HERstory

In Memory of Magnificent Madeline

This gorgeous, joyful baby captivated thousands, if not millions of us who knew or read her parents' blogs, before she was taken away from this realm too soon.

Madeline Alice Spohr was born prematurely, after her mother Heather endured a brutal pregnancy and far too many ominous pronouncements from Doctors about how her baby would never make it.  But Maddie defied those pronouncements, the pessimism with which they were delivered and every unfavorable odd which loomed against her tiny, but formidable will.  

Until last week.

Last week, a cough and congestion took Maddie to the Doctor, and then an ambulance was suddenly rushing her to the hospital.

And then, she was gone.

Most of you readers know that I am constantly haunted by my own personal loss, that nothing has ever been the same since that ugly night a decade ago when I was the one rushing to the hospital to be near someone who would be stolen away, too soon. 

Most of you do not know that I lost one nephew last year after he was born prematurely, much like Maddie; another nephew survived, defying baleful predictions and delighting all of us with his adamantine will to survive...much like Maddie.  Because of those babies, the March of Dimes is a crucially important cause to our family.  Much like Maddie's.

I think that's why Madeline's story resonated with me, so intensely. In Maddie's devoted mother Heather, I saw one of my favorite, closest cousins ever. In Maddie's hilarious father Mike, I recognized the goodness of my cousin's husband-- the best in-law I have. And in little Maddie, defiant, brilliant, larger-than-life-though-a-preemie Maddie...I was reminded of a certain baby, who broke my heart when he struggled through his first few weeks of life, but mended it a million times over when I met him for the first time, and he smiled; I never took that smile or even the mere possibility of it for granted. Until that blessed morning, I had never held a baby while being so grateful for the simple opportunity to do so. I'd never felt so close to or aware of G-d's grace, as I did when my miraculous nephew wrapped his impressively strong little fingers around one of my own. That was when I realized that what I was holding wasn't just a cute, well-dressed infant but the awe-inspiring answer to all of our desperate, tearful prayers. From Heather and Mike's moving, eloquent writing, I almost know that they beheld their gorgeous Madeline the same way.

This is why the blogosphere is so powerful, why strangers aren't so strange after all, and why it's entirely possible, if not predictable to care about people whom you might never meet. At our core, we are more similar to each other than not.  We recognize common adversities and joys, and we comment, commit to causes or donate bits of ourselves to "strangers" because we identify with their lives. We could all be Heather or Mike. We could have all lost as much. Their tragedy clarifies our realities, cutting through petty disagreements or the perfunctory, mindless way in which we stumble through our days. The seemingly-trite lesson to love now, because you might not be able to tomorrow impacts us powerfully and repeatedly because we refuse to learn it until we are forced to, or more likely, as in situations like this, until we watch in horror as people about whom we care are brutally used as reminders of it. After reading the news about Maddie and crying through several tissues, I held someone closer and thanked G-d I was able to do so, one, ten, hopefully a thousand more times.  It's not like Heather thought, "This is the end" when she took her only child to the Doctor, last week...

::

The first time I saw Madeline, I was overwhelmed by her giant, azure-colored eyes. Then I dissolved in to her wide, ever-delighted smile.  After coming to, I realized I had another reason for swooning over her; she shared the name of the little girl who starred in the storybooks I loved most as a child. Though I don't think I ever mentioned it to anyone, not even my closest friends, I often thought of naming my own child Madeline, if I had one some day. That's how much the fictional Madeline meant to me.  And that is why the very non-fictional Madeline Alice sort of owned me from the very start.

Since I cannot be there for the service, like so many others, I will be wearing purple today for Maddie. This blog is now purple for Maddie. My Twitter is purple for Maddie. My heart is purple, the color of bruises, for Maddie's grieving family, for what they are suffering through.  No parent should have to bury their child. The world is less for the loss of her. Maddie's dazzling smile was so radiant, it might have contributed to global warming.  

Mike and Heather, every baby is special, but yours was extraordinary, in every way. That is why the entire country is aching with you, organizing March of Dimes teams to walk in honor of your baby girl, watching and reading the news about her and ransacking closets to wear purple for her.  Maddie was so beautiful, perhaps too beautiful for this world. Maybe that's why the angels gave in to an anomalous moment of selfishness, and took back one of their own.  Perhaps one day, you'll find in your enormous hearts the ability to forgive them, for spiriting her away just 17 months after she arrived on this blue and green circle among the stars, none of which could out-shine Madeline's divine inner light.

May you feel peace, today and always, and as we say in the Greek Orthodox faith, long may Maddie's memory be eternal.

On Being Down With Dating Brown

This Sunday, I woke up to an email from a girlfriend who is not Desi. She said that there was a really thought-provoking article in the New York Post, which reminded her of some of our conversations. She thought I might enjoy it. Enjoy it? I could have written parts of it. It was about Dating While Brown-- and dating other Browns, to be specific.

The piece was called, "MELTING NOT: Why Young People Like me Started Dating Within our Race". In it, NYP reporter Raakhee Mirchandani wrote a sensitive, honest explanation of her views on love-- and I can just imagine the nastiness she might be encountering because of it.

It's never easy to put yourself out there, so I salute her for doing so. Besides, with this issue, you can't win. You date outside your community and you're either a sell-out, desperate or a coconut. Date within it and you're insular, insecure and biased. Ugh. Can't we all just get along? I wish we could remember to be kind to one another, as we discuss an issue which affects all of us, albeit in different ways. We've got to let love rule, or whatever Lenny screams. On to the story.

::

I know so many friends, whose experience mirrored this:

Growing up, the man in my dreams was a mystery; he was white, he was tall, he was dark, he was slick. He was always handsome. In my fantasy it didn't matter if he was Catholic or Muslim, European or African, if he ate pigs or worshipped monkeys. It didn't matter if he understood that I came from a rich tradition of Indian Hindus who were strict vegetarians, quietly conservative, obsessively dedicated to family and maniacal in their love for cheesy song-and-dance movies with mediocre acting and music.

And so when we met, freshman year at Boston University - the street smart Eastern European with a gorgeous smile, big heart and wicked sense of humor and the artsy Indian girl with a penchant for big hair, Bollywood and Biggie -it seemed like the perfect cross-continental match.

Ah, Biggie. I pour some of my Robitussin with Codeine out for you.

But somewhere along our six years together, the Indian girl from Jersey, who had naively promised him Catholic children, steak dinners and consistently defended his refusal to hang with my family as a simple difference in opinion, had a change of heart. And he did, too.

I remember him looking at me on an evening not far from our last and saying, "It's like all of a sudden you became Indian." In a way so quiet I didn't even realize it was happening, the brown from my skin must have seeped in and colored my heart.

That line just slays me. I project emotions and explanations all over it. Is it accusatory? A blurt of hurt? Is becoming "Indian" a negative thing? The defending "his refusal to hang with my family" is also poignant. America may be a country of individuals, but most of us who are of South Asian descent are tightly tied to our families, for better or for worse. No one wants to be caught in that vise between one love and another.

Surprisingly, I'm not the only one. While the rate of intermarriage among races increased over the past half-century, the last decade has seen a reversal - particularly among Asians and Latinos. According to a Ohio State University study, from 1990-2000 the number of Hispanics marrying outside their race fell from 27% to 20%, while Asian intermarriage dropped from 42% to 33%.

I'm no Razib, but this matches what I feel like I'm witnessing around me (and yes, this is the same stat Abhi mentioned in this post on SM). At one point, if I saw a second- or third-generation Asian-American with an Asian spouse, I was surprised, because so many of my friends had married "out". Now, I see a reversal of that. Maybe it's easier for us to find each other, thanks to the internets. Then again, maybe Ohio State and I are full of it (highly probable-- I'm supposed to be a Michigan fan).

After brushing it off for so long, many of my relatives and friends are listening to that nagging voice in our collective heads. You know, the one that sounds like a hybrid of your mom/dad/grandparent/aunt/uncle/neighbor-in-the-old-country telling you in heavily accented English, "Have you found anyone yet, dahling? Can we introduce you to Mr. Kapoor's son? He is doctor. Ven vill you finally give us good news?" Despite my better efforts to buck the traditional Indian girl inside me - glossy black locks turned to bleached blond in a weak moment of teen angst; pre-med was never an undergraduate option and much to my parents chagrin; I have always favored copious amounts of worthless costume jewels over precious museum-grade family heirlooms - I discovered that I'm not really that much of a rebel after all.

Yeah, me neither. Well, except for the remaining defiantly single at 34 bit. Maybe it's because I've retired all five pairs of my Doc Martens, but I don't feel like a rebel...until grateful letters from some of you label me as such; "I'm so glad there's another Desi girl who isn't married...I'm 26 and the pressure is horrid!" Note to 26-year old: don't allow yourself to be rushed in to a damned thing. The people who nag you to get hitched now won't have your six when you separate or get a divorce. Then you'll be THAT girl, the one with the "past". Even if you end up happily married, they won't stop butting in to your life, because a few seconds after your wedding reception commences, they'll be demanding a schedule for when you'll be procreating offspring, or where you'll be purchasing a home. 

As I like to say to my long-suffering Mother: "If I don't get on that merry-go-round, I don't have to worry about vomiting." You third-generation tykes owe us big. We smug singles are facing the wrath of our community now, so that one day you can actually take advantage of this "30 is the new 20" bullshit, and go to weddings, funerals, christenings, housewarmings or any other Desi-infested event without cringing, or hiding from the Auntie mafia in your car. Don't worry about thanking us, just hook us up when we're 65, since Social Security isn't going to do it. Back to Raakhee: 

During the Obama campaign, commentators asked if younger people were growing up in a colorblind society. I certainly hope it's a more tolerant one - but not blind. Living in harmony doesn't mean camouflaging our differences, or denying that we have any. And while I would never judge an Indian person who chose an interracial relationship - love in whatever way it comes is flawless - I know that I could never do it again.

I could never do it in the first place, mostly because of what I've bolded below:

Relationships are hard enough, no matter who you love. Maintaining and sustaining them requires a combination of courage, compromise and dedication. But there's a comfort in building a solid foundation with someone who comes from a similar place. I don't want to have to explain the minutia of my complex culture, hoping for both understanding and approval. I want to begin on equal footing, roots already firmly planted in a common garden.

I'm more of a wanna-be geek, so my declaration contained something like, "I want someone pre-loaded with all this software, I don't want to have to install anything". Please don't tell me if that makes no sense. :) Just focus on my alternate line, "I ain't no one's cultural tour guide." Classy, I know. That almost sounds like I hate non-Desis. Not at all. In some of those instances, I desperately didn't want to be the object of someone's fetish or part of that one guy's UN fantasy which involved...well, you get the picture. Even if the rare non-Desi guy who expressed interest didn't fall in to one of those two weird categories, I worried that having to explain every little thing or answer a plethora of questions would become exhausting. 

Yet I know friends and family who feel the exact opposite of such sentiments (well...not the UN thing). They love sharing who we are with their significant others from different backgrounds. They relish building bridges by spreading the Brown love and Gods bless them for it. I just can't do it, Captain. To each, our own, right? What's right for me or Raakhee isn't even right for some of my immediate family members. 

While Raakhee found her prince, two of my girls got no love or interest from boys within our community; that's not an exaggeration. I could write horrifying posts about the Desi boys who met them and said, "You're much darker than you were in your picture", or similar ugliness. I had a Cross Colors shirt in the early 90s which said, "Love see no color". We could easily amend it to: "Stupidity see no color." A douche is a douche, regardless of race. 

Those two beautiful women are now marrying outside of our community, and I'm glad for it. I'm not implying that only people who strike out with brown go hunting elsewhere. I'm just mentioning two specific family members who are marrying amazing people and that matters more than skin. If brown boys/girls aren't feeling you, to hell with them. If you only find that "amazing" with someone whose Mom makes sambar too (guilty), then more hand soap to you. We each need to make this decision for ourselves (are you reading, 26-year old?? You're fine! Stay strong!). 

I'm the kind of girl who is as comfortable worshipping multi-armed deities as she is worshipping at Chanel. The kind who can easily wrap herself in to a 5-yard sari in a public bathroom but much prefers Uggs and leggings. Certainly the kind who washes down a spicy curry with a glass of Johnny on the rocks.

Yeah, I'm just going to state for the record right now that I could never put a sari on in a public bathroom. I don't even like to put a sari on in my current apartment, because the full-length mirror is unfortunately near where I put on and take off shoes, near the door. Eeek. Oh, Raakhee, you are a better ladki than I. While you're not asking, I also like Black and coke instead, thanks!

That makes me Indian and American, and the truth is, it's easier when someone understands the first part of that as much as the latter.

YES. I agree, 100 percent. At the same time, I have noticed that interracial couples where both parties are from minority or "ethnic" backgrounds--which emphasized family-- do seem to find some common ground.

So now I've taken the UPS approach to dating: What can brown do for me?

More than I ever thought.

:) Here comes her happy ending:

My current boyfriend, Agan, is the kind of Punjabi prince dreams are made of. He held me last year when Bombay burned and I broke. He high-fived me when "Slumdog" took home eight golden trophies and I squealed. He rolls his eyes when I talk about Yankee Stadium like it's The Bronx version of the Golden Temple. He's from the left (wrong) coast, you see; not everything can be Disney fairytales.

But he understands without questioning that I will live at home with my parents until I get married. That family obligations trump any evening plans we may have made. Without my suggesting it, he mentioned that when we grew up and had a house of our own, there would be room for both sets of parents, his and mine. I was enamored.

In that moment I knew why it never worked between me and anybody else. I had underestimated the power of my parenting, the grip of my culture and the strong but subtle shades of India that I reflect.

In less than a year he has earned his way into my parents' hearts, fielding near daily text messages and e-mails from my mother, approving but curious glances from my father and even joining my brother in a weekly basketball league. It's as if they already knew each other. And in a way they did.

Your mother can text?! Mine thinks GChat is annoying enough. Lucky! Speaking of superior communication products made from Goo, I GMailed Raakhee to ask if anything important had been cut from the story. Here's what she had to say:

What we had to cut from the essay which I thought was important was the idea that being Indian was something I had to grow in to. Not in a conscious way, but something I had to sort of become comfortable expressing. And just being.

Also, I grew up in a way I imagine many desi chicks did who are my age (27); I was a nerdy, hairy (omfg the 'stache, the unibrow, the horror!) and completely convinced that I would never, ever date. I thought Indian guys wouldn't get me and all the others would think I was gross. In a way, despite my ridic inflated sense of self (and trust me, i thought i was some super hot shit when i was younger!!), when it came to dating and relationships, I didn't think I was good enough to date either, brown or white.

Oh, if that isn't Junior year of high school revisited, I don't know WHAT is. Sigh. Back to the article, for the last two paragraphs:

Despite the countries we share, we are still different. His family is Sikh. He wears a turban. Mine are Hindu and we don't accessorize. But the fundamentals are the same; family first and everything else next.

As usual my parents were right, bless their darling immigrant hearts. It turns out I am both New Delhi and New Jersey, and the man in my dreams finally has a face to reflect that.

I'm happy for you, Raakhee, the same way I'm happy for anyone who finds their lobster. Everyone deserves the bliss that is love. We may have different desires, preferences, approaches to searching for it or ways to label it, but in the end, we each want the same thing, no matter with whom we may find it.

Happy Fifth Birthday, HERstory. Happy Fifth Birthday, to *me*.

Five years ago, as the summer of 2003 waned, I was temporarily back in Northern California, pacing like a caged feline who was agitated by being on the wrong coast.

On a Thursday in September, I sat in my father's favorite cabriole-legged wing chair, my bare heels resting on ball and claw furniture feet carved from real cherry wood.  My beloved silver-lavender VAIO, my first computer, a graduation gift drenched with meaning, rested in my lap, waiting to serve. I anxiously stared at the exact same screen I serenely behold now.

I wasn't sure what to do, even though I'd been a TypePadder for a full month, since August of 2003.  I had nervously, apprehensively explored the new blogging program for a few weeks and I was in awe. Compared to my two frustrating, aborted attempts to write with Blogger, I had obviously upgraded-- and the difference in experiences was astonishing. 

Since I have always been an auto-phile, I'll describe it like this: switching from Blogger to TypePad felt like abandoning a battered Ford...and being handed the keys to a Porsche 911 Turbo.  TypePad was gloriously well-behaved, utterly dependable and beautifully designed; after a year of failed attempts at blogging, via two different blogging platforms, I was ecstatic to be driving something so perfect. 

But I still didn't know what to write, partly because I was blocked, mostly because I was still traumatized by publishing posts to two separate blogspots...only to have them disappear.  "But this is different", I reminded myself.  "Every "test" post I have written is still here.  It's not the same."  I could hardly handle such stability.

After surfing around the handful of blogs I read daily, I realized that one of the first posts bloggers often write describes who they are or what their blog was about; "Duh", I thought. "Introduce yourself, it's the polite thing to do!"  I exhaled happily, now that I had some direction.  I returned to magical, magnificent TypePad.  And then I drew another blank. 

I was in my 20s. I barely knew who I was, I was positively idea-free regarding what my blog would be like.  At this point in the day, I wanted to publish something, anything.  "Fine," I murmured. "I'll at least put up a smidgen about me, for those who wonder who is the Anna behind anna dot typepad dot com...it's not like my About page will answer them, not with what I've dedicated it to..."

But what exactly should I reveal?  What would I want to know, about the people I read?  An hour passed and I grew impatient.  Then, an epiphany. I had previously created "about" content for another webby time-suck, a now-ancient artifact of networking called "Friendster".  So, I went to my profile there and copied my "About Me", because I realized that in a way, I had been blogging there already; I updated that section daily with books I had read or things I had done.  It's not like people were pinged with annoying notifications that I was doing so-- only my friends noticed and they enjoyed it.  Satisfied (but not entirely, because I felt like this blog was NEW and so I should compose something NEW rather than use something old, much like I have this urge to wear brand-new clothing on January 1), I hit ctrl + v.

And with that bit of lazy pasting, this blog was born.

And nothing, nothing has ever been as it was.  For that, for what I've learned, how I've changed, whom I've met and where I've been, because of this simple little blog, I am eternally grateful.

Thank you.

For inspiring 1057 posts, leaving 5986 comments and giving me 1.4 million page views.

For guiding me to my voice.

For handing me a megaphone with which to shout with it.

For listening to me, anyway.

Thank you.