HERstory

Reject Refugees Now, Enjoy Hell, Later.

 

You.

You would put your children in a boat too, if that^^ was your reality. After all, they’re not bombing the sea. Let’s play a horrifying game of “Would You Rather”. Which would you prefer: watching your toddler drown in the ocean or listening to them scream in fear before being shredded to death by a bomb?

It reminds me of another haunting, heartbreaking question, one we considered 14 years ago. Would you have stayed in the World Trade Center with your co-workers and burned, or, desperate to avoid fire and building collapse, would you have held hands and jumped? If that question emotionally eviscerates you, as it still does me, please consider directing some of that horror, sorrow, and compassion towards other innocents, who are still here, and merely unfortunate enough to be born somewhere else.

These. Christ’s “least” (Matthew 25:40). These are the alleged “terrorists” we are callously hardening our hearts toward and turning away. Children wailing in terror and agony. I love this country and there is nowhere else I want to be, but I am ashamed that history is repeating its ugly self.

Just as we sent back Jews who desperately fled Hitler’s pogroms via the ocean liner St. Louis in 1939 — more than a quarter of whom later perished in the Holocaust, because Roosevelt was too busy planning for a third term to answer their cables pleading for sanctuary — we are similarly shutting our doors to the neediest and most vulnerable of our world. Never again, we said, often and with fervent conviction. But it is “again”. Again.

And just as we gave into xenophobia, paranoia, and isolationism 75 years ago, when we wouldn’t even consider special legislation to welcome 20,000 Jewish children from Germany into our arms, now we blindly screech about ISIS and the potential for “infiltration” even though we have accepted almost a million refugees since the towers fell, and not one of them is a terrorist. None of those refugees have been arrested. None.

My Muslim friends say, “Not in my name.” Well, as a devout Christian, I now join them. You want to hate and fear the least of Jesus’ brothers and sisters, go ahead and do so, but know this: you will surely burn in hellfire for disobeying his word, the words that actually matter, not the ones that prohibit wearing no-iron shirts or jeggings, enjoying rare steaks and burgers, or breeding labradoodles, puggles, and cockapoos.

I feel justified in making that proclamation, because such actions and motivations are exactly what our Lord and savior railed against:

41 Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.
42 For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
43 A stranger and you gave me no welcome, naked and you gave me no clothing, ill and in prison, and you did not care for me.’
44 Then they will answer and say, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and not minister to your needs?’
45 He will answer them, ‘Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’
46 And these will go off to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

Those of you who are proud to bleat about rejecting Syrian refugees, out of “concern” for our nation’s safety, who would callously slam liberty’s door in the tear-streaked faces of the lost, you do not speak for me, or anyone else with a functioning heart and brain. Remove your head from your poorly-cleaned ass and employ whatever meager reading comprehension skills you hopefully possess: no potential immigrant is more scrutinized than an asylum-seeker in the U.S. What secret terrorist is going to patiently endure an arduous, agonizing process that involves screenings from five different agencies?

Several federal agencies, including the State Department, the Department of Homeland Security, the Defense Department, the National Counterterrorism Center and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, are involved in the process, which Deputy State Department Spokesman Mark Toner recently called, “the most stringent security process for anyone entering the United States.” CNN

Juma Al-Ahmad, Director of Shahba Press (an alternative, independent media agency), ran outside on Tuesday October 27th 2015 to document the gruesome reality of being on the ground in an Aleppo suburb while being attacked by Russian air strikes. He recorded three out of four bombings; the final one, which is embedded above, apparently killed him. He died so we could see, and I cannot comprehend how anyone who worships G-d can watch that video (or look at that drowned child) and not want to open our doors to the “least”. We must open our eyes, then our hearts, so we can open our arms and actively follow the example set by Jesus Christ.

Follow Christ. How paradoxical is this: the same people who agitate against allowing refugees into this nation are often quite proud of being “born again” or committed devotees of Christ. They would do well to start acting like the man they claim to model their lives and priorities around, and keep his holy commandment to love our neighbors —an especially poignant and apposite rule, because when asked to clarify exactly whom he meant by that term, Jesus explained that “neighbor” meant anyone in need, even if they are our enemies.

Additionally, one of the laws of social responsibility laid out in Exodus even addresses this issue directly, by exhorting us to never mistreat or oppress foreigners. If my co-religionists can’t muster the compassion and decency to worry about our foreign, vulnerable neighbors in this life, perhaps they can be motivated by self-interest and realize that their actions will doom them in the next.

I know. That was way harsh, Tai. But hey. They were warned.

One Fraught Order of Falafel

Note: It's been a while since I updated this, my personal blog. A lot has changed in the last few months-- most notably, my job. I left the Washington Post in August and immediately commenced my dream-opportunity at WAMU 88.5, the NPR affiliate here in D.C. You may be familiar with its public radio stars Kojo Nnamdi and Diane Rehm.

I was hired to be a blogger/online reporter at the station and we just launched the site I'll be working on-- DCentric. It's part of the Project Argo network and it will focus on race and class in D.C. Sort of like Sepia Mutiny, but with this city and socio-economic status standing in for the "Brown/Desi" focus. I hope you venture over and take a look. Here's my latest piece from it, cross-posted below.

::

My latest vegetarian obsession is Roti, the Mediterranean place near the White House. I love the falafel there, because their version is unlike what is served at Amsterdam Falafel, Zaytinya or Maoz. Roti plays hard to get, which is why I'm consumed with it. It closes at 5pm and is not open on the weekends. That's why I rarely get to eat at the delicious Chicago transplant. Today, an errand took me to 17th street and I gleefully got in line. Oh, I should mention the line. It is long, and thus a testament to the scrumptious nature of Roti food; the good news is, Roti is fast about wrapping up chick pea fritters in warm laffa bread, so the line moves.

After paying, I asked three questions of the jovial immigrant from Africa who assisted me.

"Is there wifi?"

"Yes! Yes, is wifi!"

"Nice! Do I need a password for it?"

"Um...no. No!"

"Great. One last question-- this cup that was in the 'Arnold Palmer' section looks like it's all Iced-Tea...did I pick up the wrong drink?"

"No?"

Satisfied with what I now realize was inadequate information, I sat down to partake in warm, delicious garbanzo-laden goodness. I could catch up on reading while scarfing. Perfect.

Except the wifi didn't work.

And my Arnold Palmer did not, in fact, contain any lemonade, at all.

I waved down someone who was working the pristine dining room.

"Excuse me, do I need a password for the wireless?"

Blank look.

"The internet?" I gestured at my laptop.

"No internets. No." He gestured at my laptop.

"Oh. Well, that man told me there was wifi." I pointed behind me.

"No. Not work."

"Oh. Well, maybe you can help me with something else-- this Arnold Palmer seems to be all iced-tea. May I add some lemonade to it?"

"Lemon?"

"Yes, lemonade."

"Lemon slice? You want lemon slice?"

"No...this drink is a mix of tea and lemonade. There's no lemonade in it."

"Lemon slice? I get!"

"No...sorry, that's not what I want. You know what? I'll ask him," I said, smiling and gesturing to an older looking gentleman in a Roti-logoed dress shirt.

The worker's eyes widened. "Please...no..." His voice trailed off.

I immediately realized what he was thinking and felt terrible for worrying him. His formerly unlined brow wrinkled in consternation.

"Oh, no! No! I'm not going to get you in trouble. It's okay! It's okay..."

He nodded quickly and relaxed a bit, but looked at me twice before hurrying away.

I took a deep breath. Yes, I had paid for one drink and received another. Yes, I mistakenly thought there was wireless and there wasn't. So what? I had enjoyed my sandwich in peace, savoring each bite instead of listlessly chewing as I scrolled through news. I was suddenly keenly aware of how the whole situation looked. Seersucker sundress, MacBook, smartphone...and difficult to please.

Self-awareness coursing through me, I had another, more painful epiphany-- a reminder of my own immigrant parents, struggling forty years ago. Had people complained about them? Made their lives harder over something relatively minor? Guilt surged within. Additionally, I had worked as a cocktail waitress and done holiday retail. I remember the terror I felt whenever people had asked to see my manager. I turned and looked for the worker I had scared, but he was gone. Instead, the manager was standing in front of me.

"You look like you need something. Can I help?"

"Uh...well, is there a password for the wireless?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The wireless is not working. Did someone tell you it was?"

"Yes-" I immediately felt awful. What if I just got someone in trouble? UGH. CHANGE SUBJECT.

I smiled. "Well first, let me say that my food was delicious. Second, is there any way I could get a splash of lemonade? I think I picked up the wrong drink, thinking it was an Arnold Palmer."

"Is that not an Arnold Palmer?"

"No, it's all iced-tea."

"Oh. Oh, I think we ran out of lemonade, come to think of it. Please, help yourself to whatever you'd like, of course." He looked at the drink case where I had chosen the cursed cup. "Hmmm, they shouldn't have put those there..."

"You know, I probably grabbed the wrong thing and got confused", I stammered.

He smiled kindly. "Well, why don't you try one of the bottles? They're all really good."

"Thanks, I think I will."

The man took my tray and I walked towards the drink case, torn between guilt over potentially affecting someone's livelihood and a sense of exhaustion born from extreme loyalty and compassion. I grabbed the first soda I saw and walked out.

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.

Babies aren't an "I get to be a jerk"-free card.

Once in a rare while, on Sepia Mutiny, the group blog I write for, someone leaves a comment which is so long, it's problematic. It makes scrolling down a thread difficult-- especially if one is attempting to do so via phone-- and it's also a lot of material to consider and respond to. It complicates the conversation.

In those situations, the ever-helpful intern steps in and suggest that a comment which is THAT long is really a post, just yearning to be blogged. "Please do so, then leave the link here, for those who might be interested. Thanks!"

Well, I guess I had a post, just yearning to be blogged. :)

::

1 · tarta said

you are not 33 going on dead,anna! i know u said that tongue in cheek, but i think more and more professional women are postponing marriage to age 35-36 and kids to age 37-39

And thanggahd for it. I've been mildly obsessed with babies lately-- but not like you might think. :)

Last night, I read nearly every entry on a blog called "Take Back the Island". I'll just put it this way-- one of their running features is "Dead Baby Joke". I found TBTI via a NYT article from Feb 11th which introduced me to a curious world called Park Slope, which is in the Brooklyn...apparently thoughtless bitches run wild there, with humvee-sized strollers and similarly-sized senses of entitlement to the sidewalk, an establishment called "Tea Lounge" and finally all the space in a bar called Union-something which has Bocce courts. The article had 300 comments about the self-absorbed shittiness of it all, and I found myself coming down on the so-called "baby-hater" side of things, which is just amazing.

I've wanted to be a mom since I was in first grade, which is when my teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up and I said, "Supreme Court Justice. And Mommy". I looooove babies. I started taking Folic Acid supplements when I was 18, because I was so sure I was going to get married right after graduating, to my college sweetheart. Baby, baby, baby.

Now, I want to throttle women on the Metro who brutally force their double-wide, p.o.s. strollers (which hold more bags than babies) wherever they can, as if wielding a battering ram through innocent commuters, only to block the handicapped seating (which I needed to use for the majority of last year) as if it's their deity-given right to do so-- and woe unto anyone who dares look askance, because that will be be the catalyst for the "HOW DARE YOU!" heard 'round the monuments.

On the rare occasions when I go to starbucks in certain nabes, I'm certain to be slammed in to by some hyper-active, three-year old animal who is careening about the store while doing his best impersonation of a pinball-- and I'm even more certain to get a haughty, "EXCUSE YOU. You need to look where you are going", from his Mother, after which I am absolutely certain that I will have to stifle my urge to throw my $5 latte in her stupid face.

And best of all, when I go home to CA, I'm no longer allowed to attend my mother's prayer meetings, because in 2003, I picked up an exceptionally demonic species of crotch-fruit who screamed and kicked me while I attempted to take him in to the other room, to thrown him in to his worthless mother's fucking lap. "What happened?" she trilled.

"He decided to write on my piano with a sharpie."

"Oh, he's just playing."

"My father bought that piano for me 25 years ago. It's not a toy. It's precious and he would be horrified to know that your kid just defaced it."

"No, no. You care too much for material things...he is being cute...hahahaha."

And apparently (though I blacked out so I don't remember this) I lunged for her and my mom intercepted my clawing hands and hauled my ass in to my room so fast, we skipped a month.  My primal attack might have been triggered by all the exquisite hypocrisy about material things, since crotchfruit's tree is the same woman who likes to announce how much her home cost and how she's already bored with her year-old luxury car and considering something newer.

So yes, tarta, much like the timeline in your comment indicated, I will have my kids in a few years, because by then, I will be ready to give up my lifestyle for theirs. I will have gotten shit out of my system. I will accept that I can no longer be a selfish bitch. I will not take them to BARS (wtf is going on in Park Slope, people?) because I'm resentful about how my life has changed and I want to have it both ways. I will resign myself to life in the burbs and inane never-ending videos and silly songs and wanting to beat my head against the wall because my own crotchfruit are driving me fucking insane-- but you know what? At least they will be doing that in my sure-to-be-destroyed home vs. at the mall, the movies, restaurants or anywhere else innocent people go.

I cannot comprehend how having a baby makes someone gifted.  Any idiot can fuck someone and squirt out a slime-covered, squalling thing.  Now, not everyone can take that crying newborn and parent it in to a good human being.  I think it is all related to a greater issue-- an explosion of selfishness in America which is most often manifested via cell phone conversations in tiny buses where some douche is yelling, "what?  I can't hear you.  I'm on the bus.  What?".  Why be considerate of others while sharing common, public spaces?  That's for wimps, people dumb enough to care about courtesy.

Unfortunately, with babies, you have a titanium excuse for treating other people like shit, because who is going to tangle with you, when you're holding a tiny person in a diaper?   No one, because anyone who dares stand up for themselves or anything reasonable will be regarded as just thismuch less evil than Saddam Hussein.  "It takes a village", they say.  Well then let me step in and discipline your uncivilized beast-child, since your response to everything is, "he's just a kid!"  And the next time I hear, "you're ungrateful now...but they'll be paying your social security", I'll laugh bitterly, because I want to be on the same powerful drugs which make this delusion so easy-- I don't expect monthly checks in 32 years.  So take that lame justification for your child's appalling behavior and shove it up your birth canal.

I know there are good parents out there and beautifully-behaved babies (Hi, Godson).  I know.  But a non-trivial number of awful apples are making it difficult to remember that (or, even want to remember that).  You don't see these kind people, because when their kid acts up in church or at the movies or at Macy's, they are. out. of. there.  They are sweet enough to be mortified at their child's meltdown, and they are aghast at the thought of inflicting it on innocent strangers.  So toddlers are whisked up, away, to the car and then home.  The ironic thing is, if you parent well, it's imperceptible to the naked eye and nearly impossible to remember.  What does get remembered is the idiot father who turns his back on his kid, believing that "not paying attention" is the best strategy for addressing his offspring's public shittiness.  It hasn't crossed his mind that dozens of people are wincing while he just speaks to the poor salesperson he's corralled in a voice which grows louder to compensate for the screaming he's brilliantly ignoring. 

Even more memorable are the couple I once saw in Fremont, outside a Jamba Juice.  Their children were literally playing in "traffic", in the parking lot, and finally, the inevitable happened-- a shaken driver veered to spare Junior Asshole and ended up slamming in to a parked car.  Said the parents, upon being summoned from their stupor by the sound of breaking lights and mashing bumpers: "Gosh, the way people drive is just outrageous!  Willow, are you okay?  Did that man scare you?"  All of us looked on, agape from the disbelief and willful denial.

I am amazed. My parents spanked us, regularly and we didn't dare let out a peep in public, let alone toss full-blown tantrums, deface others' property or otherwise act like meth-addled monkeys. All it took was one look and we'd quiver involuntarily. But as my mother explained to me after her eventful prayer meeting (after letting me out of my room), "those days are over. Now, parents want to be friends with their children. They don't want to be the bad guy. They don't want to parent. And if you do discipline your child, you better hope no one sees you smack their little butt because you'll go to jail. It's a different era. We didn't let you act out because it was not appropriate behavior. Now, everything is appropriate behavior."

"Mom, if that kid comes near my piano again, with any-"

"So have you thought about moving back to New York?"

Ganapati Bappa Morya

This was actually, originally a comment I wrote on the Ganesh Chaturthi thread on SM.  I initially wrote it because I wanted to get the discussion back on track, but it's so long and potentially distracting, I'm cross-posting it/transplanting it here, so anyone who feels like discussing it can do so here, while keeping a Holiday thread as merry as it should be, there.  :)

Recently, when Abhi wrote a thought-provoking post on Mother Theresa, early in the thread I expressed misgivings so inarticulately, my discomfort with the entire news story must have been painfully apparent.  I'm not even a huge fan of MT, nor am I Catholic, for that matter, but I worried about the discussion becoming hostile to Christianity, which is a part of my life, and an important one at that.  I was concerned that the entire "hot issue" would become proxy for people who wanted to mock the mythology of a man in the middle east 2,000 years ago and that ugliness would creep in; I don't know if it did, I couldn't bear to look.

Everyone has the right to their thoughts and obviously, should feel free to express them, that's only fair.  But we should also, always remember that it is probably, almost always the case that whatever it is you think is an amusing news story or something to debate raucously...is a part of someone else's faith, core beliefs, identity.  It is a situation which is ripe for pain, offense and anger.  You could take this to ridiculous extremes, but you don't have to-- most of us were taught, by our parents, to tread carefully around religion, out of a respect which ought to be mutual.

Someone's mythology is someone else's messiah.  I wish we would be so sensitive as to keep that in mind continually, not because it's self-serving or b/c I feel like perching above some high horse, but because it's the kind thing to do.  Courtesy mandates that you not hurt someone or make them uncomfortable, that if anything you strive to achieve the opposite.  It's the right thing to do.

Holidays are perhaps the only doors which "others" have to religions with which they are unfamiliar.  There's the potential for a lot of beauty there, for joy which creates a deep, internal understanding which permeates how we think and treat each other.  My memories of synagogue-hopping at Purim or celebrating Vaisakhi at the Maryland Gurudwara have made me extra fond of Jewish and Sikh culture.  That's nothing novel, but it is powerful. 

Now I want to know more about this holiday, specifically what sweets are involved, because I heard that

a) Ganapati loooooves sweets (which just enchants me, since I eat cake for breakfast and dessert after lunch and dinner!)

b) he's associated with my second favorite childhoold breakfast: kozhakottai! (I loved eating the excess filling, which was nothing more than freshly-ground coconut/thenga with an egregious amount of brown sugar)

:)

from spam to questions of self-identification

Inspired by a post I wrote for Sepia Mutiny.

:+:

Some sweeeet justice for those @$$h0!e$ who continue to annoy my spam filter:

A Nigerian court has sentenced a woman to two and half years in jail after she pleaded guilty to fraud charges in the country's biggest e-mail scam case...

Typically fraudsters send out junk e-mails around the world promising recipients a share in a fortune in return for an advance fee. Those who pay never receive the promised windfall.

Take THAT, Amaka Anajemba!  You scammer!  That's what you get for lying about your dead husband/uncle/ferret's secret fortune that you needed my help in claiming.  Sadly, the example you set is too addictive to not emulate:

Scams have become so successful in Nigeria that antisleaze campaigners say swindling is one of the country's main foreign exchange earners after oil, natural gas and cocoa.

Oil, gas, cocoa and email fraud?  Are you kidding me?

Anajemba's sentencing by a Lagos High Court on Friday is the first major conviction since the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) was established in 2003 to crack down on Nigeria's thriving networks of e-mail fraudsters.

The agency said in a statement that the judgment was a "landmark achievement by EFCC in the fight against advance fee fraud, corruption and other related crimes."

When they say "thriving" they mean it; 200 junk e-mail/scam suspects have been arrested in the last two years, $200 million worth of loot has been confiscated and ten other people have been convicted.  Here's my main point-- After wading through all of this justice via CNet, I read THIS about Nigeria.  Apparently, it is

Ranked the world's second most corrupt country after Bangladesh by sleaze watchdog Transparency International

What?!  What the hell is Bangladesh doing?  I don't get email scams from any enterprising Bongs.  Why does THIS have to be the one contest Bangladesh wins? Is it because of this?

"Systemic corruption poses a serious challenge to efforts to promote good governance in Bangladesh," said Professor Muzaffer Ahmad, Chief Researcher on a new report published today by Transparency International. Urgent steps are needed to address "the lack of laws on political party finance, poor service conditions and low salary structure for public officials, and the fact that key watchdog agencies lack adequate, well-trained and skilled staff," said Professor Ahmad.

this?

The TI report also points to an urgent need to address extremely high levels of corruption in the police through better training and a more professional career structure and service conditions. The authors call for a strengthening of the independence and professionalism of the lower judiciary. Measures are necessary to ensure "transparency of proceedings, closer supervision, monitoring and evaluation of judges' performance, frequent inspection of the lower courts by the higher courts, and clear guidelines on sanctions for misconduct of court officials".

Perhaps it's THIS:

"Corruption, lack of transparency and accountability in public life continue to be a burden on the economy," states the report. Over the past decade, negative points have included "deterioration of law and order, non-governance, lack of implementation of election pledges, political instability, abuse of governmental power and lack of access for public's redress for human rights violations".

Sigh. 

:+:

Aside:

In the above post, I kept wanting to write the word "we" whenever referring to Bangladesh, i.e. "We suck worse than Nigeria!".  No, I am not Bangladeshi or even Bong for that matter.  The proclivity for "we"-ing was so pronounced, I started to wonder if it was the affinity for Bengali-anything my father fostered from toddler-hood onwards...as sweet as that process was, I don't think it's the explanation for my "we". 

I think it's just because I'm an unrepentant South Asian.  Not that I needed proof of it, but this little post-posting-epiphany provides just that.

Apparently, being born and raised in Amreeka gifts me with a distance which allows me to be "We".  My first-gen peeps abhor such chosen unity, but I am not ashamed or insecure or confused about my interest in/support for Bangladesh.  So yes.  I cringed when I read that Bangladesh is more corrupt than a country full of spam-emailin' swindlers.  It's about as far from Kerala as you can get when it comes to South Asia, but I'm not really affected by that.  Spam?  THAT I'm affected by.

right what you know

7pm.  Tryst.  Adams Morgan. 

I’m at what I like to call the “orphan table.  It’s a simple, wooden affair that could seat ten easily, eight luxuriously.  The orphan table is the first one you encounter when you walk through the door, when you’re clutching your backpack and it’s junior high lunch all over again.  I don’t mind it, though.  The table, that is.  Two other parties are sharing it, a couple to my right, and a trio to my left.  It’s very communal and sweet…something that I don’t exactly experience everywhere.  There’s a large, chipped-urn in the center of our little collective.  The lilies that fill it share the same startling pink as a salmon’s interior.  The sight of meat or fish (what I like to just call FLESH) always startles life-long wegetarian me.  That’s why salmon-coloured things always make me look twice, as I picture the white lines that run through the slices of fish these flowers resemble. 

I felt a toxic one-two punch of lonely and crazy a few hours ago, so I forced myself to leave the house.  I took the metro to Adams Morgan (really, to Woodley *(^&*^%% park) and I came here because it’s a good place to be.  It’s excellent for thinking, eating, writing, observing and escaping to.  Even if you’re all alone.  That’s what the orphan table is for.  I haven’t done anything substantial here…just caught up on bloglines and read my email.  I find that my adoration of a place increases geometrically if they have free wi-fi and it’s Mac-friendly.  I would think that all free wi-fi is Mac-friendly but Panera Bread Company was a total cock-tease about it.  In I went, purchasing assloads of bagel and muffin, a mug of “endless” coffee ready to go…and I couldn’t connect.  The douche bag across from me with his Dell could.  He exclaimed about it loudly to his co-douchers, that’s how I know.

Free wi-fi is concomitantly delightful and dangerous.  It sates my Internet addiction, but it also keeps me from just writing, like I’m doing now.  There are far too many distractions for ADDled me.  DCist (and its cousins Gothamist and especially SFist) might appeal to me for exactly that reason: plenty of little things, constantly updated, no opportunity for ennui.  Huh.  That’s what some of you love about sepia mutiny. ☺  It’s not the same for me, you know.  When you throw the party, you never, ever enjoy it as much as your guests.

The firefox window with a view of DCist is still up…my indecision keeps it there.  Apparently, there’s a Washington blogger meetup tonight at Soho coffee on 21st and P, and it started at 7pm.  When I first read this, I felt electrified by possibility; I’ve wanted to attend one of these (or a DC fotolog meetup) ever since I moved here nine months ago.  For whatever reason, it never meshed with my schedule.  Google Maps says that my destination is 0.9 miles away.  I knew the morg was near Dupont, now I know just how near.  I start to ponder whether I could or should walk it, and another ten minutes disappears.  That’s an essential and wholly unwanted part of my “process”; time is stolen and when I wake up, I wonder what happened to it.  It’s 7:45 and I start to get worried.  What if it ends soon?  Maybe I should take a cab?  Something within balks at this, b/c I’ve made this silly commitment to myself to start walking more since I’m not a huge fan of my gym (ah, for the gyms in CA…) 

I haven’t been car-less in quite a while.  Guesstimating how long it would take to walk a mile feels murky.  I finally remember that when I’m really slow (as I would on a day as obscenely hot as today), I walk at about 3mph.  Okay.  20 minutes.  I should leave RIGHT NOW, but I feel like there are invisible straps keeping me in this chair, in my tryst. 

I’m torn.  I can’t decide what to do.

“Hi.  I am sooo sorry, I don’t mean to be a pain…it’s just that…um, are you going to order anything else?  Not that I mind if you do or don’t…I just…my shift is over and I was going to close out or transfer my tab.”  My waitress has kneeled down at my left so that she’s looking up at me with huge whiskey-coloured eyes.  I wonder if she’s a bicyclist, her calves are amazing.  She regards me with apprehension as I study her.

I smile widely.  “Close it out, then.  No worries.”

“Omg, are you sure?  You are so sweet!  Seriously, this makes my life so easy.”  She’s got her hair coiled up in princess leia buns and she’s smoothing overgrown bangs behind her ears as she talks.  Her smile is beatific and her dimples make acquiescing more than worth it.

Leia walks off to bring out my tab and I shake my head.  Decision made, and I didn’t even have to make it.  When she rushes back with my receipts on a mastercard-logoed platter, I note the time before leaving permission to charge me at least $11.  8:02pm I sign under the $15 I’ve scrawled rather sloppily, thanks to a bizarre scratch in the plastic tray.  I frown at this but remind myself not to get bogged down by perfectionism.  Putting the bill down, my bag on my shoulder, I get up and push the chair in.  That number is really bothering me.  It’s kind of messy.  Moments like this, I slightly hate myself, as I bend over and trace over the numbers so that there’s no mistaking what I meant.  Convinced that I’ve got issues, I bolt.  Where I'm at, 18th street isn’t too crowded.  I see a cab go by but squash the urge to hail it.  I am woman!  Watch me walk!

A toothless old man grins at me, his burnished, bark-coloured, wrinkle-less skin stretching tautly over his face, silver curls a Caesarian crown 'round his head.  He stands with his hands clasped behind his white sport shirt with its crazy knit pattern of black checks.  The shirt is untucked, it relaxes over black trousers.  Chappals that could've been Bata, had he been Indian, cushion his feet.  I take all of this in from across the cobblestone street, memorizing him as I approach.  As I passed, his voice rang out in the air with the same stealth and light that fireflies employ, on these summer nights.  I’m always delighted by fireflies.  We didn’t have them in California.  I always associate them with humid nights in the suburbs of New York City, which is where I saw them (was dumbfounded by them, really) for the first time.

"India o Pakistan!" he declared slightly hoarsely, a lifetime of smoking roughening the brightness of his speech.  I grinned back.  Usually, like every other stuck-in-the-middle 2nd Gen-er, when someone asks me where I’m from, I do the sigh, bristle, eye-roll or similar negative gesture in response, without hesitation.  I can’t help it, it’s ingrained now.  If they ask if I’m from India, within, I wonder what an American looks like, since I apparently wore the wrong outfit in order to resemble one.  Born and raised in the golden state, where I didn't even know that I was a minority until I was eight, no one will ever assume that I was, in fact, conceived and delivered right here.

This was different though.  "India!" I declared right back.  His eyes widened before narrowing from the gentle push of his cheekbones.  His smile was irresistible, the same way that a baby's is.  "Jai Hind!" he shouted at my backside, while I laughed on down 18th street.  For a few minutes, I was consumed with the exchange, attempting to play it back and rewind it, again and again in my head.  I kept tripping on the "o".  Had he said "o" between the two countries?  I could've sworn it wasn't a harshly finished "OR".  I reconciled my consternation by deciding that no matter what his lips had issued, my brain had remade it into an "o" from years of Spanish classes, since "o" means "or".  I shook my head at my unmatched ability to become mired in the inconsequential, my obsession with capturing every nuance of a past moment.  I rerun things that have just happened like a kid who’s just discovered how the rewind button works—ad nauseum.

"Little Ethiopia" (apparently the aforementioned DCist decided against "little Addis Ababa", for obvious reasons) surrounded me as if I were in a bizarro version of Jackson Heights.  The same little sub-street level cassette and DVD shops that you walk down a few metal or concrete steps to get to, all blaring their wares in a language I don’t speak...the same random beauty parlors where practically no English is spoken and mais oui, restaurants galore filled with "natives" as well as progressive white people who smugly congratulate themselves internally for being so "down" with the chocolate city's offerings.   I suddenly became self-conscious as I always do around Ethiopians, since I am often mistaken for one to the point of being accosted by angry older "uncles" who demand to know why I don't speak my mother tongue, right after I innocently ignore whatever they initially say in Amharic to get my attention.  Each of these exchanges is inevitably completed with a benevolent smile once they realise that I do, indeed, have quite the excuse for "neglecting my (their) culture" as well as the excited admission that I look JUST LIKE one of their cousins.  That explains it, you see.

I started to wonder just when I might hit Florida Avenue, the Google maps satellite picture still frozen in my mind.  I also wondered why people on narrow sidewalks walk so damned slow, and then seem miffed that you want to go faster.  Perhaps these are the same assholes who drive 68 mph in the passing lane as if it's their divinely ordained right to set the flow of traffic.  I stepped in a bunch of bark=dominated mulch to get around an erstwhile frat boy in last season's diesels.  I resolved that I would not gloat about the fact that he clearly wore a 30" inseam while my diesels were a 34" vertically.  When he gave me the miffed look DESPITE my attempt at being good, I narrowed my eyes, elevatored him and gave him the nastiest smirk I could muster from my bitchy sorority days.  The girl next to him laughed.  "You should've just let her get around you.  Maybe she has somewhere she needs to go."  Word.

Florida appeared and I started to make my right turn...right into a pack of tourists.  They were walking (creeping, really) six abreast, just like they do in Manhattan when they want to piss off the locals so that blood pressure medications stay profitable.  I abruptly spun on my heel and gratefully noticed that the light had changed.  Cross the street, I did.  It was hot. Too-hot-to-wear-makeup-hot.  Too-hot-to-wear-shoes-hot.  Just plain bleeding HOT.

I started to question the wisdom of my decision to NOT take a cab the 0.92 miles...I’d come too far though.  I mean, I could practically see 21st st.  I pressed on, wincing every now and then at my right ankle's misery, despite the heroic cushioning provided by my reef flip-flops-with-athletic-shoe-soles.  Pound, pound, pound.  Walking felt like such a burden, like I was carrying around lead instead of a laptop.  I hit 21 st and realised I was still nowhere near this Soho joint.  My brain felt like fuzzy, scrambled cable.  I’d lived in this damned neighbourhood in 2000 and for all my efforts, I couldn't visualize where I needed to go.  I was only at T st...S, R, Q, I recited back awkwardly...ugh, four more blocks AND there was probably one of those cursed "state" street-diagonals.  I knew I was wilting but I was determined to make it to this silly meetup, since nothing else from my day had developed when I shook it like a Polaroid picture. 

Dread filled me when I hit the corner of 21st and P.  It was almost 8:30, what if they were already done?  I couldn't tell which side of the street had odds/evens, nor could I see a sign for the venue.  Finally, at the end of the street, I saw 2150.  If there had been a giant hourglass in the corner of the picture I painted to the world, we'd see three grains slowly getting ready to fall through.  Seven non-descript people, all with bags milled about the entrance on the sidewalk.  When I saw the digital SLR around one of their necks, I wanted to cry.  No, it can't be.  Come ON.  I tried.  WHY?  WHY IS MY TIMING SO SUCKY?  Gulping a loud, awkward breath, I tried to reframe the situation; perhaps this was some other random group of people.  I had no knowledge that these were the bloggers who were meeting up.  I wasn't psychic.  Come on, Anna.  Quit giving up--

"Awesome!  Can’t wait to see you next month!"

--so easily.  Or, you know, give up.  Since your inner pessimist IS psychic, after all.

"Absolutely, wouldn't miss it."

"Bye!"

I stumbled over myself.  I wanted to ask the guy closest to me if they were, in fact, the DC meetup crew...and then my tongue fused to the bottom of my mouth.  Fourth grade all over again, though these kind, dough-y looking souls were the furthest thing from my elementary school tormenters.  I stumbled back.  They were all walking so fast.  Desperately, I turned to the cafe, searching for signs of meetup through the shiny windows that were emblazoned with attributes to convince you to forsake starbucks.

Everyone inside was alone.

I had missed it. 

I was defeated.

I turned the corner, trying to decide what to do next.  Dupont circle loomed as a welcome, comforting bosom for a pillow, with free wi-fi, too.  Yes, that was perfect.  To Dupont I’d go.  Except...after a block and a half, I realised that I was meandering towards a painfully long path to the circle.  The heat was melting my powers of logic, not that there's much to dissolve.

Stop, Anna.  Take stock.  Where are you?  All I could think of was how thirsty I was.  As I trudged painfully past Mercedes SUVs and BMW roadsters, I piteously imagined that I was lost in the desert, as if I were suddenly in one of those now-ancient cartoons where bugs bunny is part of the foreign legion.  Million-dollar brick townhouses were a mirage, yes.  The uber-preppy family in matching lacoste chemises and khaki who looked at me strangely?  Total mirage.  My ability to navigate this city?  Mirage.  My time management skills?  DEFINITE MIRAGE. 

Sprite’s on to something with that "obey your thirst" stuff.  My thirst suddenly was the North Star, leading me home.  I saw neon ahead and I went towards it, certain that there would be a bodega amid the sushi bars and Dupont circle restaurants.  Worse comes to worst, there was the anomalously nice burger king.  I shuddered at that, though.  All I could think of was water.  Pure, expensive, French water. 

Tucked amid the brick, a tiny newsstand/convenience store caught my desiccated eye.  Wandering in, I noticed that the owner was Arab.  "HELLO" he boomed.  I resisted the urge to bellow “HELLOOOO” right back, a la Seinfeld.  At this point, my thirst was so overwhelming; I knew I wouldn’t have one of my typical moments of waffling indecisiveness.  I reached for the Evian, frowning that all they had was the pint size.  On the shelf above, “glaceau vitamin water” whispered a seductive siren’s call.  “Lemonaaade”, it purred.  Yeah, so much for the lack of waffling.  “Multi-v”-enriched nimbu pani, to go, please.

When I turned around, there was no one behind the register.  Smoke curled in my peripheral vision.  He was outside, watching me without blinking, smoking unfiltered somethings.  Deliberately, he slammed the cigarette down, crushing it on the brick planter he’d been leaning on.  He still hadn’t blinked.  He went from being outside to behind the counter so fast, I wondered if my eyes were still working properly. “Dollar seven five” he pronounced thickly to my breasts.  “Out of five,” they whispered back.  Imagine that.  The new t-shirt bra works.

Outside, the heat seemed to thicken with the lack of light.  I was now in full view of the little park with the fountain and I couldn’t wait to finally SIT DOWN.  Haste made me race across the convoluted circles against the lights, dodging exasperated jetta-driving-DCites.  Like always, I was slightly surprised by the amount of activity one random little patch of grass with a fountain attracts.  People were ending dates, gay couples were walking their dogs, and tourists were confused.  Homeless people enjoyed the show and the potential marks.  Luckily for me, there was a 30” spot of marble fountain-ledge just waiting for my tired ass.  Except there was a weird liquid on it.  Fuck that shit.  Or potential pee, rather.  One of the couples on a date regarded me with amusement as I abruptly shifted paths and moved towards my right.  I sat down next to the guy, but not next-next to him.  I’m not WEIRD.  “Guess she likes me better than you”, he joked to his girl.  She was beautiful, wearing a fluid DVF wrap dress, looking absolutely unaffected by the disgusting heat, like she had a bubble of air conditioning around her.  Hook me up with some of THAT.  Despite my abbreviated cotton outfit and flip-flops, her synthetic dress and pointy pumps looked infinitely cooler, in every sense of the word.

Finally, I can WRITE.  The whooshing, loud water at my back acted like a courteous white noise machine, blocking out all the flirting and attempts to holla.  My left hand spastically hit loopy key+T thrice, opening up tabs for typepad, gmail and diary.  As soon as I noted (with a twinge of disappointment) that there were no new comments to read on my blog, I immediately hit the “SM” on my toolbar.  An asinine comment to a cute entry made me bristle and mutter about the stupidity of certain douche bags whom I’m already not fond of, since they make “color-ist” remarks and then try and justify it by saying, “I’m not racist; all the women I’m discussing are desi, whether they’re black or fair…it’s like preferring Swedes to Italians.”  My fucking ASS it is.  Keep telling yourself that, my dear shithead.

A moment always materializes when my fingers are curled above my keyboard, as I vociferously debate with myself about the wisdom of snapping back something typically…me. Being the only girl on SM has its privileges as well as its curses; I’ve noticed for months that the boys can get away with being meaner than I could ever want to be, and no one attacks their skin, weight, intelligence, sexuality OR tells them to buy “fair and lovely” by the case so that they can finally get married (since that's obviously what MY problem is).  My wrists drop around the touchpad, I toggle back to typepad.  Better that I should enjoy this moment of dusk when fireflies surprise me with their brilliance, as the fountain rushes powerfully behind me. Periodically, I’ve taken the opportunity to look up at the night sky, to take in how it’s bordered by the silhouetted trees, how the moon is just a fraction of its periodically sated self.  It’s a beautiful night, the heat is finally not torturing me (though the bugs most definitely are) and in those moments when I’m looking up, I am happy. 

nars redeemed

like this post, the following was originally born on fotolog...

:+:

i love this picture. i love the moment it was taken, the moment when i stopped crying, started talking to G-d and fell into a bit of quiet trance. i had been at the ornately twisted, wrought-iron doors to the church, fingers gently laced through what was depicted in a past picture. i remember resting my forehead against the figure who probably represented Jesus. i remember closing my eyes and feeling that on april 13, 2005, my world was a volatile, emotionally dangerous place.

i'm not as religious as the other good malayalees on fotolog/friendster; perhaps that is the legacy of NOT growing up in a proper mar thoma/jacobite church, amid dozens just like you. being greek orthodox is so different from that. we don't attend VBS, go to regional conferences held at welcoming universities, discuss the rapture or latest "left behind" book, watch the "passion" on movie screens or do other things i see mentioned in malayalee-kid friendster profiles. though i never let it touch the ground or anything else untoward, though it was the first book i reverently placed in my new ikea shelving unit, though i remember reading it cover to cover in my early teens, i am not going to list my bible under "favourite books" in some social networking program. that's not to say other people shouldn't or are insincere for doing so, it's just how i am. perhaps i should say it's how i was raised, b/c my little sister, who is far more orthodox than i am, behaves similarly.

another example: when terry schiavo was lingering in that grey, middling nowhere-land between this world and the next, my legendarily obstinate, polar-opposite-from-PC, old skool priest (father john of saint sophia's g.o. cathedral) centered his sermon on her plight. he carefully, deliberately voiced his distaste with the chaos that unnecessarily came with the end of poor terri's life. to my complete astonishment, he also said that our church would probably side with the husband, since we have a strict definition of what constitutes "natural" means...i wish i had been taking notes, so that i could quote his stark eloquence accurately. alas, writing is not really an apposite activity, when you're in a pew.

the point is, it was almost "unorthodox" to prolong her life past what G-d intended. when he finished explaining, i felt silly for my initial surprise. of course, we are more reserved than placard-waving activists, we are more pragmatic than those who wish to animate a body that is ready to be a corpse, we are ruthlessly old-fashioned; "what would happen back in greece, in the village? not this. we would mourn. we would pray. we would let them go to pater imon." amen.

i am far from where i wanted this paragraph to be. i can already see the outraged comments that will come wrt the schiavo case. sigh. i'm sorry. haven't had my coffee yet.

what i wanted to tell you, what i gave you all that background for, is this; when my skin, long-washed of double-perfection powder, spf 10 and retinol--thanks to countless splashes of cold water applied in the bathroom, during three separate, pathetic attempts to continue looking presentable at work despite the havoc wreaked by unbelievably nasty, sepia-coloured comments-- when my naked, raw, unhappy skin finally pressed against that silken metal, mentally everything went white.

for the first time all horrid day, my thoughts stopped racing and my heart slowed down. i took a deep, blessed breath, letting oxygen that my hyperventilating lungs were desperate for swirl within like pentecostal fire. i felt myself automatically letting go, and i was so grateful for that release.

it's so rare that i reach that naked state where everything is stripped away from my mind. i think constantly, excessively, chaotically. during those extremely anomalous occasions when i am able to quiet all that, i've learned that "what comes next" is beyond significant. the picture, words or thoughts that follow the erasing of my messy internal chalkboard are always telling and important.

as soon as the day was effectively contained and disposed of, the epiphany came, sure and strong as the summer sun. i cannot emphasize to you how bizzare this was for me, for my type of christianity, for my past and the myriad ways i was socialised...people like me or my little sister don't end up thinking this way.

the white blurred and a bleak, adamantine image replaced the nothing i had been so hungry for...i saw the crucifiction, and immediately felt the innate horror that should accompany nails through wrists, a crown of thorns and a broken body staked to the ground. my head snapped up, my eyes appropriately focusing on what i had brazenly rested my forehead against--the pewter or brass figure of Jesus looking at a supplicant, with absolute compassion. i felt that ancient, familiar catholic guilt well up from my intestines, "how could the hurt you experienced today be ANYTHING like that? it PALES comparatively." beyond this saintly, wholly unnatural-for-me thought, my brain, thrilled that it had permission to turn back on, fired up all twelve cylinders.

it roared back to life, furiously recalling images of the tsunami's wake, mukhtaran bibi, decapitations in fallujah, hutu vs tutsi, the pancaking wtc and my own, personal, agonizing hell-- my father lifeless in a hospital bed, his face and upper body a maze of plastic tubing and sensors that constantly, needlessly informed me that he was no more. i thought of the sixth day of that ordeal, how i collapsed in the shower when my mother burst in and said my name, b/c i knew that meant it was really over, that i had lost him, and therefore everything, forever. i remembered my eyes burning and gushing tears, but not b/c shampoo was snaking rivulets across my anguished face as i fell fetal, under the brutally powerful rain of hot water. i was being pelted with a forceful showerhead that daddy had installed, b/c i didn't like the stock version and its weak water flow. it all seemed viciously appropriate.

i don't remember this picture being taken. i just remember leaving those doors, trudging automatically down the steps and walking away. i was drawn to the bishop's garden, where i found a rock and shrub to cushion my zombie-like form. i sat and looked at my feet, dangling above a modest pond. there were two relatively small koi fish huddled together for warmth, quite understandably, as i, too, could feel the chill emanating from the water that cascaded down the rocks i sat next to...

seeing the diminutive koi reminded me of my father even more. in november of 1998, i asked him for a pond at the house he was developing in kottayam, kerala. he laughed indulgently while my mother grumbled about what a pain in the ass a pond would be. "edi, she hasn't asked for anything in this house...and the garden should be beautiful," he smilingly told her. a month after that mundane parental exchange, i would see my father's open casket and angrily wish it were closed. i remember standing on that hill as two cemetery-workers dropped his coffin twelve-feet under, all the while looking bored and jaded as they manipulated ropes that took him further and further away. the koi fish suddenly reanimated and scurried a few inches away, to a small overturned vessel that had been placed in the pond on purpose, to obscure the filter. the loss of their quivering white and orange forms returned me from stillness to sadness. they were gone. he was gone. earlier in the day, i had wished that i were gone.

no.

i would not let go of this absolutely vital equilibrium, this intoxicating peace. i closed my eyes again, to continue my internal communication with G-d. it was obvious, after the flurry of mental images stolen from CNN and various websites, and the painful memories of 1998-99, that what my inner voice was attempting to say, was "today was awful, yes, but it wasn't horrible. so many more than YOU suffer unbearably. you suffered too, a few years ago, when loss overwhelmed you. today was a piffling trifle compared to all that."

sigh. very true.

i drew solace from the simple fact that whether or not i thought i could at the time, i did survive the worst thing that ever happened to me. though i could scarcely believe that i still had that unbelievable old strength, i did, whether i felt it now or not. it didn't just leak out of my pores one day during these past six years. i took a deep breath and felt a tiny sort of resolve float up within...this too shall pass. we die little deaths every single day, crucified by our sins, our choices, our "romans" (read: people who judge/condemn/lash out for their own inscrutable reasons, though they don't know anything about us). we ache, feel that such torture is unbearable and we suffer, seemingly needlessly. we are buried and we sleep (though not for three days...even though we might want to) and afterwards, we walk out of our caves into the light. through our pain and its attendant bloodletting and soul-searching, we are resurrected, remade, reborn. this cycle perfects us, it refines us. it shapes our hearts and strengthens our faith.

my pond-side meditation nearly complete, i felt a pure calm, almost teflon-like, inside. things would improve. like a small child who hurts their elbow and cries b/c they feel like the world is ending and the pain overwhelms them, i had wept and felt similarly. while rubbing their elbow and sobbing piteously, the child is convinced that life will always be so wretched, since they are mired in their hurt. i, too, had become mired, though i don't have the right to, since i am far from childhood. the comments on SM and my diary were vicious, but life is not always so cruel and toxic. elbows heal. tears dry. comments get deleted and trolls get banned. tomorrow is a brand new day, shaped only by my willingness to see/do/feel good. if i wake up and center myself, contemplating my faith in right triumphing over its opposite, if i shake off the bondage of insecurity and hurt, i am free. reborn, if you will.

i looked up at the glorious cherry tree, in full bloom just inside the bishop's garden, near the gate. it was so massive, its canopy of branches had grown over the pond, too. pure, divine beauty, made tangible by bark and blossom. i could see a brilliant horizon fragmented like a mosaic by the tree's branches, though no grout caressing tile was ever as beautiful as those tiny pink flowers dividing the blue. when i see such things, i am 1000% sure that G-d exists, that he is the well of all perfection. if ever on my day at the cathedral i felt like i had my heavenly father's ear, it was now.

"well, did i get it? is that what you wanted me to hear in the stillness of this enchanted, secret place? did i successfully translate babbling waterfall, chirping birds, the distant laughter of children and the rustle of green in the wind?" i kept looking up, though my neck was starting to ache. the picture on the infinite canvas above was so gorgeous, a crick seemed worth it. i stayed in the moment, consummately mindful of vibrant colour, comforting sound and heavenly fragrance wafting towards me from the myriad flowers in the garden. i was even aware of the dull pain in my neck. i closed my eyes, waiting for a confirmation of some kind.

nothing.

finally, i glumly looked down, hoping that the koi had come out from their hiding place. they had not. i started to feel my disappointment increase, but i tried to quell such negativity. i had experienced enough sadness today. i had had it. i was done with feeling blue.

at that exact moment, from a corner of the pool that i had neglected to pay attention to, b/c it seemed inactive and empty, a tiny movement summoned my attention via peripheral vision. there, behind a less than stellar-looking plant, there it was again, though it disappeared so quickly, the ripple was all i was left to gaze at...

the third time's the charm. a baby koi fish, just a few inches long, concomitantly curious and anxious wobbled out from behind the plant, its vibrant red-gold colour reminding me of wedding saris, hong bao and other asian-good-fortune. i was thrilled. i leaned down, carefully, ever so slowly, not wanting to startle the wriggling little gem. after a moment or two, it suddenly swam up to me and blew a bubble. a smile that threatened to make contact with my ears invaded my tear-stained, swollen face.

"thank you" i replied, sincerely and joyfully. i looked up at the azure perfection above, and murmured it again.

HERstory's greatest hits: the bootleg EP

if you've arrived here via "Self-Portrait Day", welcome.

These
are
the
best
posts
I've
ever
written.

enjoy.

the thanksgiving list, 2004 (part two)

i'm grateful for hundreds of things. earlier today, when i was ascending the rain-moistened stairs of the clarendon metro stop, i commenced reflecting upon them and i haven't stopped since. it's been fourteen hours. :)

.

i'm grateful that i've been blessed with an education, so that i know that dearest Bono is counting wrong in the iPod advert. ;)

i'm grateful for you, sir "butterchurch", the engineer who walked away from riches to work at a non-profit that helped the innocent. you know i love you. i always will. and i'll always remember your devotion. maybe three lifetimes from now, i'll be able to make it up to you...probably not.

i'm grateful that G-d made me so sensitive that music makes me cry, movies make me shake, art makes me catch my breath. i wouldn't be able to write a damn thing without this attribute that some see as a curse.

i'm grateful that i have stud genetics. i can fluctuate twenty-five pounds either way (in january i was at 120, in october 145), and most of you don't seem to notice. yeah, i know i'm very lucky.

i'm grateful that i made peace with my father just months before he died.

i'm grateful for digital cameras, b/c i'll never be without an abundance of another loved one's photograph, like i am with my father...

i'm grateful that i can flawlessly parallel park every car i've ever been handed the keys to, just as well as any man can, even if i'm...not at my best.

i'm grateful for the clouds and colours of the sky, for filling me with humble appreciation, every day.

i'm grateful that i've learned to live rather happily "without money" during this year (!) without a job, sans yuppie welfare/unemployment.

i'm grateful that my mother believes in me so much, she'd let me have a year to write, when i'm too old to expect such indulgences.

i'm grateful for the civic hybrid commercial with the pink and white flowers, the black and white horses, the blue-eyed man and the brown-eyed girl, for never failing to make me smile.

i'm grateful to google for quenching a thirst that regularly tortured me before.

i'm grateful for johnny walker gold. and black. ;)

i'm grateful for the ridiculously huge sense of accomplishment that Sepia Mutiny has provided me with, this year. i'm so proud of it. it's an honour to be on that sidebar, and i've never taken it for granted.

i'm grateful to diesel jeans for making me look like a %*&^#$ rock star. :D

i'm grateful to new york city, for being my inspiration, my sanctuary, my dream, my divine, singular, perfection.

i'm grateful to aji and susan, for getting married this year, for inviting me to those blessed celebrations, for making me weep with joy at the bonds that i was witnessing, for creating an inadvertent, unforgettable reunion at each wedding.

i'm grateful to amsterdam falafel, for opening in adams morgan. wowwwww yum.

i'm grateful for the concept of bloglines, for giving me the opportunity to follow eighty different blogs.

i'm grateful for the way boys smell, right after they've shaved, when their cheeks are damply soft.

i'm grateful that i'm not lactose intolerant. oh, HELL no.

i'm grateful that more and more foods are made w/o trans fat, and WITH whole grains, so that we'll all be healthier. oh, and i'm sweetly surprised and grateful that triscuits now come in "rosemary olive oil", so that i don't get sick of my standy "garden herb".

i'm grateful that our constitution brilliantly limits people to TWO terms in the white house...

i'm grateful for bright yellow leaves in the fall, and that i can see them in person, all the time, b/c i'm suddenly somewhere that has a true and glorious autumn.

i'm grateful that the red sox won, especially b/c everyone i love was ecstatic at their victory. :) may a thousand other things fill you with even greater elation.

i'm grateful that no matter how soul-crushing my life has been, i've never doubted the existance of G-d, ever.

i'm grateful that boy bands are DONE. also, that people see britney for the zit-riddled, filthy, declasse talent-allergic slag that she is, now that she's made a mockery out of marriage, twice. hey, whatever it takes for y'all to realise she's an idiot...

i'm grateful for the metro, b/c it means i can give my precious little honda civic to my moms, who deserves it a million times more than i do.

i'm grateful for my beautiful family.

i'm grateful for TypePad, for helping me become more of a writer. well, at least a regular one. i had three other blogs, using two other applications before this and none of them energized me the way Six Apart's masterpiece has.

i'm grateful for the "aero bed-in-a-minute"...good heavens, i'm addicted to that thing. i can't bear to deflate it, and i regularly forsake a real bed for it. it's FANTASTIC.

i'm grateful that my hair is *finally* long enough. and that i'm secure enough with myself to leave it dark (almost the exact shade i was born with), not auburn, not highlighted, not punky red or blue, not anything. that little bit of self-hatred has been obliterated.

i'm grateful that my driver's license picture is the greatest one i've ever had, and i've had two fantastic ones before this...oh yeah, i'm REALLY grateful that i'm photogenic. i know it's something a lot of you remind me that i should be thankful for/comment on, and i hope you know that i don't take it for granted.

i'm grateful for mindfulness, and the power, peace, and potential it contains.

i'm grateful for text messages.

i'm grateful that dogs and babies like me. a lot. i trust their judgment.

i'm grateful that i was born a very wanted girl to a feminist father, who treated me like a son even though he ONLY wanted a little girl, and that he created me in a country where i'd be safe and free from persecution, affliction or inferior treatment.

i'm grateful that my jewish and hindu ancestors thoughtfully chose to convert to my ancient faith, without coersion, threat or incentive; i'm grateful that i am a descendant of one of the oldest christian families in the world.

i'm grateful for costco dinner rolls, b/c they remind me of something beloved from kottayam's Best Bakery, and b/c they are sooooo soft and yummy. and cheap. you do know that i NEVER eat them with dinner, right?

i'm grateful that every morning when i wake up, i get to start over, and that i finally "get" this.

i'm grateful for VH1 Classic's "the alternative", for making me feel like i'm 16 and lying on the floor of my parent's family room, hands pressing my father's expensive and huge retro headphones over my small ears, eyes closed, listening as if my very survival relied on it, all over again.

i'm grateful that no one i know personally perished in the twin towers or the pentagon.

i'm grateful to the scientist who proved that swishing listerine around in my mouth was almost as good as flossing; who has the patience for such a gross and time-sucking ritual? not me, anymore. ha!

i'm grateful that you are reading this right now, and that you'll let me go to bed and add the all-important first part tomorrow. what you've kindly read through was just the warm-up. the greatest blessings i know haven't even been listed yet. :) i'm a very lucky girl, indeed.