HERstory

I Say A Little Prayer For You

The phone vibrates gently but insistently in my pocket, rousing me from the almost impenetrable reverie that consumes me whenever I'm scanning Pinterest, gazing at food, frocks and fine ideas for home decor. It's a new text message.

From you. 

"They need an attorney to remain in DC for a bit longer, until they can justify hiring more. I told them I'd be willing to stay here, so...eeeeeek! PRAY that I get it, please. :)"

And now you have put me in the strange position of wishing myself further misfortune. Because when you rise, I fall and neither of us can be charmed concurrently.

Though I am mired in unemployment (and its attendant, bureaucratic hell), blue moods and other worries that will remain until I find a new job (with health and dental), I will not hesitate to expend every fallen eyelash, every auspicious stroke of the clock, every wish I encounter for you.

It's been years since I've seen you like this. It's been years since you've spoken to me like that. It's been years since you received what you deserve.

I don't know why we are never allowed to shine simultaneously, but the lack of such knowledge or the brutal one-sidedness of it does not surprise me. Why should we two, who are sides of the same coin, exist outside the universal principle of balance. It would be like day with no night, black without white, spring without fall.

So I will wait. I will bide my time, until it is my time. Because during those rare moments when I have the world on a string, no one is happier for me than you. No one worries about me more than you. One day, when my family is gone, all that will remain is you. So fly. Thrive. Win.

When you win, I am reminded that I never lose. When you soar, I will be glad to linger below you on this brown earth. I will watch you rocket towards heaven and I will have the opportunity to be mindful, not of how blessed you are, but of how blessed I am, that G-d has heard the words I fervently whisper to him, for you. For this. For such happiness.

::

::

::

Dedicated to-- though not inspired by-- a very rude friend in London.

::

::

And you wonder why I like New Jersey

An 81-year old, blue-eyed Kappa Alpha Psi merrily hit on me at Whole Foods as he was getting out of his car in the parking garage. Next to him, a Lena Horne-look alike in enormous black sunglasses made the passenger seat look like a royal throne.

"I'm finna dump her and take you instead! I like your car better!", he winked.

"Says the man whose car is nicer than mine", I retorted.

His obviously long-suffering wife was slightly amused.She pushed her glasses into silver hair, rolled her eyes elegantly and smiled.

Somethings about him reminded me of my Dad. The polished brown color of his skin. His full mustache. The gregarious, easy way he spoke to a stranger.

We saw each other again, inside when I was boxing up my lunch at the hot bar.

"Oh, you want some of those?" He gestured at the gorgeous blue hydrangeas in my basket. "I have those all over my backyard. Can't get rid of 'em if I wanted! Come take 'em all. You'll have to come to Jersey, though." His eyes twinkled.

"Is that where you're from?"

"Yes it is."

"Is that where you were a Kappa Alpha Psi?"

"How did you know?" He feigned shock.

"Um, the license plate frame, the decal...the hat on your head."

"You know, when I was in school, I scared everyone. You scared?"

"Terrified."

"I had just gotten back, with a bronze star and a purple heart. I was a paratrooper, older than my classmates." He pointed to his class ring. '54.

"Oh, wow. What brings you to D.C.?"

"I'm here for my daughter's birthday. We're going to surprise her with champagne and sushi, two of her favorite things. She turns 50 in...an hour!" He continued to gaze at his watch, then paused, remembering. "Yes. She was born at 2 in the afternoon."

"Aw, happy birthday to her." I wished that it were after instead of during work. He was delightful to listen to, but my boss wouldn't be pleased by my dawdling. Still, I didn't want to leave. Every word he said was dipped in sweetness and tasted like wisdom. At the best of times, being with my father felt like this.

"She makes a lot of money-- but spends it like it's water, too. Got a car like yours." He leaned in closer, looked both ways, then whispered-- "She makes over $200,000 a year! My girl!" He was elated, beaming, so proud. Was this what Daddy was like, when he made friends out of complete strangers?

"Listen to me.", he said. "You married?"

I shook my head. No.

"Sell that car. Be like my daughter-- her husband passed away 17 months after they married and she never remarried, never had any children. She goes gallivanting all over the world, has a beautiful life. Explore. Bear witness. Go to Africa. If Eden still exists on this tiny spot called Earth, it is there, in the Serengeti. God lives on endless plains. You'll see. You'll remember me when you see the wildebeests and buffalo graze in paradise."

Tyler, Dharun and Molly: One Life Gone, Two Lives Ruined

 

Police believe they may have found the body of Tyler Clementi, the Rutgers student who jumped to his death after a roommate spied on him having gay sex. Meanwhile, some Rutgers students are saying Clementi's roommate's actions were misinterpreted.

Tyler's roommate, Dharun Ravi, turned on his computer's webcam and apparently spied on Clementi while he was hooking up with another man. After Clementi found out, he ended up throwing himself off the George Washington bridge. [gawker]

Do you remember what it was like to be 18? Most of us consider ourselves much wiser than we were back then; many of would cringe at what we thought and the asinine shit we did. The problem with being 18, if I may be so blunt, is that most 18-year olds are stupid. Yes, we are brown; we get near-perfect scores on the SAT and take so many AP classes, we can skip our Freshman year of college. Big deal. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about emotional intelligence. Compassion. Wisdom. That last trait isn't gifted to a teenager because it's a consolation prize for approaching middle age, for suddenly possessing an underperforming metabolism, greying temples and baggage "life experiences".

When I was 17, I skipped most of my Freshman year of college. I could eat garbage, flip my long, dark hair and stare at everything with the wide-eyed innocence of an idiot who had never even spent the night at a girlfriend's home, forget alcohol, drugs, relationships or anything else.

When I was 17, my three biggest worries were:

a) being forced to live at home and commute to a school I hated because of strict parents

b) my high school best friend judging my outfits because she discovered Islam

c) missing out on college "life" because I had to be home by 6pm every evening.

I knew nothing about real life, common sense or compassion. I was endlessly selfish, because as a South Asian child, I had been coddled until I was barely a solid. My peers were 18 and discovering drugs and sex; I was secretly sleeping with stuffed animals and being treated like a 10-year old. Desi children get babied in a way that many of our peers do not. As a result, I had a dim sense of consequences and whenever I did imagine anything remotely "bad" happening, I assumed my parents would fix it. They always did.

I am so glad I didn't do anything regrettable or illegal.

I am so glad that I didn't hurt anyone to the point where they harmed themselves.

I would never have forgiven myself and I doubt that I'd be sitting in some cafe in Washington, D.C., nursing a cocktail after peace-ing from my new, dream job with NPR.

See, if I had done something impulsive and harmful when I was a freshman in college, that sin would have followed me for the rest of my life; depending on what I did, maybe to some of you, that would be a just sentence. To be googled as I applied for a job and then denied. To be shunned. To be judged. To have my family blamed for my thoughtlessness. To have my culture be brought up as evidence of intolerance. To be considered a hateful criminal...a murderer.

But here's the thing; I see the other side, too. I see it so clearly, it cuts my eyes until they feel like they are bleeding. Reading the news has triggered memories so painful, I have only contemplated them once since my *first* senior year of college, 15 years ago. That's when I was bullied so mercilessly (by Desis, no less), that I abruptly dropped all of my classes, thus ensuring that I would not graduate on time, that I would not take the LSAT, that my entire future would be slightly altered. I am not a lawyer, though a love for the law runs in my family, and I had planned to become an attorney since I was in the first grade. I did not finish college in four years. My life veered dangerously off of the track it had plodded along, simply because I could not face them, the people who turned their heads to whisper to each other about me as I walked past. I could not bear the constant humiliation.

A rumor, an ugly, poisonous rumor about me, my sexuality, my tendencies. That's all it took. I want to prostrate myself on the filthy Adams Morgan cement right now and give thanks that I suffered before the internet and social media made everything far too public. There was no Facebook or Twitter to extend my mortification or amplify my disgrace. There were no web cams. All that existed was Pine and IRC, and thankfully, my tormenters didn't seem to use either; if they did, I never knew.

And yet, despite the inability for my story to go "viral", for a few years after that nightmarish quarter in college, in random cities, all over the United States, I'd meet someone who, after being introduced to me, would cock their heads to the side and regard me differently. "Wait-- are you the girl who...?", they would ask and I would want the ground to open and swallow me whole.

I hadn't done anything wrong, but that didn't stop the shame or humiliation from being flung my way, years and miles after I had been accused of something I didn't even do. Fuck it. Even if I did do it, who were these people to attack and diminish me?

So, I get it. I get it to a degree that is so painful, I tearfully downed vodka shots before writing this.

Three lives, ruined.

That is all I can think of, when I read the tips you have sent in, regularly, since this story broke.

I am not apologizing for anyone or justifying anything. I am just appalled, like all of you are. The problem with the Rutgers cyber-bullying story is that it is just like life: complicated. The more I read, the less sure I am of what happened. All we can know is that Dharun Ravi did the unconscionable; he invaded his roommate's privacy in an outrageous, indefensible way. He invited voyeurs to participate in a virtual, collective humiliation; he is guilty of being an intolerant little shit who apparently had gay friends. He is also a teenager, which may or may not explain a lot of what happened, depending on your point of view.

We also know that Tyler Clementi is gone, forever. He looks like a sweet, sensitive child, coming in to his own. A talented violin player, someone who was exploring life with all the freedom newly-afforded by life at a big, public school. But he knew his roommate was spying on him. He went to an RA and voiced his concerns. He sought advice online from a Gay forum about what Ravi was doing to him. He seemed in control.

Then, he updated his Facebook with a terrifying, tragic status message; he was going to take his life.

"Jumping off the gw bridge sorry"

The human mind, ever desperate to comprehend the senseless, likes to connect dots. "Clearly he jumped because his roommate spied on him!", our brains conclude. Is it that simple? Suicide is never so obviously explained, not in my opinion, and unfortunately, I have some experience with that specific sort of tragedy. The only things I would say, with certainty, about suicide are:

1) someone has to be in extraordinary anguish to consider or commit it

2) it is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Our minds want an explanation. We want to assign blame, to wash our hands of the matter, with a clear sense of whom to condemn, so we can shake our heads sadly and move on. That's comforting and who doesn't want comfort after reading about such a heartbreaking tragedy, especially during a month when Tyler wasn't the only child to take his own life. But none of us, aside from Dharun, Molly and Tyler know exactly what happened or why.

And what about Molly. I have read that she was Dharun's high school friend, his college girlfriend. She was arrested, too. How much of this was her idea? How much blame do we assign her? How much of her future should be ruined for laughing, perhaps easily, perhaps uneasily at her boyfriend/friend's tweets and casual homophobia? Are we interested in a witch hunt? Or justice? Is the latter even possible?

::

You know what is possible? Change.

Do you feel awful about what happened to Tyler Clementi? If you do, instead of assigning blame and thinking about something else, challenge yourself to change your corner of the world-- it's not as overwhelming as it sounds, even if it may not always be comfortable or easy.

The next time someone uses "gay" as a synonym for "lame" or "stupid", say something.

The next time someone is depressed and struggling, reach out.

The next time you are invited to participate in ritual humiliation and baseless gossip, think about how little you know about the vulnerability of the person in whose downfall you are delighting. Even the law says you must take your victim as you find them.

Bullying is never okay. Especially because none of us knows how close someone else is to the end of their rope.

And to people commenting about how this is so awful for our community, ask yourself one question-- do white people apologize when one of their own does something regrettable?

You are not responsible for Dharun Ravi's awful decision to put his roommate's most intimate moments on blast. All you are responsible for is yourself-- and if you feel sick about this, instead of accepting blame on behalf of our community, work within it, to make it a more welcoming place for people who are queer, trans, bi, questioning. We are not all Dharun Ravi. But we can make life for the next Tyler Clementi a little bit easier.

I am 12,053 days old

There are always three security guards in my lobby, one to operate the x-ray machine and metal detector, one to sit behind a desk and deal with clearing visitors while monitoring surveillance and one who stands between two of those retractable black ribbons which stretch between the tops of two posts, the kind you find at the bank, to help keep the line orderly.  In this case, there is a cordoned-off area on either side of him.  If you want to move towards the elevators, you have to wait, allow your badge to be scanned and then he’ll step aside and you can pass.

There is a rotating staff of about a dozen of these guards and one has gradually taken more of an interest in checking if I’m “okay”, mostly because of my ankle.  He’s tall  and charismatic, with more salt than pepper in his hair, but that’s the only indicator of his age.  This is the guard who observes how I’m walking and once a week, he lets me know if he’s seen progress, i.e. “You’re barely limping now!”  He was also the only person whom I didn’t know personally who was high-fiving me when my cast came off.  Obviously, he makes arriving at work a fun process.  Today…

Security Guard:  What’s up.  What’s crackin’.  How are you?

Me:        I’m well!  Thank you for asking.

Security Guard:   You look nice today.  I like the pearls.

Me:        Aww, thanks Marcus.

Security Guard (looking me up and down, still holding my badge and not scanning it):  You got a date or something later?

Me:        Nope.  It’s my birthday.

Security Guard:  Really?  Happy Birthday.  How old are you?

Me:       I’m 33!

Security Guard (handing badge back):  Like hell you are.  You ain’t no 33.

Me (walking away):        I AM.

Security Guard:  You look 22. 

Me (whirling around):      That’s what my cab driver said this morning!  Maybe it’s the headband.

Security Guard:  Nah.  You got one them baby faces.  No way I would guess you’re over 25.

Me (turning corner, looking back):  Well, black don’t crack, you know?

Security Guard:                 !!!

Random Woman waiting for scanning, tossing her hair and preening:   I know that's right.

::

Thank you ancestors with good genes, Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle Cream SPF 15 (since my late 20s!) and generous, benevolent deity above.  I pray 33 is as lucky as it apparently looks. :)

Urinetown, (2007 Off-off-off Broadway cast)

I have always been leery of the bus-half of WMATA; I have always preferred metro/the subway, especially now that I live on the Red instead of the Orange line. Unfortunately, with the cast, I can't really take the metro anymore, b/c of elevator/escalator outages and people being assholes on the train ("thanks for kicking my foot! you rock!"). So, I've been taking the bus and I was pleasantly surprised with how easy it was and how protective the drivers are of anyone who is visibly disabled ("YOU. Get up. Those seats are reserved for them cripples. Like her."). I don't usually take the bus in the morning, because it takes an hour or so and I always oversleep, but today, I was so proud of myself...I woke up ASS early, got to the bus stop before 8:45 am and even though I was limping too slowly to catch the first one I saw, I only had to wait two minutes before the next public chariot arrived. I was impressed. I know living bang in the middle of the city is convenient, but I didn't realize it would be THIS convenient-- it's like I live on the G-line all over again, for those of you familiar with UC Davis. :)

So I get on, smile at all the other young professionals and sit down, digging out the latest issue of TIME...I got lost in an article about hair color and feminism...and then I heard it.

"END OF THE LINE. EVERYBODY OFF."

Wait, what? It hadn't been long enough. I looked up and realized that my assumption was correct-- I was somewhere I shouldn't have been. Perplexed, I asked the driver what was going on, since I knew I had boarded the right line...it turns out that the bus is like Red-line trains-- some only go to Grosvenor, so if you live at Shady Grove, which is the end of the line, you best pay attention or you'll have to get off and wait for another train *on the same line*.

I didn't realize that my bus does similar and that I have to make sure to catch the one which goes to the END of the line. I felt dumb and hopped off painfully, since the kneeling-mechanism wasn't working and it was a ways down to the sidewalk-- and this bus didn't have steps. Awesome.

I consoled myself; at least it was early, barely 9am.  Maybe I should go to Firehook for coffee?  No, why do that...another one would be here any minute, right? RIGHT? Wrong. The next two were like the useless one I had just left-- they pulled up to me and switched on their "Out of Service" signs. So much for getting to work an hour early and being all organized and on top of my game and shit. Just when I was ready to give up and brave the train at Farragut whatever, I saw the correct bus heading for me...and I started to panic. I had been walking, and was equidistant between where the bus was idling and where the stop I just left was, and if the light didn't stay red, I wouldn't have enough time to hobble back from whence I came. All I could think was, "This is what I freaking get for being a responsible adult", but thanks to traffic delaying it just enough, I gratefully made this bus. Oh, how I wish I hadn't.

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I Got to be on NPR Again!

I was on WNYC's "The Brian Lehrer Show" this morning, to discuss Barack Obama, a stupid, caustic memo and Indian Americans and voting.

The Brian Lehrer Show is a two-hour weekday talk show covering local and national current events and social issues hosted by Brian Lehrer, a former anchor and reporter for NBC Radio Network. [wiki]

I didn't realize that they were going to take callers, but hey...what fun is life without surprises? ;) For a life-long NPR fan like me, getting invited on the program was extra fantastic. WNYC is one of the most-listened-to public radio stations in the country, so I'm not being insincere when I type that my brief spot on the show made me feel privileged.

For those of you who inquired about hearing it, et voila:

Download anna_on_brian_lehrer_wnyc_re_obama.mp3

I don't get paid or otherwise compensated for blogging and especially recently, it didn't seem like doing so was worth my time or the risk to my emotional health, not when people were setting up hate sites and attacking my friends and family. 

But. 

Once a year or so, I get to do something like this and I feel uber-lucky. :) And then anonymous attacks, no matter how vicious and unwarranted, well, they don't seem to matter when I feel this blissed.

I am Anna, not Natasha.

...but thanks for confusing me with someone who makes bank, who is going to HBS next year, yet who has unfortunate taste in handbags. I wrote about Natasha over on Sepia Mutiny but apparently all Indian girls look alike to clue-free anonymous trolls on "prestigious discussion boards"; to those of you who attempted to point out that she and I are not one and the same, thank you extra much.

Hope this picture clarifies things for those of you from AutoAdmit.com who came here in search of photographic proof of my ugliness-- in fact, you can even enlarge the image above by clicking on it.  Thank you, come again.

Baby Steps

I’m “moving” more boxes in to the new apartment, but at the moment, I sit here and type this at Tryst as if it were 1993 or ‘94 again. Allow me to explain: their wifi (i.e. the only reason I stopped in) is out, so I’m writing something which I will post later, much like I used to do with my email on AOHell.  Back then, I received just a few hours of internet access each month, so I would type a bunch of stuff which was put aside until I got online each day for five or ten minutes…then AOL would send everything to everyone in one massive dump.  There was no web back then…so the only reason I got online was to check/dl all my email, send what was waiting and then maybe browse alt.culture.kerala or the like.  I remember listening to that annoying and iconic modem whine, anticipation consuming me, all the while wondering which first-gen Malayalee had flamed me on Usenet (generally someone vicious with a handle like “pichathi”) and what clichés about my American birth they had employed to do so.

Anyway, I reminisce because I haven’t felt like this since then, meaning I haven’t written something which won’t be transmitted immediately in over a decade. Wait...twelve years ago, I had four or five hours of monthly access?  My goodness, now I exceed that amount several times a day. 

I’m at one of the best tables in the house; I nailed one of the two squares in the window, meaning that everyone who walks by notices my glowing white baby iBook, my obnoxiously yuppy accoutrements (scarf-enhanced blue bag, giant latte cup and my unfortunate wardrobe choices: blue ballet flats, miniskirt and “Christmas” top.  I’m far too festive because I changed in to the same Gumby green Polo shirt I bought a baby nephew recently before I started hauling stuff downstairs a few hours ago.  I did so b/c there is no need to wreck one of my all-time favorite, classic Bengal stripe dress shirts by schlepping all manner of box, suitcase, bag and laundry basket to the brand new Element which was procured from Zipcar for the move .

Fine, perfect, good enough…except now I’m cold and if you had seen me earlier today, you might remember what sweater I had tied around my shoulders, which I greedily reached in to my purse for again once I got here and shivered.  Yes.  The dark red one.  That means I am wearing dark red and bright green.  With blue shoes.  This is preppy absurdity.  The biggest color scheme of 1992 just vomited all over me.  I don’t give a shit though, I’d freeze sans this bloody, ruby red wool.

Tryst is still one of my favorite places in DC.   And this is now my neighborhood.  The thought of that makes me cock my head and gaze at the full-moon adorned sky in surprise.  I used to go out of my way to metro or drive here, hanging out to write before having to go somewhere far less brutally hip.  Now, I live here. 

Omg.  I live here.

I may not do things in the most intuitive or logical fashion, but I do all that I do for a reason, I promise.  I drove straight here without unpacking my boxy Honda mule because I knew that 1) coming here would make me happy, 2) that it would make me yearn for more Trysts with destiny and that finally, I’d have the gloriously perfect epiphany that, 3) I could partake in such bliss daily now that I live ten minutes away.  Suddenly, not yet having net access in the apt doesn’t destroy me…not when there’s a place like this, where they apologize because their wireless is out and tell me that I don’t need to order anything, that I can just hang out…

Maybe I won’t be so lonely here in my first “big girl” apartment which I've been so hesitant to settle in thus far, maybe my first adult home, my first experience living without roommates OR family members will be bearable after all.  Maybe I will look back and note that this was the beginning of something.

Maybe...

I'm not the one (updated)

The following occurred yesterday (the morning of July 21, 2005).  It happened before I knew about the second round of London bombings and well before I read about New York’s decision regarding its subways.

:+:

I started a new job this week. Oh joy, oh thrill, oh giddy delight. In some ways, it’s like the first day of school all over again. New names to attach to new faces, confusing hallways that lead to unfamiliar rooms, office supplies to break in and new routines to develop and appreciate.

When they showed me exactly where I’d be working, I took in the expansive white space and felt surprise mingle with inspiration. The area I was surveying was easily twice the size of my old office; the only object taking up room was the PC. In a matter of seconds, I filled in the entire empty with picture frames, calendar, vase, enormous coffee mug…I couldn’t wait. This would be where I’d be spending the majority of my waking hours from now on; I wanted it to be aesthetically pleasing.

Later on that evening, I made a list, checked it twice; I went around my apartment to fill an old Nordie’s bag with stuff naughty (read: junk food and ritter sport) and nice.  Satisfied, I went to bed.

The next morning, I re-examined the bag of random tchotchkes and supplies I had amassed the night before for my new second home. Though it’s my preferred method of packing things, I wondered if the simple shopping bag was really a wise choice. I was tired, and the idea of carrying it did not appeal.  I suddenly yearned for something mobile, like my carry-on bag. I settled for a duffle bag that I could drag, thanks to two very helpful wheels…perfect. No strain on my shoulder or wrist, no possibility of anything breaking.   Off I went to work.

Once I was outside, I felt odd schlepping my stuff down the street but I quickly squashed any self-consciousness that the sound of the wheels or the sight of me were generating. People took the metro all the time to the airport. That’s probably what strangers were thinking if they saw me. Of course. 

A block-and-a-half later, I alighted from the escalator which descends into the metro and noticed that people were looking at me in a less than friendly way. The thwack, thwack, THWACK of my wheels on the odd old terra-cotta tile that fills all stations was horrid; it ricocheted off the ceiling and surrounded me. I cringed. Ick, I’d be giving me dirty looks, too.  I was a public nuisance.
Amid the racket, I felt that unnerving tingle one experiences when being followed. I shook my head impatiently at my inaccurate spider sense. “Get over yourself. It’s rush hour. Of COURSE people are following you, they have to get to work and they’re right behind you!”

Down I went to the station platform, where it was exceptionally muggy. I was unexpectedly grateful for the free tabloid that had been handed to me before I hit the metro escalators. I folded it and began fanning myself furiously. What a day to wear a boucle suit. Sure, it had a rather short skirt but it was still uncomfortably warm. Yay for dress codes and summer. I grimaced as I worried about melting before I even got to work. Someone was watching me imitate air conditioning. I turned surreptitiously and did a ridiculously awkward double take as I noticed the piercing blue eyes of someone who was armed.  Of course.  We're on orange alert when it comes to transportation. The man with the gun slowly smiled at me as I hastily looked away.

More people joined us on the platform, and I moved away, further down the line. How silly of me to hang out near the bottom of the escalator— of course it was going to get crowded. I’ve been vaguely paranoid ever since I heard about that woman who was shoved in front of a subway in nyc. I didn’t like how close I was to the edge.

Giving up on feeling comfortable, I opened up the tabloid to a random page near the middle. Something about London and the attacks…wait. Was someone behind me gawking at me, AGAIN? For some reason, I felt unease.  This time, I was determined to turn around smoothly.  There was no one. I was slowly going mad. I started fanning myself again, as if cooler air would protect my fleeting sanity. I turned towards the opposite direction to check the status of the next Orange line train on the digital sign, but I never read it.

“How are you today?”

It was the police officer.

“I’m…fine."  Dear Lord, what was he doing here?  How did he seemingly materialize from out of the humidity?

“Where are you off to?”

“Work.”

“Where do you work?”

I suddenly wished I had something with me that proved my destination, though I immediately recoiled internally that I had even conceived such a thought. This was starting to get to me and to a few others nearby, judging from the looks on their faces. I answered and he narrowed his eyes.

“You’re not nervous about anything, are you?”, he said, referring to my frequent self-fanning.

Oh gawd. Why. WHY did he have to go there? I’d been stifling the chip on my shoulder, the paranoia, and the fear this whole time. I replied negatively and mentioned that it’s the middle of summer. He gave me what “Maisnon” calls the elevator look before settling on my feet. Except it wasn’t my ballet-inspired flats he was taking in…it was my bag.

I can’t explain the maelstrom I immediately felt within…rage, hurt, confusion…ultimately resignation.

“Would you like me to open my bag?” I blurted out.

“Well-“

“You’re welcome to go through it.”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary right now…”

It didn’t matter, though. Everything had gone pear-shaped. I was suddenly aware of dozens of eyes staring and glaring my way. I was miserable. I wanted to say something or somehow prove that I was just like them, a commuter who was cranky for the next train, that I was just moving into my new office at work…

I knew there was nothing I could say or do.

Mercifully, the train arrived a minute later and I managed to snag a seat. I tried to focus on the paper, but it was no use. I was still getting crossly-examined by suspicious metro-takers. I wanted to laugh a brittle, bitter laugh when I thought to myself, “I’ll take my jacket off and open the bag to put it in and…and…and then they’ll see it’s just junk, that there’s nothing crazy in there.” What on earth was I thinking? Could I really combat the stone-cold resentment and paranoia that each of them was projecting, by offering up my belongings as proof that I meant no harm? I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

When my stop came, I took my baggage with me. A few moments later, I noticed my reflection in the mirrored double doors of my new building. I looked defeated. In my first meeting, I said nothing. The entire incident played over and over again on a dreadful loop in my mind. How could I have been so stupid? Why did I take a bag on the metro? Misery begat a subdued anger: why shouldn’t I be able to schlep a bag somewhere? I didn’t do a damned thing wrong. This was insanely unfair.  And frustrating.  How am I supposed to get anything done if I can't carry something?  I don’t go anywhere without my laptop, so at a minimum, I’m always going to be toting the sleek black messenger bag which houses THAT.

My head was spinning at this point, the questions my brain was posing to no one multiplied faster than brooms in Fantasia. Do they really think terrorists wear boucle, camellia pins and pleated skirts? What do I have to wear so that I can just blend in and be treated/ignored like everyone else? Would it ever be okay to be brown?  Should I have worn the prominent gold cross that has graced my neck since I was a year old to claim Christianity as a mantle of “not me!”?   Do I look like a muslim?  Would a female suicide bomber show this much leg?  I hated the way I was starting to think.  I hated that I had no answers. All I was sure of was a sucky sort of resignation that this was now my world, and I’d have to consciously battle the worst of me so that I didn’t turn into someone who was hateful and ignorant. 

At the end of my day, I walked out of work. I had no baggage. My rolling bag was tucked under my desk. I couldn’t go through all of that again, I just couldnt. Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Still, I have the sinking feeling I will.  I can walk around with my birth certificate laminated and hanging from a lanyard around my neck, I can wave a small American flag wherever I go, I can plead with people to not assume the worst about me but it’s no use. 

After the Iran hostage crisis, I was hurriedly pulled inside our home in the bay area, when my mother heard people screaming, “Go back to Iran” at bewildered, four-year old me, right before they threw a volley of rotten eggs.  That was the end of my playing outside.

After 9-11, I looked Indian enough to escape scrutiny and inconvenience.  It was Arabs who were evil.  Aside from never having a peaceful experience at Airport security, I was relatively unaffected, in a public sense.

Now it’s 2005 and the hateful assholes who blew up 56 people in London are brown.  They look like me.  They look Indian.  Not Arab, not turbaned, not “eastern”, no.  They might as well have been wearing cursed Abercrombie and Fitch while on those surveillance tapes.  They misguidedly think they are on their way to paradise and free virgins, while leaving those of us who resemble them in a fresh new hell where everyone’s fucked.

My sister (active duty- Air Force) can get sent to the middle east for the second time in as many years, she can give up her life for this ineffective, shortsighted, poorly-executed and shittily-planned war on terror…and it doesn’t matter.  As long as deluded South Asian fundamentalists whore themselves out for their terrorist pimps, once she’s out of her BDUs, she’s an evil slut, too.  If that patriotic sibling of mine is misjudged and profiled, what hope is there for civilian me?  I can’t do anything, except cynically wait until the next tragedy occurs, and we have a new villain who doesn’t look like me to vilify and fear.

:+:

addendum:  someone who commented mentioned that there were things i could do besides "cynically wait until the next" villain replaced our current one (aka the one whom i look like)...working against ignorance and fending off threats to our civil liberties IS important, but i'm not going to "do" that.

you see, i already have.  i don't expect the readers of my blog to know this, but i've spent the vast majority of my adult life working for non-profits; the last one i worked for did exactly what you recommend.  it's emotionally exhausting to fight the good fight and after almost a decade of doing so, i'm tired.  i'm also broke, since i can't defer $65,000 in student loans any longer. 

this is the dirty little secret of growing old-- whether or not I choose to accept it, like my legendary metabolism, the flame within burns slower.  mundane obligations eclipse my heart's whims. though i was once a "unique", fiery, passionate activist, i woke up one day and found that i was 30. 

like all of you, i have bills to pay, but unlike me at 27, i can't tend bar all night long to supplement the pittance that non-profits pay, like i used to, when i'd go to bed gnashing my teeth over injustice, dream of goodness triumphing over evil and then wake up four hours later to charge out my front door, on my way to battle those who suck.

it's lame, but it's true.  i've made my peace with it b/c i still agitate, but i do it differently than i used to-- i blog.  my old non-profit worked to increase political awareness; back then, even at my most productive, i didn't influence, affect or inform a fraction of those whom i have the privilege of speaking to now.  my loans get paid and i still have somewhere to channel my righteous indignation.  the system works.