason my mother told me about my Grandma’s marriage with knowledge of how it might affect her. After some time to wrap my mind around this hidden piece of family history, the reason became loud and clear: my grandma’s silence bothered my mother just as much my mother’s silence bothered me. That phone call was a relief for the both of us, not just as mother and daughter, but as fellow women.

The next day in class I shared our story, this piece I could finally contribute to the puzzle. I walked into the room with the same French pedicure beneath the same jean skirt and told them the story that made me belong. I left class that day with my head still ducked into my chest. 

Nora Seilheimer is a regular blogger at the Kosmopolitan who lives in Chicago. She writes about her life and travels to Czechoslovakia and Thailand at 

http://nseilheimer.blogspot.com/