this is not going to be a good post.
or a happy one. i've been dreading its creation all night.
with my 2nd glass of shiraz in front of me, i'm pulling out the big guns to self-bribe. i have had no desire to write. in weeks. even diary, the unpolished home of stream-of-ANNAness languishes. the flog gasps potentially final breaths. where did she go? and will she ever post anything more substantial than an internet quiz about books or cities?
i don't know.
that's the honest to G-d truth. i'm in so much pain right now, i can't bear to do anything, much less create. just typing "pain" in that last sentence filled my eyes with saltwater recrimination. this was supposed to be a good year. Ha. i was mindless when i believed that. Naïve. You see, i didn't pay attention to dates…
march 17.
st. patrick's day to the rest of you, but not me. kiss me, i'm here b/c of this holiday. (note to self: wear emerald green knickers. oh, whom are you kidding. no one shall pinch you on this bleak day). bleak? yes. you read right. it's bleak.
decades ago, on this exact day, a nervous man in a new suit and a shy woman in an ecru sari walked in to the Greek Orthodox church in San Bernardino, CA. when they walked out, they were bound to each other, under G-d's watchful eye. when they walked out, they were my parents.
when i was a little girl, i thought it odd that my parents got married on this irish holiday. "couldn't they pick a normal day???" i took it as proof-positive that i was weird, that my family was odd, that my parents were...well, my parents. luxuries, anna. if only you knew, all those years that you scorned it, that one day you'd be grateful for what was seemingly strange, if only you knew that this day would come...march 17, 2004.
30.
30 surrounds me. this is my last year on the "good side" of it. my main blog just achieved the mile-stone of 30,000 hits. 30 grand is the compensation for a certain campaign job. 30.
do you think that i'm cognizant of any of that? if you do, you are new to H.~.E.~.R.~.S.~.T.~.O.~.R.~.Y. all i can think about right now is sadness. a parallel sort of morose wistfulness to what I felt five years ago: two-and-a-half months after daddy died, i watched my mother walk down our stairs, eyes so bloodshot that i could see the spiderweb of red from yards away ("don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes..." but are the eyes of soldiers white? i don't think so. i think they are flat and ruddy, like mummy's were that day). i had no words for her. finally, after an hour, she gazed blankly out of our window. "we didn't even make it to our 25th anniversary."
what do you say to someone on a day such as this? "happy...anniversary?" "happy almost anniversary?" "i'm sorry?" i have never known what to say when it really matters. i just awkwardly fumble about the day, shame replacing my need for blush, unsure of what words are apposite. words are my life. when i am not sure of them, i am not sure of myself.
when my mother murmured her tragic "we never hit 25" proclamation, as numb as i was, i utilised the power of every useless cell in my body to not weep in her presence. i put my plate in the sink and tried not to run upstairs. i was there soon enough, rushing in to my bathroom, my sanctuary, door closing carefully, back flush against it, sliding down, down, down to the floor until my wooden body made a 90 degree angle w/the help of the tiled floor my father had ordered, just months before.
(i'm almost out of shiraz. what to do?)
there is this weird, USELESS little wall that juts out slightly where the bathtub begins, a few feet from the door. i call it the "funny-bone molester", b/c i bang my elbow in to it EVERY time i try and curl or dry my hair. it's the most inefficient sort of design ever. except for moments when i want to hide. when i was a long-legged little girl, and i was running away from spankings, i quickly figured out that if i had my back to the door, and my little payal'd feet flush against this wall, no one could open the door, not with my “L”-shaped will keeping them at bay. safe. they could use the key to pick the lock, but my palms would be bracing me against the cold floor, my back married to the strong door, my feet pushing against the shitty wall that does not allow me to rhyme another word with "-oor". (see? i TOLD you it was useless)...and they wouldn't be able to get in.
on march 17, 1999, no one was chasing me. i was merely running away from truth and sadness. my legs were long enough that they bent at the knees when i assumed my familiar, stubborn position. my palms were too busy to needlessly push against the floor; they were pressed to my slick, heaving cheeks. weep, anna. they were married 24 years. G-d didn't let them reach 25, just like he didn't let your daddy see his twin dreams of your marriage and your graduation from law school. weep. b/c your mother is a widow. and you, well, despite appearances, in your heart you feel that you are an orphan.
my parents did not have a fantastic marriage. but now, now that i'm an elderly spinster, i know that even the uncles and aunties that i revered, the couples that i wished would adopt me, the parents that created eagle scouts and humanitarians...even they don't know perfection. my parents fought often. my father would rail at his haste in marrying my mother. cursing his fate until he saw the stricken look on my downcast face. once, he roughly placed his fingers under a chin which threatened to gouge out my clavicle, yanking it up. "why are YOU upset? you're the only good that came from any of this." his eyes flashed at me. no one ever noticed this, except for me, but my dad had the lightest eyes in my family. his bifocals were tinted, so it was impossible to tell. but as a toddler, i remember taking off his glasses, and staring at his eyes, fascinated by their colour. have you ever seen black eyes? i have. several of my uncles have them, eyes so dark, i wonder how their doctors can tell if their pupils are dilating...
daddy's eyes were lighter than mine (chestnut), but not quite honey-coloured. they were flat. that alone always made the faultline on my heart grow a little longer, splinter a little more. defeated daddy. so much angst, so much regret. when i was a little girl, and i was still good, sometimes your eyes shined. as i got older, they got duller. i told myself that it was b/c of your vision and finally the glaucoma...but i know the truth; your disappointment in me wore down those powerful rosetta stones until they looked like common rocks.
oh, daddy.
march, 17, 2004. this day should've been a milestone. thirty years of marriage, thirty years of family. why aren't you here, daddy? why did he have to take you away from me? from us? days like today make your absence real, they scrape my insides raw, they spill tears in to my shiraz. why do these arbitrary numbers assume such powers? why am i weeping at 30? was 28 any less significant?
it was.
who cares about numbers like 28? no one. two years ago, i was running my first congressional campaign. i was in dallas, living at mockingbird station, using the degree that everyone naysayed about...i was 27 and i was fierce. well, professionally at least...
personally...i was EXACTLY where i am right now. ready to give up and give in.
i was dating someone I didn’t even love, simply b/c i thought you would approve of him, approve of it…approve of…me. he didn’t even like your beloved sugar baby; as a result, i meekly destroyed a part of myself every week, so that i'd seem more appropriate to my ever-critical future ruler.
Mummy was horrified when I stopped laughing (“she isn’t lady-like…carrying on like that…”); when I removed the stud in my nose which she herself hated but still tolerated (“that’s for hindus! How dare she walk in to church w/it!”); when I stopped speaking unless I was answering a question that was directly posed to me (“she’s too loud…and anyway she’s less attractive when she opens her mouth.”)…when my chestnut-coloured eyes flattened in to dull muddy rocks, a fault-line cracked her heart.
“why are you doing this?” she pleaded with me.
“b/c this is what all of you wanted…I’m sick of the nagging, sick of everything.”
“but…this isn’t what any of us wanted for you!”, she replied, helplessly…
I was beyond bitter; “oh, I don’t know…he’s malayalee, orthodox, older than me…has an MBA…isn’t THAT what you people wanted?”, I spat.
“we want someone who loves you, who thinks highly of you, who looks at you with happiness at his good fortune.”
“bullshit.” My voice reverted to a monotone that matched my dull eyes. “you all just want to get rid of me. I’m 27. quick, before my eggs rot, let’s get rid of this burden I’ve become. You don’t care about my happiness. All you care about is external perceptions. Let’s have a wedding! Let’s invite people! Let’s get her married before anyone gossips about spinsterhood!”
my moms eyes grew luminous thanks to a saltwater glaze. “do you hate yourself this much? That you would sell yourself so short? That you would settle b/c of some nagging from worthless family members?”
“I don’t hate myself at all.”
“no. you managed to find someone who could do that for you.”
+++++++
I look back on those five months with a horrified sort of awe, that I could stoop so low emotionally and literally (he was barely taller than me). I think I dated the prince of hate b/c I wanted to punish myself, b/c I wanted to seem penitent…relationship as purgatory, if you will, for my myriad sins.
christian fundamentalists have their bible to bang, i only had my daddy’s words to immortalize and follow literally. Just as those “chosen” faithful divorce scripture from context and logic, I foolishly extricated your words from my memory, treating each as if they were law, ignoring everything that surrounded them, everything that could cloud things.
you wanted me to be with a certain type of boy. two years ago, i mistakenly tried to follow orders. As we can all see, i almost lost myself by doing so, i almost lost...what’s left of you. how could i allow such a thing?
words.
your words, daddy.
i met my first love when i was 17, before my freshman year at davis. curly hair, glasses, brilliance, national merit scholar who turned down harvard b/c he fucking felt like it. he was my entire life.
i'll never forget that chilly, horrifying day in Mrak Hall. you were early to pick me up at the end of my freshman year. you were trying to be sweet; after a traumatic car accident that wasn’t my fault, you decided that I should not worry about driving for a few months. So, i was supposed to take the shuttle from/to the UCD med center, which was near our home, and you would always leave me/retrieve me from there...
but THAT day, you wanted to surprise me. you knew that i hated the bus. that your princess wrinkled her nose at common transportation, even though her 18-year old nerves were too jangled to want her keys back. (what would you do if you knew that i would grow up to love the new york subway system? and that i would, gasp, actually hold the rails with my bare hands, surfaces that HAD to be filthy, b/c they were still warm with a previous inhabitant's fingerprints? Surely, you would choke).
So. you had a little extra time. "why not just drive there and pick her up myself?" you thought, magnanimously. you were early. you were excited to see me, to surprise me with your thoughtfulness...and you walked in to Mrak, b/c it was the only hall at Davis you knew, since it was where you paid my registration fees...it was where the chancellor's office was...it was...important.
you took a few careful strides through those double doors, and you stopped. statue daddy. staring at the tableau before you. and what a sight. your little 18-year old daughter, all angles, 5'6 and 110lbs, slouching b/c she was shy, seeming even smaller than she was...her slender hand disappearing in to the white paw of a former high school football player, her laughter echoing upwards in to the rotunda, her hair, splayed across the shoulder of his green pique polo shirt b/c her head was tilted towards him.
statue daddy.
i felt livid heat burning through me.
it still seems like a movie, my head moving in slow motion, my virgin hair swinging like i was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. laughter still escaping my lips...my bf had stopped and i wasn't sure why, didn't realise what he was looking at...and then...
i saw.
my hand wrenched itself from its warm sanctuary. i sidled away immediately like i was some pathetic shellfish. the laughter stopped, mid-giggle. my eyes grew huge. oh. my. God. caught. i was caught. 18-year old-"your curfew is FIVE PM!!!"-freshman-"you are NEVER allowed to date!"-me...caught.
statue daddy.
eyes registering everything before they narrowed menacingly. teeth grinding so violently i could hear ivory burning from 20 feet away. nostrils enlarging to intake more oxygen, the better to fuel the rage. within seconds, he regained his composure.
"latha. who is this?"
um, this is...____. he's...he's...um...my...fr-...friend. i was stammering. the girl who had THIRTY trophies in her living room for various speech and debate events was unable to articulate a monosyllabic word.
"well. hello."
____ looked horrified. he mumbled "hi. nice to meet you." and then looked at me quickly. "i'll see you in class. bye."
that was a damn lie. if you think that BIOCHEMISTRY majors and poli-sci fluff-heads have classes in common, you're an idiot. but let us revisit this loaded, angst-drenched, potentially violent moment at davis, which is really what's important.
i didn't know what to do. So, i froze. my father was still a statue. we remained like that, for a few seconds, like we were guest-starring in a special-effects-laden MTV video or something, the world still swirling around our marble figures, b/c we were unaffected by the bustle of everyone and everything else. i honestly thought he was going to slap me. my father had NEVER caught me with a...boy. he didn't move. except for a violent sort of trembling, neither did i.
"let's go."
two words had never sounded so ominous. i followed him meekly outside, in to the sunshine, cursing my horrid luck. Mrak was where you waited for the shuttle, and it was next to the most beautiful part of campus; verdant gardens and duck ponds, shade and sweetness. _____ and i had unconsciously, artlessly developed a ritual; we would arrive 30 minutes before i had to leave, two teenagers making goo-eyes at each other in this lovely setting, our matching jansport ski backpacks (his red, mine green) abandoned elsewhere on the manicured lawn. we were on our way out to that ritual, when we were caught.
my father's legs were nowhere near as long as mine, but it was impossible to keep up. he had rage inside, like intel, but far more dangerous. truthfully, i don't know that i was trying to keep up, b/c i was certain this was going to be the last afternoon of my life. he reached the driver's side door of the mercedes and wrenched the key in the direction that opened all doors with an efficient vacuum pop. i wanted to die. to dissolve right there in to the asphalt, to disappear. each of those would be a far superior alternative to whatever was coming next.
i carefully opened the rear door, removed my backpack and sat down. i left my backpack where i had entered and slid ALL the way over to behind the passenger door side, so that he couldn't glare at me via rear-view mirror. 30 excruciating miles. 30 excruciating minutes. you want to know what i did? i fucking PRAYED.
he remained silent.
this was going to be bad.
6pm. we reach home. he STILL hasn't said anything. when he unlocks the front door, he walks in w/o waiting for me. veena is at the kitchen table. i swear i can see the downy hair on the back of her neck prickle before she even turns, fearfully. an ass-whipping is in the air, and if you've never smelled one of those, let me edify you; it's pungent. almond-shaped eyes softened behind tiny glasses as her brow furrowed immediately. back then, i was still a deity; untouchable, flawless, worthy of worship. she looked horrified for me.
my father shouted for my mother. i dawdled by the door, idly debating making a run for it. idiot. where will you go, anneke? with what money? you are STUCK. "dear God, please don't let this get ugly" i whimpered silently.
my father turned, danger infusing every degree, and i looked down, my face purple with shame. i slid off my shoes and trudged forward, just in time to meet my weary mother, freshly tanned from puttering about in the backyard, her favourite place to be (still is).
"do you know...what YOUR daughter is up to? i'm SURE you do. you PROBABLY encouraged it."
my mother looked at my father like he was speaking inuit. she said nothing. that was his cue.
and...we're off.
"she. has. a. BF. do you understand??? i SAW them. he's punjabi. our DAUGHTER is shamelessly involving herself WITH A PUNJABI BOY!!!"
moms remained silent. her face became impassive. she knew better than to say a damn thing.
"how long have you know of this? How long were you going to fool me? you influenced her. you, and all your talk of...of...Dharmender!" as a girl, my mother had a wicked soft spot for that bollywood legend.
the hilarious thing was, ____ was actually Dharmender's nephew. like moms, like daughter.
my mom pushed past daddy, and went in the kitchen, where she silently began the hours-long preparation necessary for proper malayalee cooking.
i stood there like an idiot. cheeks still aflame.
Daddy whirled around furiously, unleashing his full wrath on me. "what are you THINKING? is that whom you want?? are you going to marry him???"
stupid, little girl, teenaged me suddenly located her spiritual testicles.
"yes."
"WHAT? WHAT did you say to me???"
"Yes."
"oh, is THAT right??"
now i had HAD it. i loved _____. he was my first real bf. and he was amazing: brilliant, sensitive, sweet, ridiculously funny...and he told me that other girls made him want to be gay. now what girl DOESN'T want that.
"Yes, daddy."
"do you LOVE him?"
here's where i look back and shake my fucking head. i was 17. all this would be for NAUGHT.
"YES! i DO love him."
my father looked like he would kill me with his bare hands.
"i love him and i'm going to MARRY HIM!" my bobby sox-ed feet ran up the stairs furiously, Gap jeans unyielding. (you see boys and girls, this was before the era of Stretch in denim. oh yeah. Didi is THAT old.) i rushed in to my bathroom, slamming the door like i was trying to act out the exclamation point on my last sentence. back slides down, body bends, feet push against useless wall.
safe.
my father wasn't done.
"you want a punjabi boy? what the FUCK is wrong with you? no, what is wrong with ME? what did *i* do to deserve this? 18 and you have...BOYFRIEND! and you want to MARRY him. dear GOD just kill me NOW. how did i manage to screw this up so badly, that you would choose a boy like that??? Oh, let me DIE!" he punctuated his ragged shouts with a noise that sounded like he was punching his own chest. Something he only did when he was REALLY pissed.
i was livid.
____ was my heart. and for the first time in my life, i was ready to pick SOMEONE over my...daddy.
i scrambled off the floor, wrenched the door open and appeared as if i were some ghost on the landing of our staircase.
"a boy...like...WHAT?" i spat out. what, you thought daddy was the only ominous one? ha.
the fight continued. it decayed in to something uglier. finally he screamed the words that still echo in my petite ears; "i. will. DISOWN. YOU!" he was apoplectic. "marry that punjabi boy and you are DEAD to me! NO ONE in my family will defy me like this. You will be DEAD!"
"you mean that JAT SIKH punjabi boy. wait 'til i grow my hair long for HIM and wear a kara!"
that did it. he was on his way to beat the life out of me and i was seconds away from my precious bathroom. slam. back. slide. Floor. feet. Wall.
safe.
my father and i had fought about my hair my entire fucking life. he always wanted it to be longer...and i always balked. i KNEW what potent buttons i was pushing via my final statement. i could hear rage spewing forth. i could imagine my mother sighing. i knew my sister was squirming near the back of her closet, wishing that it would all be over soon.
"OPEN THIS DOOR!"
"no!"
"OPEN IT RIGHT NOW, YOU DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE BITCH!"
"go to hell Daddy! i love someone more than you! you SUCK!"
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
"good, then i'll go to heaven and you'll BURN IN HELL!"
this caustic dysfunction continued for a few hours until my father stormed out the door. as soon as i heard the unmistakable purr of the diesel engine fading away, i rushed out of my bathroom bunker and raced in to the master bedroom. i dialed ___'s number so fast, my fingers were a brown blur.
"hey."
"HEY...are you...okay?"
"yeah. it wasn't pretty. but you'll never believe this-"
"what?!"
"i told him that i was marrying you and that i loved you and that he could burn in hell!"
"oh my God. why?"
"what do you mean?"
"just that...it probably didn't help."
"whose side are you fucking on anyway???"
"yours, always. but there's a time and place for dramatic declarations."
"whatever, you ungrateful oaf. i have to go. mummy figured out what i'm up to."
"bye..."
"bye!"
i tiptoed downstairs, my attempts to be inconspicuous unsuccessful. my mother still sensed that i was there. she stared at me w/this sickening look of disappointment and i had to look away. she didn't even have to say a word. it was so obvious that her entire demeanor was meant to communicate, "was that NECESSARY?"
no, ma, it wasn't.
and now that i'm "free", it definitely wasn't. but daddy had the last laugh, didn't he? i didn't marry my beloved punjabi boy. i still let bama after unworthy motherfucking bama get at me just b/c they're malayalee. i'm frozen forever, tortured by regret and pain. daddy only liked my hair long? it's long. Daddy wanted me to be a lawyer? I could apply a third time…daddy wanted me w/a syrian christian boy? i'll find one…
one out of three ain’t bad. It’s fucking miserable.
+++++++
last week, my dear friend Sudip flew in from New York. i looked at him, while we were out in SF, having a blast with his bengali friends, and i unexpectedly realised that i was beyond happy. even though i was w/three bengali hindu boys. Wait, why didn't malayalee boys make me laugh like this? i dismissed this unsettling epiphany, by reminding myself that my family was SO pro-bong, my first cousin was named after neta-ji. my father often stated confidently that Bengalis and Malayalees were long-lost cousins themselves, scattered perhaps, by ancient marauding Aryans, two groups united by many things, especially their fondness for communism. Oh. Of course I have an affinity for Bengalis…
but it was more than that...
over the last few years, i've finally come to grips with a future that doesn't include law school. that alone is enough to break my daddy's long-lost heart. my hair is long, the way he preferred...but that's the easy part. the final segment of this toxic equation involves marriage. i know what my father wanted for me. and i am almost certain now (after all, 95% is pretty fucking certain) that i will fail him there, too.
is this why i'm not married? the only boys who REALLY express any interest in marrying me are north indian, and generally punjabi...why do i perpetuate my horrid affirmative action program for unqualified coconuts, aka mallu boys, in the anna-admissions process? b/c i want to make a dead man happy? b/c of a day like today?
will i be married to ANYONE for 30 years?
no. probably not.
but neither was my daddy. and he was still amazing.
oh daddy. nothing is as you wanted...i'm not Anna esq. my hair is not black and most important of all, i'm not married. and these last few weeks, i've had to swallow an excessively bitter pill; i don't see myself with anyone malayalee. ever.
but in the same terrified, tentative way that i stood up to you at age 18, i'm ready to do the same. you didn't raise me to be like the other malayalee girls. i didn't go to a malayalee church even though you created three of them. Now that I no longer have you to practice with, i barely speak the language. I haven’t been to Kerala since I was 14, and you carefully shepherded me about the state.
You, my father, my champion, the biggest feminist I ever knew…you gave me drive, passion, confidence, ambition...ironically, my research indicates that these are all qualities that contribute to my massive unpopularity with malayalee BOYS. meanwhile, indian MEN from ANY OTHER state gladly appreciate your handiwork, your masterpiece, your erstwhile princess.
surely you see all of this from above? truly you are just as horrified as I am w/what’s out there? ideally, you understand my disappointment and resignation? i pray that you release me from your wishes. i pray that you forgive me for selfishly following my "bliss". I pray that you are at peace.
i want to get married in a few years, and i want to be happy. I want to make you proud of me, but I have yet to find a malayalee boy who will accomplish that Herculean task. Unless I want to be loyally alone forever, I think I might have to look elsewhere…
i love you daddy. it's so hard to even conceive of such things, such obvious "betrayals" when my heart belongs to you.
but part of me knows, intrinsically, that you'd rather have me with a bengali or punjabi boy, than some malayalee asshole...or is that wishful thinking?
when i move forward with any of this, i feel guilty, as if i'm availing myself of your absence in order to get my way. daddy, if only you knew how hard i've tried to be the daughter you wanted. how many mallu boys i've accomodated, b/c of your words from the scene badly described above, which continue to echo in my ears, 11 years after they were initially screamed. but i'm tired, daddy. i've had it.
i wish i knew what you would've done in this situation...
but then again, i wish you were celebrating 30 years of commitment on this sad St. Patrick’s day. Is it any wonder that my eyes leak sadness as I contemplate my unadorned ring finger, on this day that is devoted to your memory as my mother’s husband? Wedding anniversary. I need a wedding to occur first, before I’ll commemorate one of those. You are lost; so am i. therefore today is one seamless loop of shame, disappointment and bittersweet pain.
despite my hyperbole to the contrary, i don't always get my way. Right now, I am keenly aware of this as, I wish you were here. But only G-d can return you to me. and i know he's not about to do that, no matter how lost and confused i feel.
happy anniversary, daddy. no matter what I end up doing, where I go or whom I end up with, the only thing that I’m never uncertain of is this one simple truth; i love you. Always will. Even if I have to disobey you, in one final, flagrant way.
+