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 life
style. To withhold such in
formation from them is cruel and
manipulative.

W
hile 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

By Nora Seilheimer

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/