weight: 131
bodyfat: -
kcal: :)
vasa: :)
gym: REST (asthma attack :( and i'm sore as shit after 2 hours of sleep)
write: :)
read: in full bloom ...i LOVE it!
last type of cheese consumed: none.
i 'mell like: lavendar and jasmine.
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sad, horrible things first. :(
i'm militant about how parents today are solid fuck-ups w/regards to how they are destroying my children's future playmates and competitors...they don't believe in saying "no" or discipline of any kind. while i usually rant about such things b/c i'm disgusted by a child's respect-free demeanor or behaviour at church...the inability to deny your offspring or teach them about boundaries has other unbelievably tragic effects, as proven here. i'm just shaking my head. for those of you who didn't click, the article is about a 3-year old toddler who DIED of OBESITY.
"Heart failure, caused by obesity, has killed a child aged just three, it has been revealed...Specialists...have also seen four children "choked by their fat" who need breathing assistance to treat sleep disorders caused by blocked airways. The Commons Health Committee warned that obese children could become the first generation to die before their parents."
*shudder* that caught my attention well enough...but upon skimming the page, when i saw another detail about the dead baby, i came to an immediate, screeching halt:
"The Daily Mail reported that the three-year-old who died of heart failure was a Bengali girl from east London who should have weighed around 2st 4lb (14.5kg), but instead had a Body Mass Index (BMI) which equated to around 6st (38kg)...Dr Nigel Meadows, a consultant paediatrician at the Royal London Hospital, told the newspaper: "It was a shocking case. You don't imagine your kid is just going to die of obesity. The parents were devastated. Some may say the parents are responsible, but if a child is demanding food it can be very difficult to refuse it."
are you kidding me? how are the parents NOT at fucking fault??? that baby didn't get fat all by herself. even as i'm outraged, i'd be a liar if i didn't admit to another set of feelings; i want to come up with so many excuses for these poor, tortured souls. yeah, i've already called myself out on my own self-interests...if they weren't indian i'd waste little time in aiming scathing invective their way...it'd be 90% rage, 10% pity...but they are brown and worse, they're BONG...so it's suddenly 70/30. :( ah, weep.
not only am i a part of "malayalee" on Fster, i'm part of "bengali ek", too. i'm often accused of a ridiculous affinity for punjab and all things that originated in it...which i won't deny...but my DNA is practically coded with bong-love. after all, my first cousin neta-ji's real name IS subash. i always called it kolkota. the chatterjees owned my heart in a way the mehras never could. and i am forever insisting that "s" is really "sh".
sigh.
do they use "bengali" interchangably for "bangladeshi" at the beeb? if so, are these people who had perhaps experienced famine or hardship, and is THAT why they couldn't say no to their whimpering baby? i'm REACHING, here. didn't they somehow know that they were killing her? i want to just heave with sobs at this situation. it's simply awful. just like my inability to have a suitable amount of compassion for a set of parents until i knew that they shared blood with my idol, tagore. i suck, but they suck worse. they aren't off the hook just b/c they're brown, but they did torture me for about 10x longer because they were...another chip at the model minority myth, and a family paid for it, with tragedy. :(
i don't think i can write, after that.
do they use "bengali" interchangably for "bangladeshi" at the beeb?
Not sure, but East London is generally Bangladeshi.
i'm often accused of a ridiculous affinity for punjab and all things that originated in it... but my DNA is practically coded with bong-love.
You're drawn to passionate cultures. Try "Devdas" (subtitled version), Italy and Spain :)
Posted by: NotEnnis | 2004.05.28 at 02:05 PM
Ah, girl (think "Girl" by Beatles): such is the tragedy of parents who feel too much for their children. Or maybe not.
I just had another one of those phone matches with my dear mother. Though I've internalized all the expectations and harbor enough guilt, so much that it won't cut through, like the rice stuck to the bottom of the rice cooker, for my American jeans and American mouth and American mind: it's not enough.
Once again, she went back to a suitable boy. Suman, a prince of a man, a medical man, a dutiful man, and also, a man who cannot stir my mind and feed my endless ruminating. We met through family friends with wonderful intentions three years ago and I regretted the interlude ever since. I had carefully wrapped a powder blue silk sari and made up my face. Drank tea and conversed with the wit and charm of a suitable girl. Yet staring at his expectant face, watching his eager parents, something snapped in my pleasing ways, and I longed to rip off my sari and go back to my jeans and t-shirt and Pumas. Still single, my mother gets update on said Suman, as if he rents storage space in his brain for a delicately rendered image of me. Fat chance. Without tact, I say to my mother: "You can't expect anything from me. Know that I'm your daughter and that I love you and that's all. And if you truly understand me, then you know that this man will slowly, sweetly eat my soul."
Next to my laptop sits a silver framed black and white: my mother, 24, fresh, serene, hopeful, anxious, garbed in a simple house sari. In another month, my father would fly out alone to the American continent for what was supposed to be a temporary stay. Then there's me, age six months, perched on her arm. I'm wearing a pale dress with black accents and embroidered flowers, made by my aunt. And a Mona Lisa smile. To this day, I wonder what I thought when my father snapped the shutter in the tepid breeze. The banks of the Ganges faced us. Behind us, the small town of Sahibganj (town of white men), Bihar. I imagine the scent of burning wood, incense, cow dung, and jasmine in the air. I picture my father trying to archive each precious moment, and eager first-time father wondering what this precious Mimosa would yield.
Such parents do mean well. Even when they wrench the worst guilt from my rice-fed belly, the one that will never be smooth and taut in low-rider jeans.
Posted by: Mimosa | 2004.05.28 at 04:04 PM
Ah, girl (think "Girl" by Beatles): such is the tragedy of parents who feel too much for their children. Or maybe not.
I just had another one of those phone matches with my dear mother. Though I've internalized all the expectations and harbor enough guilt, so much that it won't cut through, like the rice stuck to the bottom of the rice cooker, for my American jeans and American mouth and American mind: it's not enough.
Once again, she went back to a suitable boy. Suman, a prince of a man, a medical man, a dutiful man, and also, a man who cannot stir my mind and feed my endless ruminating. We met through family friends with wonderful intentions three years ago and I regretted the interlude ever since. I had carefully wrapped a powder blue silk sari and made up my face. Drank tea and conversed with the wit and charm of a suitable girl. Yet staring at his expectant face, watching his eager parents, something snapped in my pleasing ways, and I longed to rip off my sari and go back to my jeans and t-shirt and Pumas. Still single, my mother gets update on said Suman, as if he rents storage space in his brain for a delicately rendered image of me. Fat chance. Without tact, I say to my mother: "You can't expect anything from me. Know that I'm your daughter and that I love you and that's all. And if you truly understand me, then you know that this man will slowly, sweetly eat my soul."
Next to my laptop sits a silver framed black and white: my mother, 24, fresh, serene, hopeful, anxious, garbed in a simple house sari. In another month, my father would fly out alone to the American continent for what was supposed to be a temporary stay. Then there's me, age six months, perched on her arm. I'm wearing a pale dress with black accents and embroidered flowers, made by my aunt. And a Mona Lisa smile. To this day, I wonder what I thought when my father snapped the shutter in the tepid breeze. The banks of the Ganges faced us. Behind us, the small town of Sahibganj (town of white men), Bihar. I imagine the scent of burning wood, incense, cow dung, and jasmine in the air. I picture my father trying to archive each precious moment, and eager first-time father wondering what this precious Mimosa would yield.
Such parents do mean well. Even when they wrench the worst guilt from my rice-fed belly, the one that will never be smooth and taut in low-rider jeans.
Posted by: Mimosa | 2004.05.28 at 04:04 PM