HERstory

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.

Latha Antharjanam*

This was going to be my "return" post to SM, after my unplanned hiatus.

It took an unexpected direction from where I thought it would go, so I no longer felt like posting it there.

.......

This entry, which is a response to an anonymous tip one of you was kind enough to mail in, was supposed to be about Nick Nolte; apparently, he no longer feels the desire to drink alcohol because his baby mama Clytie Lane reintroduced him to Hare Krishna chanting and drum circling. Nick's current tee totaling is quite a contrast to his relationship with alcohol less than a year ago, when he was so drunk, he took a two-hour nap on an airport floor (and really, who among us hasn't done that? No? Just me? Fine.)

After over two months away from blogdom, my feeble attempts to do a bit of research on the story have demonstrated to me that my already lilliputian attention span is even tinier now, since all I can fixate on is the comments/response to Celebitchy, the blog whose link was submitted as the anonymous tip. Most of the commenters objected to the title and tone of the post on that site, which referred to Hare Krishnas as a cult and referenced some of the controversy associated with the movement (sexual abuse, brainwashing, murder). Celebitchy responded:

Update: A lot of people from different sources are vouching for the Krishnas and are saying it’s not fair to judge them based on the rampant child abuse at their boarding schools in the 70s and 80s. A similar child abuse scandal happened within the Catholic Church and it is fair criticism to say that I am biased in this article. The ISCON organization has arguably changed considerably since then and is willing to discuss their past issues with cult experts as well as change their practices

Here is a discussion thread I found which I think helps explain my original position on this issue. I would still be reluctant to get involved with a group with this type of history.

I can understand the reluctance, mostly because I've always felt uncomfortable around the saffron-robed disciples, too. My unease was triggered regularly, so it only hardened over time; when I was at GW in 1999, I ate at Amma's daily, and each time I walked from Foggy Bottom to the Mysore Masala Dosa/Semiya Payasam which would be ready without my needing to order it, I religiously saw Hare Krishnas in front of the beautiful, golden-domed Rigg's at the corner of M and Wisconsin, i.e. the busiest spot in all of Hoya-ville.

Even a few years ago, I'd spot them there, just in front of the gates to the bank. I don't know if they've chosen to grace a different part of town with their presence or if they're no longer allowed to make that intersection even more crowded for pedestrians who are trying to cross to Benetton or Lacoste in search of logos we rocked in the 80s, but I haven't seen Hare Krishnas in quite a while. 

I don't blame the Georgetown HKs for my skittishness though, I blame their cousins who were at SFO in 1983. 

I don't have much "close" family in the United States.  I grew up without the benefit of grandparents (deceased) or first cousins (all in India or Gelf) and until 1989, without any of my parents' siblings.  It was lonely and one of the things about my childhood which I desperately wish had been different. On the rare occasion when someone visited from Cochin or Abu Dhabi, it was a huge deal, a cause for much excitement and happiness.  The day I met my first Hare Krishna was one of those occasions.

My father's favorite nephew was arriving in Amreeka for the first time ever; he was excited about a promised trip to Disneyland, the opportunity to buy Levi's 501s-- and the chance to see his two youngest cousin sisters, who had been all of five and 18-months old when he had swung them around last.  We had gone to the airport to pick him up and Daddy was so exultant, when I asked if I could carry the Minolta I was rarely allowed to breathe in the vicinity of, I was rewarded with a camera strap around my neck and one amazing toy in my eager little hands. 

"Hell, maybe you should take a picture of your Georgie-chayan when he comes out, would you like that?"

WOULD I?

I immediately stripped off the molded leather camera cover and whirled around to my four-year old sister.

"This is really important.  You are responsible for Daddy's camera case!"

She nodded at me somberly.

Free of such accoutrements, I carefully removed the lens cap and stuck it in the pocket on the front of my pinafore.  We had stopped walking and were now standing and waiting. After a few minutes spent fidgeting impatiently, I wandered a few feet away, so I could pretend I was a photographer. My sister, who liked to shadow my every move, toddled along faithfully. Gingerly lifting the camera and peering through it, I turned slightly, and then saw people with cymbals who were chanting and dancing happily. One of them started walking towards us; he was holding a book.

I looked back at my Dad, but he was anomalously distracted and not paying attention to his progeny; he was too busy half-shouting excitedly with an uncle-who-wasn't-an Uncle, who worked at the airport.  Daddy was animated, his rapid-fire Malayalam punctuated by laughter as he and Uncle loudly argued about how deprived my omnivorous Achachan would be, by staying with such a strict vegetarian family.  Daddy was so intent on insisting that vegetarian food wouldn't kill anyone, and that meenkari was overrated anyway, that he hadn't noticed who was coming my way.

I lowered the camera, anxiously.

"Hello!" the man trilled.

My sister made like a crab and moved sideways until she was directly behind me.  She was spooked.  "Orange ghost!" she mumbled.

"Not a ghost, a friend."

The HK spotted the huge 22 karat crosses around our necks and did a double-take.

"You are Christians?!"

I nodded, mutely. My sister, always half a beat late in order to facilitate emulation of whatever I was doing, started nodding vigorously, too.  We were like small, dark bobble-heads.  I was certain that at any moment, my Father was going to turn around and punch this person for approaching his little girls.

"That's a shame, did your parents convert when they came here?"

I froze.  When people asked my father that question, they were immediately rewarded with a 15-minute lecture on St. Thomas the Apostle converting Indians when Europeans were still running around, worshipping trees and beating each other with sticks.

He continued, still smiling beatifically, "I want to give you something. This book is part of who you are-"

I brilliantly blurted out, "I'm not allowed to talk to strangers!", which then confused me, because I realized I just had.  I hadn't taken the book.

The man continued to hold it out.

My sister helpfully repeated, "orange ghost!!", a bit more insistent this time. 

I apprehensively reached out for "Bhagavad Gita, As it is" while the man beamed at me.  He said something final before turning away, to rejoin his flock.  My sister's nose was now pressed in to the small of my back.  I was overcome with this dire realization that my kundi was about to receive an adi par excellence from my Father, for breaking one of the rules he cared most about-- not. talking. to. strangers.

"Edi, Annay-kutty, nee evade poyee edi?"  Daddy was laughing as he called out his question in Malayalam. 

"I'm, I mean, entho.  I mean, I'm here.  I mean...yeah."

Daddy turned his head to frown at me critically.

"Edi mandi, have you forgotten how to speak English?"

His eyes narrowed as he noticed what I was holding.

"Where the HELL did you get that?" he roared.

My sister whimpered, "orange ghost!!!" one final, useless time before attempting to melt in to my spine and ass.

"Who told you to take that?  Haven't I taught you ANYTHING?"

Daddy was livid.  He snatched the book from my hands and looked as if he was about to throw it out, in the orange garbage can which was conveniently located just feet from us-- but then he stopped, and ranted about how it was still a book, after all.  Indecision about how to dispose of the offending tome only enraged him more.  He charged the Hare Krishnas, and the ghost stepped forward, his celestial smile intact.

"Who the hell are you to talk to my children and give them propaganda?  If I want my children to be Hindu, I will teach them myself, without the assistance of some hippie in an airport. You think you know more about Hinduism than me?  Go to hell.  This is like buying cloth from England which was made from Indian cotton!  Unnecessary!  Insulting!"

"Perhaps you should keep the book, it may allow you to reconnect with the faith you were born--"

"Reconnect what?  My family has been Christian for 1931 years!  Remove yourself from your cult and get an education!  Not every Indian is Hindu, you crazy son of a bitch."

And with that, my father grabbed my upper arm and hustled me away.  I frantically grabbed for Veena and got one of her overall straps. 

"What did I tell you about talking to strangers, edi?  Ay?  You disobedient girl.  Don't you ever accept something from someone else, not a book, not a candy, NOTHING."

My non-Uncle intervened, with a voice which was both soothing and conciliatory. "Thampychayan she's just a child, she didn't know."

"OH, she KNOWS.  And she'll remember too, after her punishment."

I cringed.  I had the strictest Father around.  I was fairly certain that my bottom would be sore by the end of the evening, but sometimes, when my Father was in an extra-creative mood, he'd devise "consequences" which were pure affliction, with none of the spanking.  I preferred the beating, any day. Better to get it over with.

Ten minutes later, after he arrived looking exhausted but excited, Georgie-chayan couldn't understand why my father was grinding his teeth, nor could he figure out why his two youngest cousins were so forlorn. Preoccupied by what lay in store for me, I forgot to take his picture, even though I was still clutching Daddy's SLR.

::

When I got home, I was ordered to my bedroom while my father shouted at my mother, his preferred method of informing her of our iniquity.  Immediately after that, my father walked in to my room, picked my children's bible off the shelf and ordered me to show him the Ten Commandments. 

Shaking, I took hold of my second holy book for the day and opened it, wordlessly.  After a few seconds, I found the correct page.  I stared at the Decalogue, waiting.

"What is number five?"

"Honor thy father and mother."

"Don't mumble.  What is it?"

"Honor thy father and mother."

My father stepped backwards and opened the top drawer of my desk, which had been his, years ago, when he was a student fresh from India.  He saw that it was filled with an assortment of My Melody and Little Twin Stars paraphernalia, a few pairs of Barbie's high-heeled, open-toed sandals collected in the little glitter suitcase which used to be my Hello Kitty stamp set and one pink diary with a brass lock. 

He shoved it closed and tried the drawer beneath; this time, he took it out a large stack of paper and shut it less forcefully, since it had contained his quarry.  He placed the paper on top of my desk, withdrew a pen from the box on top of it where they lay jumbled and handed the instrument to me. 

Calmly, he said, "Write that two-hundred times."

"Write what?!"

"The fifth commandment.  If your penmanship is sloppy, it won't count towards the 200, so take your time, edi.  I'll check on you later."

Miserably, I got up from my bed and trudged towards the desk.  Unbelievable.  Why couldn't I just get hit? Outside, I could hear my sister squealing gleefully as the closest thing I had to the older brother I had always wanted tossed her around and dangled her by her ankles.  I was consumed by frustration at the injustice of the situation.  I hadn't wanted to talk to the damned orange ghost.  He should get my punishment, not me.

I sat down, picked up the pen and paused, staring at the unblemished paper.  Someone was coming, I could hear them in the hall.  I looked up and there was Georgie-chayan, with Veena sitting on his shoulders.   

"What are you waiting for?  Do what Daddy said, then we can play.  I didn't come all this way to just do this," he said, abruptly grabbing Veena under the shoulders and sending her head-first for the floor, where he let her dangle so low her silky baby hair grazed it.  She chortled. 

"I want to drop you, too!"

I nodded woefully.  The far-too-fun duo left my room and I heard my father yell at them to not disturb me.  I sighed.  This was going to be a long, wretched few hours.  I commenced writing.  My hand started to move faster, but the admonishment about neatness replayed in my head and I wrote more carefully.  At number 181 or so, I felt defeated and I put my face down on the paper, and fell asleep.

When I woke up, there was a third holy book near me, next to the ruled binder paper I had misused as a pillow.  It was old, the corners were worn and it smelled of dust.  I carefully opened the cover and saw "The Bhagavad Gita" spelled out in letters which rested on serifs.  There was something barely visible in the top right corner of the yellowing paper, which was slightly translucent.  When I turned the page, I saw my father's full name, written in his bold, block-lettered handwriting.  I was confused; why had he given me the same book he almost threw away?

"Latha Antharjanam, if you want to study Hinduism, you don't need a white man or a cult to enlighten you.  That crazy man is not even a real Hindu."

I hadn't even realized Daddy was standing there.

"Besides, Hare Krishnas are Vaishnavas.  Your ancestors worshipped both Vishnu and Shiva. Damnit, If you are going to be a Hindu, at least be accurate about it."

::

* A note about the title: my father called me this in a joking, affectionate way because Namboodiri women went to the temple and the homes of family members, and that was it.  Similarly, I was not allowed to run around outside or go to many places outside of church and a few friends' homes.  Unlike those women, this had nothing to do with religion or anything else. "My children will not run wild!", I heard, over and over again, along with, "good girls stay inside the house!".   As has been pointed out in the comments below, "antharjanam" means "people inside the house".  So you see, this isn't some high caste-hangover, mang. :)

Fade Away and Radiate

1979.

My mother is 29, four years younger than I am right now.

In the precious 11.47 minutes she has before my eight-month old baby sister will need her again, Mummy has ambitiously decided she will give me a "full bath".  She is shampooing my very long, very thick hair, all the while muttering dark things about how I will be the last child of hers with such a high-maintenance head.  (Indeed, by the time my sister was three or four, she was given a modified bowl cut, one which my DBD Aunts exclaimed "looks like Sharadha".  I still don't know who this Sharadha-character is.)

I'm humming, lost in my own four-year old's world, and I pick up the khaki-colored pitcher my mom uses when she needs to dump water on my head.  Since she's futzing with tangles and an uncooperative, nearly-empty bottle of Johnson's Baby Shampoo, she doesn't care that I have commandeered her plastic vessel.  I happily commence dipping it in bath water, filling it, and then holding it up as high as my arm can manage, only to let it trickle out dramatically, splashing me and Mummy as it falls.  This annoys her and she snaps at me to stop it, but via the magic of the Malayalam language, two monosyllabic words mutate in to four: literally "find or look for another job".

I drop the pitcher and commence humming.  Soon, I'm singing, since I have nothing better to do and the music has been stuck in my head; it needs to escape. 

"Keep haaaanging up the telephooone."

I repeat this a few times, though it is always preceded by a minimum of two enthusiastic rounds of, "Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blaa-aah..."

Mom pauses, but just for a moment.  She's considering her strange eldest daughter as her brow wrinkles.  Then, she physically and mentally shakes it off; she has no time for such shenanigans.  Any moment now, screaming will ring out from the far end of this ancient house, and she will be summoned to her other, tinier tyrant.  As if that wasn't torment enough, if she leaves me for even a minute, when she returns, she will only find tepid bathwater, because I will have run off, naked and dripping suds in my wake.

"Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blaaah...keep haaanging up the telephone!"

"What are you singing?  What is this?"

"You don't like it?  I'll change it!"

"To what?  Did you learn this in school?"

She's referring to Montessori, where I have a very strict Sri Lankan teacher who is allowed to beat me, if no one else is looking and I'm asking for it.  If you ask her or my parents, I'm always asking for it. 

"One way and another...I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha...one way...or another...I'm gonna getcha!  I getcha!"

This is actually my favorite song, so now I'm getting excited and dancing around while she's trying to rinse that classic "No More Tears" formula from my hyper, flailing form. 

"HOLD STILL."

"I'll getcha!  I'll getcha!"

"Oh, you'll get something..."

"One way lady next week!"

"STOP IT."

I cease abruptly and she visibly relaxes.  In return for my cooperation, she grabs my head and pushes it under the thundering bath faucet.  She's running out of time and I have a lot of hair.  This is not a moment for mere pitchers.

"I caaaaag bweeeethe!"

"You're not supposed to."

And just like that, she eases up and the second it seems possible to do so, I try and shove my head back out of the water.  My mother, being gifted with that maternal, psychic ability to predict exactly such stupidity, shoves my skull downwards slightly and swings it laterally, preventing my decapitation via early 20th century plumbing fixture.

"Be care-ful, edi..."

"Is my bath over?"

"Yes.  Thank--"

"Yippee!   Again I can sing.  Call me!  Lala you can call me, call me, call me now.  Call me!"

My frustrated mother has thrown a heavy "Turkey" towel over my head, so that I resemble a resented bird cage.  Now she is rubbing it about viciously, trying to dry wet tangles.

"Owww, that HURTS!"

"Tell your Father.  This hair is his stupid idea, not mine.  If I had my way, I'd cut it all off."

"Why?"

"It's too much work to take care of.  It's too heavy for your head."

I shrug.  As she continues her declamation, I'm already drifting off. I am wondering about tomorrow, when I will again be left with my babysitter, who is concomitantly a trusted family friend and an extra miserable teen.  I have already decided that as soon as I burst through the door to their room, and that pained look of suffering crosses their face upon seeing me, I will ask them to play this record which I like.

I like these songs more than the awkward, clattering attempts at music I encounter at Montessori.  I also like my babysitter more than the little kids in my class, but the feeling is not mutual.  And so, the more they are put upon to watch over hyper-active, curious, loquacious little me, the more sullen they become.  The more sullen they become, the more music I hear.  And that is why when I was five, my parents found me posing in front of their mirror in my white petticoat, playing "Blondie", as I haughtily informed them, when they inquired what on earth I was doing.

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

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

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

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

::

1 · tarta said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, he's just playing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am 12,053 days old

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

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

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

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

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

Me:        Aww, thanks Marcus.

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

Me:        Nope.  It’s my birthday.

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

Me:       I’m 33!

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

Me (walking away):        I AM.

Security Guard:  You look 22. 

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

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

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

Security Guard:                 !!!

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

::

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

Paid the cost to be the blogger...and I'm still paying

Once upon a time, when he was still at SM, Manish wanted to disable comments under his posts because the effort required to moderate them was significant and the "return" he/we were getting via the discusssion didn't merit the hours he poured in to managing chaos.

I was his most passionate opponent during that lusty but good-hearted debate, because I loved our comment threads and thought they were the best thing ever about SM. Now I grok his contentions...and that makes me sad.

I am so sick of being misrepresented by a small but non-trivial number of readers who, unfortunately, are vocal and toxic enough to create a detrimental effect. I don't have fawning supporters, as some of them love to claim. I have readers who don't know me from Adam, who speak up or call things out when they see fit. The fact that some choose to conflate those disparate groups says volumes about the intentions and outlook of those who are conflatin'.

I'm not smug. I don't think I'm better than you. I don't think my parents are better than yours, though I do think that they are awe-inspiring, phenomenal people who were 100x stronger and wiser than I will ever be; I will never be skilled or eloquent enough to write their sacrifices justice.

I'm sick of certain people feeling like just because I write the "personal" or "fluffy" posts on Sepia Mutiny, that it's okay to attack me, make up shit about me or otherwise behave in obnoxious ways they wouldn't dare replicate if we were face-to-face.

The majority of our readers are lurkers. So many of them write emails to me instead of commenting publically, and they are so gratified to read pieces that they relate to on several levels. Meanwhile, my detractors accuse me of finding myself excessively unique and reminding them of it often. Feel my frustration: I'm trying to tell people, "you're not alone, I feel ___, too"...and that is the polar opposite of "look at me, I'm so different from the rest of you!". It's exhausting to be required to explain oneself, constantly, to always have the worst intentions assigned to my best.

Contemplating motive is a depressing exercise.  One of the people who persists with this wholly unnecessary drama explains his defensive, anti-Christian attitude by recalling that as a child, he was isolated and tormented by his Christian classmates for being Hindu.  The irony is, so was I.  That's what makes the target on my ass that much more undeserved.  All Christians are not Hindu-bashing elitist pricks, but apparently if some of us are, the rest of us will suffer for it.

/end vent

In Complete Unity

One of you sent this to my GMail-- since the availability of pakistanmartiallaw.blogspot.com is irregular, you are passing the word on however you can...and if that's not mutinous, I don't know what is.

The Emergency Times 

An Eyewitness account of the Execution of Martial Law

Protest at the LHC, Nov 5^th, 2007 

A group of 35 students from LUMS, along with two faculty members, went to attend the protest staged at the Lahore High Court against the imposition of martial law, the detention of over 500 (and counting) lawyers and activists around the country since Saturday, and the taking of oath by certain judges under the new PCO. 

Arriving at the LHC around 8 AM, we were let in without much fuss, despite the hundreds of police personnel deployed outside. It was evident, however, that the gathering was not going to be allowed to be peaceful. Going into the Central Courtyard, the first thing that struck us was the legal fraternity’s reaction to our arrival. Some of them simply couldn’t comprehend the fact that students had showed up for the cause, that people besides them were waking up. All were extremely appreciative of our effort, even as they warned us of the risks we would definitely face. Joining us among the student community, were a few students from Punjab University and 4 uniformed teenage boys from Beaconhouse. It was their presence in particular that was indeed heartening to witness.

The protest began peacefully enough, even if the atmosphere was charged right from the onset. The lawyers vociferously screamed their opposition to Martial law in no uncertain terms. Raising slogans of ‘Go Musharraf Go’ and ‘Musharraf Kutta, Haye Haye’, as well as infuriated slogans against the judges taking oath under the PCO, the build-up was tense and vigorous. Prominent figures from the legal community stepped forward to give incendiary, passionate speeches about the need to act, the need to resist. Aitzaz Ahsan and the Real CJ, Justice Iftikhar Chaudhry, were lauded as the heroes of the day.

As the crowd slowly built up, everything became more worked up, us alongside it. As the massive swell of lawyers, with the tiny group of students cocooned in between, moved towards the gates of the High Court, they found they were barricaded, with a colossal army of police personnel behind them. After a brief verbal tussle between the police and lawyers, in which it was made clear that they would not be allowed to go onto the street, all hell broke loose. 

The Riot Police stormed into the High Court in full force, complete with their batons, helmets, shields and protective vests. They set upon the crowd of hapless, unarmed lawyers with a rabid ferocity that seemed to consume them entirely. Lawyers were indiscriminately beaten to a series of pulps; I saw the head of one of the lawyers being split open by the baton-wielding maniacs in front of my own eyes. The lawyers were forced to retreat, causing a stampede of sorts

Luckily, we were behind the frontlines of the assembly when the attack began and did not have to suffer its full brunt. However, the next few moments were unbelievably chaotic; tear gas was fired inside the High Court from all angles, making it difficult to see, breathe and speak. Gunshots could be heard in the uncomfortably-close distance, in all probability, to intimidate all present into quiet subservience. We searched frantically for members of the LUMS contingent, who had scattered in the wake of the attack and the subsequent stampede. Hell’s fury had indeed been unleashed.   

After we had gathered together whoever we could find, we were ushered into a hallway adjacent to the Courtyard by lawyers who had been assigned to guarantee our safety. From there, we watched as scores of policemen stormed the High Court from every direction and thrashed everyone in sight, arresting people as they went along. As around 40 of us, including many women, lay cramped together in a small room, the realization set in that we would be next. A realization that ‘everyone’ there accepted, without fear or panic. I applaud here, especially, the 10 or so freshman (011’s who were

Eventually, after eons, it seemed, the police broke into the hallway and demanded that we come out, albeit with our hands raised. Even as our faculty members and lawyers implored them to spare the students, the police personnel wantonly manhandled us, like abject criminals, along with our esteemed faculty members. We were certain we were about to be detained as we were paraded, in line, towards the main gate of the High Court, where the various deportation vans awaited. The media, most of them shell-shocked at the revelation that there were students, and that too, from LUMS, at the protest, began bombarding us with questions regarding who we were and why we were there. Our instructors replied to that with a simple but effective ‘for the safeguarding of the institution that protects our rights’.

Even as the uncertainty regarding our detention (the apparently planned destination being Mianwali) compounded, we were made to stand inside a bevy of police escorts while we awaited our fate. Eventually, in the midst of the media’s pronounced clamouring regarding our identity, a senior officer, either an SP or SSP (who had earlier issued the Mianwali threat) came to speak with us, informing us that ‘he was going to be “nice” to us and let us go.’ We were told to form a line, be responsible for each other’s safety and leave the area under police escort. 

I am not writing to needlessly glorify those who went. I am writing to inform everyone, all of you, about what the actual implications of a Martial Law are. Witnessing this situation first hand was an eye-opener. Because, simply, this is happening over the entire country now, to countless lawyers, activists, politicians, as we speak. As it has been happening in Balochistan and Waziristan for years. As it will continue to happen over the course of the next few weeks. All of us need to feel each other’s pain.

Organize effectively, collaboratively and substantively.

In complete unity.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

"I have given up hiding and started to fight..."

October 31, 1984

“Mummy, Daddy can I dress up for Halloween this year?”

“No.  You are not allowed to participate in this ritual begging for candy.”

“Daddy, I meant for school…we’re supposed to…”

He eyed me suspiciously.  “I thought fifth grade would mean the end of such nonsense, but if you are supposed to…what do you need to wear”

I had thought about this.  Based on what the popular girls were last year, I decided…“I want to be a cheerleader!”

“Absolutely not.  Those skirts are indecent.”

“Caroline Auntie was a cheerleader!”

“In college.  When you’re in college, I’ll forbid you then, too.”

Nine-year old me promptly burst in to tears.  Later, my mother came to my room and helped me match a v-neck sweater from my old Catholic school uniform with a pleated skirt I usually wore to church—i.e. one which went to the middle of my knee.  She unpacked a box in my closet and wordlessly handed me my toy pom-poms.  My six-year old sister glared at her indignantly, so Mom rolled her eyes and did the same for her.  I was so excited.  Finally, a “cool” costume, one which didn’t involve an uncomfortable, weird-looking plastic mask to secure with an elastic band, from a pre-packaged ensemble.  I went to sleep feeling giddy.

The next morning, for the first time ever, I was tardy for school.  I don’t remember why, but I was.  When I walked in to class just before recess, everyone froze and stared at me.  The hopeful smile on my face dissolved; this year, the popular girls were all babies in cutesy pajamas with pacifiers around their necks.  I thought the weirdness in the air was due to my lame costume, but within a few minutes I discovered it was caused by something else entirely. 

The moment the bell rang, my desk was surrounded.  This couldn’t be good.  Was I going to get locked in a closet or a bathroom again? 

“Why are you here?”
“Yeah, we thought you weren’t coming.”
“Shouldn’t you be at home crying?”
“Mrs.  Doyle said you wouldn’t come in today.”

The questions assaulted me one after the other.  I was baffled. 

"Why…would…Mrs. Doyle say that?” I stammered.

“DUH, because Gandhi’s daughter got killed.”
“Isn’t she like your queen or something?  Or a Hindu God?”
“No you buttheads, she’s like the president of her country.”

At the end of the last sentence, the boy speaking gestured towards me.  When did they get so enlightened?  Last week, they asked if I was Cherokee and said “How” whenever I walked by, or pantomimed yowling war cries with their hands and mouth.

“She’s not the president of my country.  I’m…I’m from this country.  My president is Ronald Reagan.”

They got impatient and vaguely hostile.

“No, you’re Indian.  Mrs. Doyle said you were in mourning.”
“Did you not like her or something, is that why you don’t care?”
“I heard they dip her in milk before they burn her up.”
“Duh…that’s because they worship cows.”

I put my head down on my desk, as if we were playing “heads up, seven up”.   

“See?  She’s crying now…she is Indian.”

And with that they walked off, to do whatever it was that popular fifth-graders did. 

::

Spring 1987.

I was sitting by myself (as usual…it’s always awesome to transfer to a K-8 school in the seventh grade, when no one is interested in making new friends with some outsider), reading something from the “The Babysitters Club”, pretending I was Mary Anne Spier.

“Hey ugly girl…”

I looked up to see a tall 8th grader whom every girl was crushing on…he was standing with his best friend, who elbowed him and muttered, “ask her!”

“Weren’t you supposed to be aborted?

I was horrified and confused.  Horrified because these people never talked to me, confused because…

“You know, since you’re like…a Hindu and we just learned that they only like to have sons.  So we were wondering if your parents wished they had aborted you. You should ask.”

The sidekick started guffawing and both of them ran off.  I sat there, my book still page-down in my lap, unable to read for the rest of recess.  I wished I could go home.

Four hours later…

“Where is your sister?  What is she up to?  I haven’t heard any noise.”

“I dunno…reading the dictionary or something nerdy”. 

I realized my father was headed to the dining room, which is where he left the huge, so-heavy-I-couldn’t-lift-it Webster’s dictionary open for me, so he wouldn’t have to constantly retrieve it from the shelf.  I slapped half the book over, to obscure what I had been looking at…

“What are you doing?  Why did you just do that?  What are you hiding?”

“Um, nothing.”

I tried to slip my finger out from the page I was trying to bookmark, but he was too quick.  The pages flipped back to “A”.

“ABORTION?  You are looking at ABORTION?  Oh my God, why did I sacrifice and struggle and come to this country, so my 12-year old daughter could be impregnated?  Were you raped?  Did someone do something to you? WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT THAT WORD!”

I actually didn’t know what “raped” meant, either.  My parents hadn’t explained anything like that to me yet.  I was still playing with Barbie and sleeping with my stuffed Persian cat; they saw no need.  I made a mental note to look up “rape”.

My mother came running, “What is this?”

“She is looking at ABORTION!”

“Why?”

“Was I supposed to be aborted?”

My parents faces fell slack from astonishment.

My Mother looked at my Father, then me.  “Why…would…you…ask…such a thing?”

“Some kids at school asked me to ask you if you wished you had aborted me.  I didn’t know what that meant…”

My Father walked away.  My Mother came up to me, looked me in the eye and said, “No.  We did not wish that.  Your Father was very excited, in fact, he always said he hoped you would turn out to be a girl and he was so happy you did.”

My Mother seemed sad.  “You don’t like your new school, do you?”

I shook my head, no.

::

Fall 1989.

“Class, today we are going to do something a bit different—we’re going to look at Catholicism’s impact on the world.”

I tried not to smirk as I recalled my Father’s rants about how Catholicism destroyed things and was rather evil.   

“We’re going to start with India, which is where Anna is from!”

Uh…

“One of the most visible Catholics in the world has chosen India, to serve.  Mother Theresa uses her faith to care for the filthy, the neglected, the unfortunate…”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

“…let’s start our discussion by asking our Indian student more!”

“Um, I’m American.”

“Yes, dear.  But you’re Indian.  What’s India like?”

“I’m just saying, I was born here, so I don’t really know—“

“Now, let’s not fib…I now for a fact you just came back from your country.”

“Well…um…yes, but it’s my parents’ country…no, wait, even they are American citizens.” 

The nun was getting impatient. “May I remind you that discussion counts for your participation grade?  Now would you like to add something constructive to this conversation?”

“Uh…sure.  Well, I did just get back from India.  I had not visited it since I was five, so I learned a lot.”  The nun nodded, with an encouraging smile.

“And tell us about the poverty you saw, the contrasts with America.”

“I…didn’t see poverty really…”

“Calcutta is very impoverished!  How is that possible?”

“I went to Kerala.  I’ve never been to Calcutta.  I’m from South India.  I went to where my parents are from and visited their families.  And Kerala is lush and green and so pretty.  The people are all really smart and the museum I went to—“

“How far is Careluh from Calcutta?”

“It’s really far.”

“So far that you didn’t see beggars?”

“I saw a few…”

“JUST a few?”

“No more than I see when I visit San Francisco.”

“That’s it young lady.  I will not tolerate your smart-aleck behavior.  To the principal’s office you will go and you’ll have detention, later.”

“But I didn’t…”

“Would you like me to double your punishment?”

I nodded miserably and walked out, reaching in to my backpack for my headphones.  Reel Life’s “Send Me an Angel” accompanied me as I dawdled on my way to the office. 

::

I thought of all of those moments, yesterday.  I’ll get to why in a mere moment. 

Besides my younger sibling, I was the only Indian kid at all of my schools except for the last one I cited. Obviously, my little sister did not accompany me to high school, but there was one other Indian girl there. Unfortunately, she wanted nothing to do with  me, because she couldn’t relate to me; she told me I wasn’t Indian enough, that I was white-washed. 

I was South Indian and Christian, I didn’t do garba or understand what she was talking about when she asked me about whether I preferred Salwars to lenghas--in fact, I didn’t even know what a lengha was…just like I was clueless about which Bollywood actor I should have a crush on. Once she realized that I had no experience with such things, she decided she had no use for me.  We didn’t speak, despite sitting next to each other, in home room.

This is now a well-known tale, this trial-by-ignorance which older 1.5/second gens went through.  I am amazed and relieved when I understand that things will never be that brutal for generation 3, not in this world where the internet sates curiosity while dissolving international borders and knitting us all together via the web. 

India is no longer so weird or foreign; today, people don’t eat monkey brains on the big screen. The little ABDs I’ve met recently who are nine, 12 and 14 are informed, empowered, righteous and sassy.  Once upon a time, if you had told me that girls in this country would wear lenghas and saris to their Junior Prom or in their Senior portrait, I would have thought you were a bad comedian.  I would have and did wear Gunne Sax, to both, way back in the early 90s.

Ganapati Bappa Morya

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:)

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

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

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

"END OF THE LINE. EVERYBODY OFF."

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

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

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