HERstory

You, again.

I look for you everywhere. Every time I see an older, brown-skinned man, if his face is round and his hair is silver, if his lips are plum-colored and golden wires frame his eyes, I look for you.

I saw you, just now. It took me a moment, perhaps because it was extra dark, maybe because I had waited on 15th street for too many minutes in the cold, right hand raised, cursing rush hour for putting the masses on the road, as cab after taxi cab sailed past me, each filled with warm, traveling bodies. When a Lincoln finally pulled over, I gratefully got in, feeling extra chic in this cardinal coat (your favorite color) while I gracefully sat first, then swiveled my legs inward (just as you taught me). That's when the driver turned around to stare at me and I froze, not from the frigid January air but from the face which loomed between the worn leather seats.

It was you.

That navy woolen hat that you wore every winter, especially when you got older, which I thought looked so silly and now find endearing-- you were wearing it. The glasses with the double-bridge, defiantly out of date and so conservative; they perched on your nose, which looks a bit like mine. The imposing, salt and pepper mustache, which forever marked you as an outsider to this culture, it was there, too. But it was the look in your eyes which made my heart pound, as I gasped and felt faint, because it was like gazing at a ghost.

Then you cleared your throat and the glamor dissolved.

You were waiting for me to state my destination

"Sorry," I murmured. "2100 Pennsylvania, please."

You turned around wordlessly and drove with precision and care, just like you always did.

I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted you to turn around, one more time. The rear view mirror was not doing its job; I could see no reflection in it. It was like a toy mirror, the sort you find in a doll house or model car; a dull gray color which tells no tales.

"How are you?", I asked dutifully.

I have no other way to show you that I remember what I learned at your knee. I have no other opportunities to care for you; what I would give, now, to have you ask me to make you coffee again. I would not scoff or roll my eyes. I would not bask in ungrateful, unbecoming sulking. I would leap up and rush to the kitchen, grab a coffee pot and your mug and prepare exactly what you enjoyed. I would do it willingly and humbly.

Because I never did.

And it never occurred to me that one day you would be gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Mourn you always, I must, I must.

You paused and said, "Fine" in a low, almost gruff voice. Yes, it was you.

And then you said nothing. Just like you always did in the car or at the dinner table.

When we got to our destination, I made a complicated request for my own convenience; I used the excuse of safety, too many bags, unwieldy heels and a snow-slicked sidewalk.

You wordlessly maneuvered the car, bypassing laws and other drivers to fulfill my wish, even though it was not the easy or logical thing to do.

Just like you always did.

And when you finally shifted gears and the car rested in "park", then you turned around. I felt foolish. You were not you. You were a cab driver. Probably Ethiopian, possibly Eritrean, even if you did look Indian. I quietly reached for my wallet, counted out bills.

How I wished it were you, as illogical and impossible as such a thing sounds. What I would give to see your face again. What I would give to say everything which has been pent up for twelve years, twelve years, my G-d, twelve years…has it been so long. Where have you gone? Oh Daddy, Daddy…where did your love go? Don't you leave me…don't you leave me no more…

Stupid me. I don't even care for speculative fiction, but I imagined you out of thin winter air and an Ethiopian cab driver, because I miss you so much.

And just when the tears were ready to spring to my eyes, the driver looked at me kindly and said. "It's okay. You are going to be okay." And then my heart lifted in my chest. And speculative or not, fictitious or not, I knew. I knew it was you.

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.

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.

In Memory of Magnificent Madeline

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

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

Until last week.

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

And then, she was gone.

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

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

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

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

::

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

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

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

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

On Being Down With Dating Brown

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

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

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

::

I know so many friends, whose experience mirrored this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More than I ever thought.

:) Here comes her happy ending:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

For guiding me to my voice.

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

For listening to me, anyway.

Thank you.

Liveblogging McCain's BIG SPEECH

Intro video-- the cut-in where McCain's Mother gleefully interjects, "Mama's boy"...AWKWARD.

"the fire burned for 13 hours...134 men lost their lives. John McCain's life was somehow spared...perhaps he had more to do..."  Sorry, who's the messiah-candidate again?

Choosing to spend four more years in hell (when he had the chance to be released) is pretty bad-ass...

What, no mention of the ditched first wife? ;)

I don't like this announcer's voice.  He's ruining the video for me.

WHOA!  Bridget debuts.  Great shot of Cindy in orphanage with baby who may or may not be bridge...such sweetness almost makes you forget yesterday's $300k outfit. ;)

The end of that intro was more creepy than dramatic, IMO.

I wonder if these people paint signs on their own or if they're "manufactured".  Handwriting looks remarkably similar on them...

YAY!  Cindy McCain is wearing a color that doesn't make my tummy or retinas hurt!  GO BLUE!

What is up with the fluorescent green backdrop?  And right after I forgot about Cindy's suit from last night!  Oy, I jinxed it.

John.  I know you're old and hard-core, but if you're going to be defiantly "real" and keep your teeth yellow, DON'T WEAR A YELLOW TIE.

"McCAIN VOTES AGAINST VETS!" -sign of protester getting dragged out, whose shirt says "Iraq Vets Against the War" or similar?  USMC tattoo clearly visible.

Yes, I'm sure Dubya is EXACTLY why there wasn't a second 9/11.

He has SEVEN children?! It's like the family Von Trapp! 

"In truth, she (wife Cindy) is more my inspiration than I am hers..."

Did Cindy get extensions in her hair (bamboo earrings, at least two pair...oh, wait, that's not her steeze, yo)?

McCain's Mamma has some massive blue bling on them 96-year old ears.

I'm already bored...Obama and even Palin were more exciting.

Directed to Bharat Obama: "We are fellow Americans.  And that's an association that means more to me, than any other."  Nice. (Obligatory) classy touch.

I feel like if you dangled one of those cat toys in front of this crowd, they'd leap to their feet, like a throng of addled kittens.  I mean, if they're going to react like this...over...this...

Lady screaming "End the war" is drowned out by "USA!"-chants. Sounds...ugly.  Is that a second woman, in a pro-choice tank?

"My friends...my dear friends...please, please don't be diverted by the brown noise and the static...heh heh heh..."  Okay, I officially hate you a little bit, John.  Straight talk, my callipygian rondure.

Yes, keep screaming, 'til you idiots drown out the bitter truth. This speech is a clusterfuck.  That's a military term, by the way. Since we're dropping those liberally, I mean, conservatively.

Liveblogging Sarah Palin's Big Debut

Where's the intro video?  That's the best part.  It's not like something scandalous happened that would make that a bad-- oh...wait.

Bristol's bump is...quite visible.

"Hockey Moms 4 Sarah" - sign in audience.

I just saw my blue Canon!!

They showed the "Hockey Moms" sign...again.

Didn't know McCain's middle initial was "S".  All righty, then.

Okay, I can't hold it in any longer...I must type...what I think...

Power Pearls.

Much better hairstyle than her Jennifer Aniston-clipped-updo-circa 1999 she was sporting earlier.  Her highlights seem a lot more subtle.  I think they did a great job with her look (and yes, I spend just as much time obsessing about lapels, ties and more, on men)

Ahhhhh.  I feel better. :)

Sorry-- one last frivolous bit...Cindy...with the fluorescent green...WHY?

Trotted out active-duty eldest son for the layup.  Classy.

She's waving at her kids.  Why?  And where's the third girl?

They're really pushing the "every-woman"-schtick.

"To the families...of special needs..."  As someone with a special needs baby in my family, I say, SHAMELESS.

"This is America...every woman can walk through every door of opportunity..." especially if a campaign needs a token vag, to lure PUMAs.

THIRD shot of "Hockey Moms 4 Palin" sign.  Heretofore to be referred to as "HM4P".  I'm sick of typing it.

Littlest daughter licked her hand and is smoothing Baby Trig's hair.  Okay, that kind of got to me.

"I guess a small town mayor is like a community organizer...except you have actual responsibilities!" BA DUM PUM!

"I might add that in small towns we don't quite know what to make of a candidate who lavishes praise on working people when they're listening and then talks about how bitterly they cling to their religion and guns, when those people aren't listening."  <--- PLAY to those cheap seats!

Did she just say Scranton?  Because of Biden?  Whatever.

And how many minutes did it take before she insinuated that her inexperience makes her all the better to go to evil Washington, where those wicked insiders don't like her (and doesn't that prove she's awesome?)

Bridge to nowhere: for it, against it, whatever...it matters not, because she's a hockey mom!  Those are like pit bulls, except with lipstick! 

Yenjoy.

Abhi wrote a post on SM about Mindy Kaling's appearance on Letterman, wherein he said:

Mindy Kaling, who writes for and acts on the NBC show The Office, recently revealed to David Letterman a secret that many Indian Americans guard very closely. Not all of us are good at imitating an Indian accent just because our parents are Indian [via Defamer]:

That inspired me to leave one deeeluxe comment, which I have moved here, out of courtesy for others. ;)

::

Re: accents, I can do one, well-- literally. As in, just one specific accent,i.e. my Dad's, according to certain haters (Hi, Mom!). I can't do hers at all.

4 · Amardeep said

I think many ABDs, as teenagers, don't pay any attention to their parents' Indian accents -- because they want to identify as "American." They don't realize that being able to speak with a convincing Indian English accent might actually come in quite handy later in life. I could actually do a much better job of the accent now, after being married to a DBD for five years.

Though I was born here, my first language was Malayalam. Even though they tried dutifully to teach me both languages simultaneously, I usefully exhibited a strong preference for the tongue not spoken in Southern CA. I think that's part of why I can do it and the fact that I had a stay-at-home Dad with a relatively thick accent is the other part of it. I didn't stop paying attention to their accents as a rebellious teen, I think I just didn't notice them, really. That was just how they spoke, right? There was never this conscious recognition of how they pronounced words differently than I did, unless my mom tried to say "Queen", which, much to our sheer delight, she STILL can't say ("Kyun? Kyu-een? Shut up! Don't make fun of your Mother! You know vat I meant!").

I've been in serious relationships with two DBDs, and I totally second what Amardeep said.

6 · Even and only said

In India you don't really need to know any desi language so well. Just speak English with the local accent and they get you.

I had an older "VIP" (read: bishop) family member on my Mom's side visit us once, who ostensibly spoke English but when he attempted to converse with me, he looked up helplessly and shot a somewhat irritated look at my Mom, because he couldn't understand what *I* was saying. My mom poked me surrpetitiously and murmured through clenched teeth:

"Stop. Speaking. With. That. Stoopid. Valley. Girl. Accent."

"What are you talking about??"

"He can't understand you!"

"What would you have me do, woman?"

"Talk like an Indian!"

"Are you kidding me? You mean, talk how I usually get punished for, b/c it shows 'disrespect' for my elders?? Oh, this is RICH."

"SHUTUP and DO IT"

All of this was muttered furiously in a matter of seconds, mind you. She was right, as soon as I commenced transposing "V"s and "W"s, and imitating my DBD cousins, the man immediately had this "Eureka"-like moment, nodded with approval and vigorously started asking me what type of Doctor I planned on becoming. 

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may...

I can hear your voice, your brash, loud, excitable voice.

You are on the phone, making a precious, international phone call, damning someone or something in your inimitable Malayalam; the velocity with which you deliver words another generation will forget would make an auctioneer or a debater envious.  As the conversation progresses, you grow louder, gleeful, more boisterous.  I can discern happiness where others hear anger.  Indeed, "Americans" fear your voice or find it disturbing; you are forever forced to clarify that you are not at all upset, that this is just. how. you. speak.

You just shouted your punchline and you have punctuated it with raucous laughter.  As far as I'm concerned, someone might as well have cranked a Fisher-Price mobile to commence a saccharine rendition of Brahms' lullaby; there are no audible sounds which I could ever find more soothing, which is why I wake only momentarily before nestling back in to the crook of the couch, where I am lying down. 

It is a hot summer day and the fan is purring while whirring cool air around the room.  I am sick, and that is why I am passed out instead of reading, my Saturday-afternoon activity of choice.  The cough medicine I reluctantly swallowed makes my extremities tingle, I feel such velvet electricity when I stretch...and even with my arms extended and my longish legs splayed out, there is couch to spare, I don't feel the armrests and that is a reminder that I am small.  Safe.  Monsters cannot eat you if all your body parts stay on the couch or bed, this is a rule which all children know innately.

It is a languid day, with triple-digit temperatures making anything but indoor activities impossible, which is why you are on the phone in the kitchen and I am on the couch in the family room.  I am not sure where Veena and Mummy are, but that is a normal state of affairs; this is a big house...there, it agreed with me, I just heard it creak and settle its concurrence with my opinion on its size. 

There is a lull, perhaps you are listening to whichever relative you have called tell you something...but then I feel the pressure of your hand on my face, smoothing away my long hair which inevitably tangled while I tossed and turned like a little rotisserie-Anna, cooking over the flames of fever and summer.  I can vaguely smell old spice, which is a familiar scent to me; when you, thirty-eight year old you, first gave infant-me a bath after Mom went back to work, nonplussed at the cloying scents emanating from pink and yellow plastic bottles, you lost your temper, scooped me up, took me to the bathroom where you used to get ready and then splashed Old Spice on me, your gurgling, adoring baby girl.  Later on that day, when the usual assortment of friends came over to play with the only baby around, they would pick me up as they always did, kiss my cheeks, blow raspberries on my round tummy...and then turn away in confusion at my masculine fragrance.

That is what I smell, on your hands, which push my hair behind my ear and adjust the sheet which covers me.  Everything seems slightly blurred, like I'm high. It's a pleasant feeling, almost blissful, really, so I choose to sink back in to it...but the mere attempt to do so alerts me to what is really happening-- I am being yanked away from that beautiful world, from the hallucination I was so lucky to have...and despite my strenuous attempts to rush back to, and through, the looking glass...I have failed.  The window has closed, and it has taken you with it to whichever magical realm where you dwell.  This sparks tears from my eyes, which I have sewed shut with my eyelashes, because if I open them, I will lose any chance I had to see you.

Too late.

I am not eight, I am thirty-three, and this is Washington, D.C., not California.  The Tamil radio station I discovered on iTunes, which had put me to sleep easily a few hours ago with Sudha Raghunathan's gorgeous voice is now playing some sort of monologue, performed by an older actor whose voice reminds me of you.  The smell of Old Spice is coming from me, once again, but this time, instead of it being intentionally applied to my baby skin, it merely happens to be on the t-shirt I have borrowed from the one who hovers over me, concerned.  He picked out this couch from West Elm, a couch so long it made me feel small again, and if I am small, then you are still alive, and that is how I conjured you here, to be with me, in D.C., ten years after you left a gaping, Daddy-shaped hole in my heart.

Ten years.

I grow dizzy from the truth of it.  Ten years is such a very long time.  Junior high, high school and college all fit within ten years.  I could have left elementary school and emerged with a bachelor's degree, in the time that you have been gone.  For the first time in my life, I can measure your absence with a decade, instead of a year.  So much has changed, and yet, so little has, too. I still haven't gone to law school (sorry).  I still have long hair (you're welcome), and it still has stubborn highlights which refuse to obediently stay black (sorry, again).  I still stay up too late, think too much and feel too fiercely (I hold you responsible for all of this).   I am still single, in part I sometimes think, because I don't know how I can get married without you there to give me away.  At Susan's wedding, in New York, I wept uncontrollably when she danced with her father, your nephew, because I knew that could never be me.  But I knew that in that ugly hospital room, way back in 1998, when they told me that there was no hope for you; that's why I murmured, "then there is no hope for me."  There hasn't been, really.

There are some who say I should be over your loss, who question the level of my devotion to you, who characterize it as verging on illness.  At first, this deeply hurt me, then it outraged me; now, I am indifferent.  So many years have passed, I have grown immune to such stupidity.  I now realize that those people were never loved like I was, and if they were, then they still have their parents to take for granted.  They don't understand how blessed they are.  None of us do, until it is too late.  I surely didn't, and I live with that truth, morosely.

What I would give, to hear your voice again.

To feel your adamantine faith in me, to see your chestnut-colored eyes which match my own, to hear that exuberant laugh.  Such things are not possible, except in moments stolen from rare dreams or sickness-derived hallucinations.  Daddy, I never got to say good-bye to you, or tell you how much I love you.  I never thanked you, for the thousands of things which you did and dreamed for me.  I never understood why there ought to be a special day to honor our Fathers. Then I lost you, and now, bitterly, appositely, every day without you is Father's Day, and I honor you by missing you, accordingly.