Choosing Your Own Dreams

“I play tennis for a living, even though I hate tennis, hate it with a dark and secret passion, and always have” is how Andre Agassi begins his book Open. The pages that follow take the reader through the reasons why Agassi had a tortured relationship with the game that made him famous. In heartbreaking detail, Agassi recounts that he was living his father’s dreams of becoming a tennis champion. At a young age, Agassi was forced to hit ball after ball: “My father says that if I hit 2,500 balls each day, I’ll hit 17,500 balls each week, and at the end of one year I’ll have hit nearly one million balls. He believes in math. Numbers, he says, don’t lie. A child who hits one million balls each year will be unbeatable.” For a while, Agassi found solace in winning. He won his way to eight grand slams. But what eluded him were feelings of contentment and happiness. “I never chose this life, so I resented it,” Agassi says. “It came with a huge price tag.” The reader is left with the question of whether it was all worth it in the end.

While I wasn’t anywhere close to being a grand slam tennis champion, as a competitive tennis player growing up and as a parent of two children now, the themes in this book hit close to home. I began playing tennis at the ripe age of six because my father wanted his children to play tennis competitively. My great grandfather was a tennis champion in India, but could never travel abroad to share his talent because his family believed that crossing an ocean was taboo (called kala pani, to some “crossing the ocean entailed the end of the reincarnation cycle, as the traveler was cut off from the regenerating waters of the Ganges. Such voyages also meant breaking family and social ties.”) Through me and my brother, my father hoped to continue his grandfather’s legacy and the tradition of playing tennis. While I am grateful that my father didn’t make me hit a million balls a year like Agassi’s father, undoubtedly, there was pressure to win. I won a slew of tournaments. I went on to hold the #1 spot on my high school varsity team for four years, captaining the last two, and walked on to the Tufts Varsity Women’s Team as a freshmen and captained that team in my junior year. I had long given up hope that I would be a world-class tennis player by the time I graduated college but this childhood dream lingered.

When we had our son Kabir fourteen years ago, I was hopeful that he would pick up where I left off with tennis. To my delight, he took to tennis early and started to play at the age of three. We enrolled him in lessons at the age of four and he seemed to really like it. As I would sit at his lessons, I started to notice that parents were going crazy on the sidelines. This was very different than my childhood. Of course there were those notorious parents on the tennis tournament circuit a la Agassi’s father but those folks were anomalies, not the norm. One day, a father ran out onto the court, mid-lesson, to scold his five-year-old for not hitting the ball over the net. And this was at a kids’ lesson at a local tennis club! I was baffled. What was going on?

Anybody who knows me knows that I am super competitive. It’s in my blood. But seeing that child being pushed and berated by his parent did something to me that day. It was then that I vowed to NEVER be that parent. (Side note: While I think tennis specifically lends itself to this type of bad parenting behavior, I have witnessed this nonsense at my daughter’s soccer games and my son’s basketball games. There is something going on with children’s sports in America. And it’s not good. But that’s a topic for another day.)

Kabir tried different sports from baseball to basketball and a lot in-between. During middle school, Kabir flourished at team sports. He loved the flag football and basketball teams. He ended up co-captaining his ultimate frisbee team to a state championship and being nominated as a state all-star player. Kabir is an intense athlete and competitive like me. He is also a perfectionist in the things that matter most to him. He will spend hours playing a song on the piano, getting the notes just right to his liking. A keen observer, my son will spend hours watching the greats in their craft- from speeches to manner of acting, he misses nothing. Much like a baby, my son learns by imitation and repeats ad nauseam until mastery. His work ethic and commitment are unparalleled. Just ask his seventh grade teacher where Kabir got the highest grade, ever, that this teacher has given in his 20+ year career.

All the while, we continued to send Kabir to tennis so he could build up his skills. He tried his hand at tennis tournaments a few years ago. While he did relatively well for his first few tournaments, he never took to the competition on the court. Knowing what a perfectionist he is and just how competitive he could be, it was puzzling to witness a complete transformation of Kabir on the tennis court. I didn’t recognize this child. It was like he gave up before he even tried. There was no fight in him and no desire to win or do well. It seemed like he just wanted to get off the tennis court as soon as possible. It didn’t help matters that in a tournament that he was set to win, the opponent cheated on match point (sadly, but unsurprisingly, encouraged by his parents) and Kabir ended up losing the match. Thankfully, other parents witnessed this theft and tried consoling us but perhaps that was the turning point for Kabir? Unfortunately, we will never really know. But after a few more tournaments, Kabir didn’t want to play tennis competitively anymore.

It wasn’t until I read Agassi’s autobiography that I finally got it. “Tennis is the loneliest sport.” This line hit me hard. I finally understood what Kabir felt on the tennis court. “In tennis you're on an island. Of all the games men and women play, tennis is the closest to solitary confinement.” So that was what Kabir felt on the court! I wept. What delighted Kabir so much about sports was feeling like he was on a team and that he was part of something bigger than himself. He enjoyed the camaraderie with his teammates and working collectively on the goal of winning. In playing tennis matches, he felt alone. He was alone on the court. And he hated that feeling. I wept with this profound understanding of my son and wept as I released all tennis expectations, of him and myself.

My son came home yesterday from trying out for a basketball team with a huge grin on his face. He doesn’t know if he made the team. But he knew that he had given it his all with the weeks he had spent practicing three pointers at a nearby park, playing pickup with the neighborhood kids, learning skills at an intensive city basketball summer league and watching hours of basketball videos on YouTube. As he stepped on the basketball court, his eyes were intense and focused. He brought the competition with him this time, just on a different type of court. With a big sigh of relief, I let out all that I had been withholding these past few years about sports, tennis and meeting my expectations. I’ve realized that as a parent, just letting my son be and allowing him to have his own dreams is what is worth it to me. At the end of the day, Kabir’s radiant smile confirmed this hard-won truth.

Do You Want to Come Out and Play?

Anybody who knows my father knows he is an ultimate introvert. My father can spend a copious amount of time by himself, watching the news, playing stocks, and reading. He can entertain himself to no end, driving my mother, the perennial extrovert, absolutely crazy- this dynamic can be mildly entertaining though I must not find too much delight in it lest I find myself in the same situation 30 years from now with my introverted husband! Also, my father is an optimist, always hoping for the best and believing in the best of people. It is an admirable personality trait, especially given the cynical, tumultuous, and negative environment that we find ourselves in nowadays. My father loves playing tennis as well. Tennis is our family sport, with my father’s grandfather having played championship tennis in India. When we go to CT on the weekends, you can often find all of us, from grandparents to grandchildren, on the Bethel High School tennis courts.

I was talking to my father on the phone yesterday after he came back from an emergency trip to India. He sounded uncharacteristically down. After some prodding, he said that the tennis group that he had come to love had dropped him from their text chain. My heart sank for him. I tried making him feel better saying maybe there was a reason that they hadn’t texted or that it was an inadvertent mistake. But he had a suspicion that being ghosted by them had been in the works for some time.

In retirement, my father has found great delight in playing tennis. It’s a mystery that despite being shy and introverted, my father found multiple groups of people with whom to play tennis. He has his “Indian Uncle Group” that he meets at an indoor tennis club multiple times a week during the winter months. With my dad on the younger side of the Indian Uncle Group at the youthful age of 75, it’s the cutest thing picturing these older men meeting on Friday evenings and Sunday early mornings. It’s about an hour drive from our house to the club, so my dad carpools with another uncle, meeting half way and riding together in one car. Its a lot of effort to play tennis, but they all enjoy it so much. In a nod to our culture, each uncle brings something to their matches- one uncle brings coconut water, another brings some snacks and my dad brings bananas to share. My father looks forward to these weekend outings, I suspect not only to play tennis but for the camaraderie and friendship that have developed over the years as well.

During the warmer months, my father found another group of men, albeit younger but also Indian, with whom to play. Two years ago, my father met one of them at the Bethel High tennis courts and asked if he could join their group. For somebody who is shy like my dad, this was a courageous move. This man obliged and started to include my dad on their tennis group’s WhatsApp chain. This group is local and plays outside so its easier for my dad to join in. If you hear my mom telling the story, she will say that when the weather is nice enough to play outside, you’ll find my dad glued to his phone starting at 3PM. He waits for somebody in this group to text about playing tennis that day, the time and location (either the Bethel or Danbury courts). My dad is almost always the second to RSVP his attendance. On the days that nobody texts within the chain, my father becomes grumpy and sour. He turns into that kid who is stuck at home, looking out the window, not having been asked to come out and play by the other neighborhood kids.

These groups mean so much to my father as they constitute the bulk of his social outlet. There’s been so much that has been written about the connection between longevity and social connections. Last year, the Surgeon General Dr. Vivek Murthy raised the alarm bells about the loneliness epidemic taking over the country in a 2023 advisory. Dr. Murthy remarked that lacking connection can increase the risk of premature death to levels comparable to smoking 15 cigarettes a day! The Surgeon General advisory warned that the physical consequences of poor connection can be devastating including a 29% increased risk of heart disease, a 32% increased risk of stroke and a 50% increased risk of developing dementia for older adults.

So when my father told me about being dropped by this local tennis group, I was sad that my dad no longer had an almost-daily guaranteed time to play and built-in social connection. Perhaps my dad was slowing this group down? Or perhaps my dad was annoying in his over-eagerness or competitiveness? Whatever the reason, I’m disappointed that this group of men didn’t give my father the message directly. I guess this says more about our current culture, where kindness, respect and dignity are eschewed for the expediency of convenience and comfort. However, as I spoke to my father yesterday, I didn’t convey any of this to him. In my mind, I thanked this younger group for having indulged my father in playing tennis with him for these past few years. Also, it was a reminder to me that there must be older people in my Cambridge community that may be looking for social connection and that I must pay it forward as this younger group had done for my father.

Today is a gorgeous, sunny, balmy 85-degree day. While it makes me sad that there won’t be a text for my dad come 3PM today, I’ll take a page out of my father’s optimism book and hope that somebody will invite him out to play. (And at the very least, he’ll have plenty of playdates on the tennis courts with us come this long weekend!)

What was Lost

The other day, I used the term “pre-pandemic” in a discussion with my children. They didn’t bat an eyelash and knew exactly of what period of time I was referring. “Pre-pandemic” and “post-pandemic” have come to signify so much more than simply a period before and after the three years of the pandemic. The post-world is so different and feels other worldly. We as a collective have felt such seismic shifts in living, working and being that it will take generations to fully appreciate the impacts.

However, lately, I can’t help to think about all that we lost. Pre-pandemic, my house ran like clockwork. Both kids were off to school, lunches prepared and my husband and I were at our desks in time for our 9AM meetings. And then the evening hustle would begin, with different kid activities, board meetings, social commitments, and everything in-between. We did that five days a week, for weeks on end, because that’s what was expected of us to advance our careers, provide for our family, and participate in the communities we chose to belong. This is not to paint a rosy picture of ease with this routine (some days it was an absolute shit show!), but we followed it without question and so did many people within our circles.

Now, post-pandemic, our lives are so different. I don’t know about you, but it takes me so much longer to do anything these days. The hustle is gone and that sense of shared purpose and belonging has evaporated as well. During the pandemic, everything came to a standstill. Life with its hustle and bustle stopped. For those who were not deemed “essential workers” and who were privileged in society and blessed with work-from-home jobs, the pandemic forced us to slow down. Now, don’t get me wrong, there were moments that were stressful. But if you didn’t leave your house for days, and had your groceries delivered to you (after they spent a day in the garage and were wiped down clean), your life was opposite to what life was like pre-pandemic. For many of us, this change was welcomed. It was a time to reassess priorities, places of work, jobs, as well as activities and the myriad of other things we had voluntarily put on our plates pre-pandemic.

As we make our way out of the pandemic into this post world, I am not sure we have reckoned with the consequences of what happens when our worlds slow down and priorities shift. I know for me, my world got smaller, unintentionally. Where I used to chat with so many people in my day, from coworkers to receptionists to caregivers and providers, I’m lucky if my day includes anybody outside of my immediate family. I know I am not alone. In my reprioritization efforts, I seem to have reduced my life to the “essential” for the sake of productivity, efficiency and survival. In doing so, I have underestimated the value and worth of the supposed “non-essentials” like acquaintances, community and sense of belonging.

We saw what happens when we deem people to be “essential” vs. “nonessential,” when we prioritize bars and restaurants over schools and daycares and when we question public health in the name of individual liberties. Millions of people died. Income inequality exacerbated, Mental illness among youth skyrocketed. In no other time in my lifetime have we seen and felt the implications of such profound shifts in societal values so clearly. And I believe we have not reckoned fully with the consequences of these changes.

There is perhaps no clearer example of these shifts than the workplace in corporate America today. Companies are trying to entice their workers back to the office with mandates, free lunches and parking and other such benefits that pre-pandemic would have immediately propelled a company to the top of any “Best Company” list. However, workers are calling their employers’ bluff understanding if a company has survived until the post-pandemic world, working remotely remains a viable and productive solution. And companies are struggling to show the value proposition of returning to office. What makes being in the office necessary if you spend most of your day on zoom calls with employees in different locations? Because we have shifted our societal values to ones of productivity and efficiency, now it is companies that are having to prove the same to their employees. While I certainly don’t place blame on employees for the current return to office debacle playing out in almost every office across the country, I may be unpopular, but I miss how work life used to be. I miss the organic connections, the impromptu drinks post-work and the camaraderie that existed when the same was expected of all of us, all the time. It no longer feels like we are working together with a philosophy of “a rising tide lifts all boats.” Rightfully, the pandemic allowed us to question these values and now employees are questioning just what is a rising tide and do we want to experience rising tides and whether all boats are indeed being lifted by these corporate policies.

As my universe has gotten smaller, so have my relationships and sense of community. Who we let into our “pandemic bubble” defined with whom we socialized. I used to have many layers and tiers of relationships in my life, from people I would converse with daily as I waited with my kids at the bus stop to the receptionist at the office and so much in-between. Many of those layers that constitute the social fabric of one’s life went away with the pandemic. We no longer looked at people the same way for coronavirus was transmitted through people. People were seen as potential threats. And the safety with which I used to be in the world drifted away as well. Places and people became unsafe in ways that we haven’t felt universally in our lifetimes.

So what have we lost? So much I think. Yes, I get more time with my family, especially my children. I am not spending five days a week commuting into the office. However, I am not convinced that the tradeoffs are worth it . And I don’t think we have grappled with these consequences as a society nor am I convinced that we are prepared should another pandemic-like event occur. The richness and textures that existed in my social fabric pre-pandemic have been frayed and replaced with ‘non-essential’ things like television and social media. I believe that our children and our youth are mirrors to what is working and what is not in our society. And our youth are hurting in ways that are alarming but also indicative of what I am trying to capture here.

Given the current situation, what should we do? I know for me it is about being deliberate about re-engaging with the world- joining community meetings, taking an interest in civic life and work life. It is expanding who is in my post-pandemic bubble. It is taking lunch with colleagues at the office instead of eating at your desk (side note- I started having lunch with a group of attorneys when we were mandated back to the office three days a week and now we look for each other around noon on the days we are in the office. Colleagues have said that they have started looking forward to these lunches and I know I am sad when I have to miss them.). It is finding joy in another’s company not to meet an objective end but simply because. It is making eye contact and acknowledging one’s humanity when you check out at the grocery store. It is exercising these muscles that have been dormant during the pandemic and being patient with one’s self while the social fabric starts to be resown. It will take time, but I am convinced there is no other way. The alarms are ringing and we need to pay attention to what has been lost before “post-pandemic” becomes “post-apocalyptic” and the world we knew is all but lost entirely.

New Year Intentions- Awakening & Clarity

Five years ago, I started picking new year intentions or words to encapsulate my goals and vision for the year ahead. Since then, it has become my practice come January to think about the year and what I want to focus on. This year I have selected two words that I think go hand and in hand with one another: Awakening & Clarity.

Unbeknownst to me, I began my awakening last year. It has been a slow, deliberate, and sometimes, painful process of deep introspection, evaluation and contemplation. I’ve taken a step back from most of what used to keep me busy to allow myself time to simmer, percolate and unwind in safe spaces. I’ve started to untangle from relationships that no longer serve me and to be deliberate and intentional with whom I spend time and let into my life.

I made a conscious effort at the end of last year to minimize my use of social media and to only post about social justice issues that hit at the core of who I am (the notable exception was a post about my daughter’s bday). For me, it’s been quite cathartic to not post all my social happenings and to be present in those moments that I used to post about. It has also been helpful to use social media in a way that is aligned with who I am- a human rights advocate. However, I’ve had to unlearn much of my unhealthy social media behavior. It’s taken me months to get out of the mindset that if I don’t post something, is it worth happening? (Yes, def worth happening.) Or, is it OK to not have the world know about every detail about my life? (Absolutely OK!) And the negative aspects of social media of constant comparison, body shaming, and life/home/clothing/makeup envy are equally difficult to overcome. I’ve found that it’s been much more meaningful to text my loved ones directly with pictures and musings of my life, including travel and special moments. It’s also OK for some things to be private. All of these processes are complicated and messy and for every step forward, I’ve experienced that one + step backward. It’s imperfect but I think an honest evaluation of the meaning of social media in my life has been a big part of my awakening.

Another component to my awakening has been laying off the booze. I’ve been partaking in Dry January for the past few years and I’ve found the month of sobriety to be welcomed, refreshing and eye-opening. At the end of last month, my family and I took a trip to India (it was incredible!) and without planning, it ended up being a dry vacation. Much to my surprise, I had an incredible time! I was able to relish in the company of my children and husband, enjoy the sites and the food, all without the burdens of alcohol.

What started at the end of last year has carried into this year and I am super happy about it. Most days, you can find me in bed and asleep by 9:30PM and awake by 5-5:15AM. My morning routine has gotten an upgrade thanks to being dry as well- I’ve gone from journaling every day to adding in a daily surya namaskar (sun salutation) practice, brief meditation, and daily Bhagavad Gita (Hindu spiritual scripture) reading. My goal is to finish, absorb and try to understand the Gita by the end of the year. I’ve also started to take my health more seriously and have committed to eating better, strength training and walking along with training for another half-marathon (as soon as the snow/ice melt!).

All of these small habits and changes have helped me in my awakening journey. I know there is so much more to go, but I feel the cobwebs clearing and finally, I am able to think, breathe and rest a little easier. I hope that in the coming weeks and months to continue unlearning much of the toxic achievement culture that I’ve been a part of my whole life which will bring me to my second intention for the new year: clarity. I want to be more clear in who I am, what brings me joy, what direction I want to take in my personal and professional life, and with whom I want to spend my time. With this clarity I hope to take on new roles and responsibilities that are aligned with me and my family. Progress will be slow, but I’ve learned to be OK with that!

I wish you all a happy 2024 and that you may set intentions that are true to who you are and where you are going on this journey called life. Happy New Year!

Some Thoughts

I am not OK. I have been struggling for weeks now. This feeling is different and one that I haven’t felt for years. The last time I felt this way was when I was in conflict-torn Bukavu, visiting Panzi Hospital in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I haven’t talked about my time there in detail. Mostly, it’s because it hurts, still to this day, and I feel the complete hopelessness that I feel right now. I had just visited the pediatric ward for sexual violence survivors. Yes, you read that correctly. I had met two and three-year old girls who had been brutally raped, their tiny organs ripped apart by the depravity of grown men. There was so much in that visit, but what struck me the most was that despite the evil, hatred and cruelty, these girls found it within themselves to smile. To still believe that their lives would get better. And so amidst this backdrop, knowing all that these criminals had taken from them, they chose hope.

These last few weeks feel similarly because of these feelings of despair and hopelessness. When I was in the DRC, it sometimes felt like I was in an alternate reality. Is what I am seeing and experiencing really happening? Because if it was, how are we all not feeling like this? How can this be happening and people are carrying on their daily lives? How can we know that this is happening, watch these awful videos of children being maimed, orphaned, and killed, and turn away? How can we allow this suffering, born primarily by women and children, to continue? And all not feel the pain to our very core?

In all of these awful conflicts, I am always bewildered that we can’t see the humanity in others. Why can’t we understand that a Palestinian mother or father grieving the loss of their baby or child is the same as the Jewish mother or father grieving the loss of theirs? Human suffering is universal. It knows no bounds. And yet we are told that one narrative is more compelling, worthy of action and the other is not. I will choose to not get political here because this isn’t about that anymore. We left politics at the station weeks ago. This is about our collective humanity. This is about the universal truths that bind us together. If we can’t see this now, after so much evidence and data, I fear for our future and for our society. I fear that “Never Again” was a hollow promise.

We do what we can for our children. So I will continue to show up for mine. But these last few weeks have been almost unbearable. To bear witness to the abject pain and suffering is the absolute least I can do, in my cushy, warm, home and my full, hydrated body. If my feelings, prayers and energy that I put out in the world can help in some minute way, I will take it because to do otherwise, would be soul-crushing. I will bear witness so that when my children are older, I can at least say that I felt. I cried. And I suffered a tiny fraction. I can look myself in the mirror today and tomorrow knowing that while my heart is broken, I still have one that beats to the drum of humanity. I can muster the courage to smile to that, with the hope that this fake smile will one day again be real. Just like the little girls in the Congo.

When Home Alone Meets Barbie, It’s Pure Magic!

Every Christmas season, I make the kids watch Home Alone with me. It’s our annual tradition. I laugh at the same jokes, know most of the movie script by heart, and cry every time Kevin locks eyes with his mom at the end. While I think it’s one of the best family movies out there, that is not the reason I watch it or insist on my family doing so. I watch it because I get to relive one of my favorite childhood memories.

It was around Thanksgiving 1990 and I was eleven. My brother and I were spending the night at one of my childhood friend’s homes. My childhood friend’s mom, also my favorite Indian Aunty, decided she was going to take us out to the movies. We loved going to this Aunty’s house because she took care of all of us as if we were her own. When she planned sleepovers, she ensured that she had all our favorite treats and foods specifically curated to the preferences of each child: the range was exceptional from making me homemade fettucine alfredo (!) to buying another friend cheese puffs and making sure my brother had chocolate ice cream. We were especially excited that evening to go to the movies.

Growing up, going to the movie theater was a real treat. The fact this Aunty took all the kids to the evening show was an even rarer experience. But the best part? Aunty treated us to all the candy, popcorn and soda we wanted! We were in heaven even before the movie began. And on top of that, the movie was Home Alone! From the minute the movie started, we were giggling and laughing and having the time of our lives. I remember looking over at Aunty during the movie to find her in hysterics over one of Kevin’s antics. I had never laughed so much in a movie. It was pure childhood magic.

So when my ten-year old daughter asked to see the new Barbie movie with one of her girlfriends yesterday, I jumped at the opportunity. I ditched my afternoon meetings, picked up the girls from summer camp and headed to the movies. The girls squealed when I said they could get what they wanted. They chose popcorn buckets bigger than their heads and slushees with ridiculous amounts of food coloring and sugar. They ran up to their seats with glee. Halfway through the movie, my daughter reached for my arm, gave it a little squeeze, and whispered how good the movie was with the biggest grin on her face. She was having the time of her life and I was so grateful to be experiencing it with her. Channeling my inner favorite Aunty, I returned my daughter’s smile and was transported to a tale of a kid left home alone, fending off two not-so-smart burglars with clever pranks and tricks, wishing for their family during Christmas. And I could feel my beloved Aunty, who sadly passed away years ago now, smiling down on me as well. Pure magic.

My Word for 2023: Kindness

My word for 2023 is KINDNESS. This word seems simplistic, definitely not as jazzy as “abundance,” “adventure,” or “limitless.” But as we all weathered another election cycle last year, I was reminded what a lack of kindness can do to us, our well-being, our communities and society at large. For me in particular, what has been jarring has been the shift back to “normal” life. While the pandemic was extremely difficult for many on an existential basis, for those who were more fortunate, the pandemic provided an opportunity to slow things down, to be deliberate in one’s actions, and to take time to be more polite, nice, and ultimately, kind. As we return to our pre-pandemic routines, the hustle and bustle of American life have returned along with increased feelings of hecticness, lack of time, rudeness and selfishness. By focusing on kindness this year, I hope to use my privilege of resources and time to benefit others and to be reminded of the values that matter most to me and to my family.

I have talked often on my blog about learning from and being humbled by my children. Kindness is a virtue that my daughter Navya has in spades. Perhaps it’s being the second-born child or because her father is generous and nice, but Navya has been extremely kind and generous since she was young. To be honest, it amazes me just how very kind she is and it is one of the traits I love most about her. Even when eating her favorite foods, if there is extra tofu, noodles, edamame, you name it, she will always offer to split it with the next person, regardless of who they are. We have never had to ask her to share, or told her she should share, it just comes naturally to her. Navya is never first in line, always watchful that everybody has had their turn or taken their food first.

At the end of last year, one of Navya’s best friends was being mean to a boy in their class. Navya had watched it happen for a few weeks. As she recounted the story to me with tears in her eyes, Navya finally told her friend to stop being mean to the boy and now the friend was mad at Navya. I could tell that this was really hard for Navya because while she is a loyal person, being nice, generous and kind are even more important to her. I told her I was proud of her for sticking up for the boy, even if it meant a fight with her friend (and thankfully, the friend came around the next day). For Thanksgiving this year, Navya took time during crafts class to make earrings for all the women in my family. When she realized she was down one pair, she effortlessly gave up her own earrings to ensure that nobody was left out. That’s the type of girl she is and I have much to learn from her in this regard. I want to be Navya when I grow up :)

The importance of kindness towards others was confirmed as I was listening to my new favorite podcast by Mel Robbins. In this episode, Mel discussed that random acts of kindness are not only beneficial for the person receiving the kindness, but also for the person who is being kind. Mel goes through study after study where the benefits to both the giver and receiver of kindness are confirmed. My favorite kindness story that had me in tears was to a comment of a New York Times article:

As a child i lived in absolute poverty with an abusive parent. I had a music teacher who one day stopped while walking down the hall and simply said "Are you okay?", i broke down. He took me to his office, fed me his lunch and allowed me the space to pull myself together. He told me "You are in a bad spot, but it doesn't have to be your life." That small gesture gave me the hope to believe in myself and allowed me to start considering a future where the cycle of abuse and poverty don't exist. 30 years later, he was right and the cycles were broken. That small moment changed my life, my partner's life, and my children's life. Thanks Mr. Z, you'll never know how much it meant...

In addition to thinking about the power of kindness towards others, I am also hoping to be more kind to myself in 2023. As a self-proclaimed, Type A, goal-oriented person, I have always demanded perfection from myself in all areas of my life and in my quest to be productive, industrious and accomplished. I am exhausted. In 2023, I hope to be more kind to and patient with myself; to allow for rest, respite, downtime with my family, laziness, fun and playfulness, and mistakes (occasionally of course!). By gifting kindness to myself, I am hopeful it will spillover to kindness towards my family, friends and community as well.

As we enter 2023, what will your word or intention be? How will you show up for yourself and your community? Let me know in the comments below. And please be kind out there- it may not only benefit one another, but you as well!

Nostalgic traditions

Two Sundays ago, a beloved aunty and uncle (who are great friends to my parents) visited me and my family at my home in Cambridge. They were in town for a family wedding and stopped at our place en route to the airport. It meant the world to me that they visited us. As they sat at our kitchen island, we recounted my childhood and all the parties they used to host. We talked about the “kids” who are actually grown adults, with families and careers of their own. Aunty squealed when I made her a dosa (“I can’t believe Suchi is making me a dosa and that she made sambar from scratch!”).

We were transported in time, to thirty years ago, to when we played different roles in each others lives. There was a time when this group of aunties and uncles knew me so well; they knew what I wanted for my birthday and what foods to make for my picky palate (to my amazement, one of these aunties learned how to make fettucine alfredo for me!) We rejoiced in all the good memories, of those who have left us and what has transpired since that time.

What was particularly gratifying on that Sunday was that I was able to share with Aunty and Uncle a tradition that they started and I have kept alive in adulthood and that I would be hosting that very evening: the annual Indian holiday gathering. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, a group of Telugu aunties and uncles in Connecticut started a tradition of hosting an annual holiday get-together. There would be a Christmas tree, a Secret Santa gift exchange and talent show for the kids and…. an uncle dressed up as Santa Claus. I kid you not. At one gathering, a kid exclaimed “I didn’t know Santa Claus had brown skin!” The aunties, uncles and those kids in the know all chuckled and the Indian Santa Claus didn’t skip a beat with his retort, “Santa comes in all shades and serves all different people.” What was so heartwarming about this tradition is that this group of aunties and uncles, far from their Indian traditions, made an unfamiliar holiday their own. They served pulihora and yogurt rice alongside homemade Christmas cookies. By being together during the holiday season, they made the holidays in a foreign country feel less lonely, stepping in as surrogates for the families left behind in India.

So when I had children a decade ago now, there were some traditions that I wanted to continue. The Indian annual holiday gathering was one of them. When I found an Indian group in the Boston area, I started hosting a holiday party, complete with a Christmas tree, a Secret Santa and talent show for the kids and a buffet of Indian and American foods. Sadly, nobody wanted to don the Santa Claus costume. We started the tradition when my son was four and my daughter about to turn two and it has gone strong since then. I have kept some of the traditions the same and have created new ones as well. The children put up with my talent show (each child must do something - sing a song, play an instrument, perform a skit, or display some talent- before getting their gift) and the adults indulge me in wearing their ugliest sweaters. Much like the aunty who made me fettucine alfredo, we have one uncle who tailors homemade ice cream to our children’s tastes! This holiday gathering means so much to me because I know that long after these children grow up and move on with their lives in pursuit of their dreams, that they will carry these memories into adulthood.

I smile as I think about visiting one of these children twenty years from now. Nothing would give me more joy then visiting them in their homes, seeing them happy and thriving, and knowing that I played a very small part in who they are as adults. Certainly I hope that was how Aunty and Uncle felt visiting me. And if they make me a dosa (or anything really), I will squeal with delight much like my beloved aunty did with me! As I closed the door after saying goodbye to my aunty and uncle, I cried. While they were mostly tears of joy and happiness and a full heart, a few tears were of nostalgia and of those joyful times now passed.

We See Ourselves in Serena’s Story

Last night, Serena Williams bid farewell to the sport that she loves and to a sport in which many are calling her the greatest of all time (G.O.A.T.) In her tear-filled speech, she said that “But it all started with my parents and they deserve everything, so I am really grateful for them…” What I found remarkable, other than the historic moment I was watching of course, was just how familiar her gratitude and appreciation for her parents were to my feelings towards my parents. The respect, the adoration, the love and the understanding for the very people that cleared the path to make success achievable and dreams attainable are deeply rooted in the immigrant experience.

Earlier in the day on a plane ride from Portugal, I watched King Richard - the Academy-Award winning movie about the father who dreamed big, who surmounted all odds and created two world-class tennis champions from the street courts of Compton. It was Richard Williams who told his daughters that they would one day rule women’s tennis. He penned a 78-page manifesto or “plan” to turn his daughters into tennis champions. He not only did that, but also anticipated that while Venus would become a champion in her own right, that Serena would have the determination and the skills to be the greatest tennis champion of all time. Quietly in the background, their mother, Oracene Price, also played a heavy hand in their success- she is credited for fixing Serena’s serve toss and for providing the reassurance, support and security to the Williams’ sisters throughout this time.

What Serena displayed in her speech after her last professional match of her career is a sentiment that many of us children of immigrants feel too. Many of our parents sacrificed so much to provide the best that they could for their children- for many, it meant that they gave up on their own dreams to secure the futures of their children. Growing up in the American society where the individual is held in such high esteem, the values of deep sacrifice, commitment, dedication and compromise towards the family and the community are profoundly immigrant values.

Many of us first-generation Americans have parents who have heart-wrenching stories of pain and suffering, of leaving loved ones and places behind, and of starting anew in a foreign, often hostile, land. My parents’ stories are no less than this and are spoken about with my children with deep reverence and awe. While I’ll save their stories for another time, as I watched King Richard yesterday and Serena’s speech last night, my heart swelled with gratitude towards my parents. In an ironic twist, my father came to the United States in the 1970s with a dream to teach his children tennis (his great grandfather was a tennis champion in India). While I was no Serena, I did go on to play varsity tennis in college and high school because of my parents’ investment and commitment in me. The point, however, is that my parents’ sacrifices taught me so much more than success on the tennis court: to dream big and to believe in myself. In Serena’s acknowledgement of her parents, my parents and so many immigrant parents not only deserve their children’s successes, but “deserve everything” too.

Representation Matters

Liam Daniel / © Netflix

Truth be told, I can’t stop watching Bridgerton Season 2. Eyerolll. I know, I get it. Much has been written about how Bridgerton inaccurately depicts Indian culture, completely ignores the harm and devastation caused by colonialism, and the mundane plot line. Added to these criticisms, the distinction between North and South India is confusing- the Sharma sisters, Edwina and Kate, call their father “appa” (a Tamil word for father) while Edwina calls her older sister “didi” (a Hindi word for older sister). They speak Hindustani, a mixture of Hindi and Urdu often spoken in the North, but they are South Indian in appearance and on the show. (Side note: It’s baffling to me that while these shows spend thousands of dollars on elegant wardrobes and stage sets, that they can’t do simple desk research to get these aspects of another’s culture correct.)

All of this aside, I rejoiced at seeing somebody who looked like me on screen. It was one of the first times that I’ve seen a dark-skinned, South Indian actress play the lead role and be the object of affection of a White, leading man. This all sounds warped especially this day in age where you see South Asian representation everywhere and being coveted by a White person no longer carries the same symbolism nor should it. However, I can’t recall a time where a dark-skinned, South Indian actress is the object of desire by a mainstream man not out of some weird, exotic fetish but simply for being her. Kate Sharma (played by Simone Ashley) is displayed in all her beauty and radiance with complex depth and emotion. She is desired not just for her looks, but for her personality, wit and grace.

Devouring episode after episode of Bridgerton, I wonder what this depiction would have done for me had it been available in my childhood. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I was surrounded by the rom coms of Sixteen Candles, Dirty Dancing, Princess Bride, Pretty in Pink, Sleepless in Seattle, My Best Friend’s Wedding and Never Been Kissed. The list goes on but the connecting theme is that of a White leading lady being pursued or wanted by a White leading man. I used to dream about being suddenly noticed and swept off my feet by Michael Schoeffling (THE Jake Ryan of Samantha’s dreams). But then I would look in the mirror and realize that there was no way it was possible for an Indian American girl like me.

During this time I also started watching Indian movies, mostly Hindi movies, as those were the ones coming our way. I remember visiting India after 1942: A Love Story came out. The songs, the dancing, the love story all sucked me in - I dreamt about being Manisha Koirala dancing in the rain and singing Rim Jhim Rim Jhim and of catching Jackie Shroff’s fancy. What is fascinating is that despite being Nepalese, Koirala depicted what was seen as beautiful for that time: fitting a certain mold of beauty of being fair-skinned. All the South Indian actresses that made it in Bollywood up until this point were fair-skinned (and gorgeous)- Aishwarya Rai, Sridevi and Rekha to name a few. Again, the message was clear from Hollywood to Bollywood: beauty was not me.

All these castings left girls like me out of the equation- beauty didn’t include a dark-skinned South-Indian girl with an American accent and hairy arms and legs. And that limited what I could see for my future. It affected my confidence profoundly, who I could see myself with and what I desired. We hear people say this all the time, that representation matters. I can honestly say that it does. It matters for those little girls and boys who are yearning to see people like themselves on screens, in positions of power, and as role models in society. It matters to be able to see what is possible and to not be limited by others. It matters who we see as beautiful and worthy of affection. Representation matters.

I’m grateful that my daughter can now see that beauty includes girls like her and that the only thing limiting her dreams is her own imagination. As a young girl, I would have given anything to see Kate and Edwina Sharma on screen as leading ladies catching the fancy of a handsome Viscount. Maybe I too would have believed in my beauty and more importantly, myself, as well.

Letting Priya's Spirit Free

December 2019, Hyderabad, India - Priya, left, helping her little cousin Navya, right, celebrate her birthday.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve written and I’m not sure why. So much has changed for me in the past three months, but then again, so much hasn’t. It’s ironic that the last post I wrote about was that of the death of my dear mother-in-law almost 4 years gone. Because now as I write this, I am in India with my husband, helping my sister-in-law and her family with the loss of their daughter, Priya. My heart breaks all over again, this time, for a life that was lost too soon, for a family that will be profoundly altered for the rest of their respective lives over the loss of a daughter who held court, stole people’s hearts and minds and defied all odds to become a college-educated, employed, strong young woman despite her disabilities.

Even though we have dealt with the pandemic and cataclysmic changes in work, school and health and loss over these past two years as a society, still nothing prepares you for death. I think that’s what has caught me most off guard these past eleven days. That even though we’ve been surrounded by such loss of life and uncertainty and have had to become more flexible and nimble in our daily lives, that the permanence of death still can hit you so hard. Intellectually you know it’s always a possibility with anybody you hold dear, but in life, despite it all, your heart settles on hope and positivity. Even though there is so much bad going on in the world right now, the promise of life, of hope, of love carries you to the next moment. Until that next moment is one of death.

For the past two days, I’ve been sitting with my sister-in-law. Most times we don’t speak. I sit there in her pain. I cannot ever know the true depths of her despair and utter devastation. But I sit there, knowing that I have no ability to take any of it away from her. I listen to her tell stories of her Priya, of her suffering, her last days and minutes, and also of her triumphs, of her character and personality and of what she will miss. I worry that she will feel the despair of loneliness and we will be thousands of miles away, caught up in our daily lives to not be with her. To not sit with her. To not allow her to share her pain.

You can tell so much about a culture by how they care for those grieving. In my culture, there are 10-13 days of mourning. In those days, those who have lost their loved ones are not left alone and surrounded by family and friends. Each day there are ceremonies performed by a priest. The 10th day after death, which we observed yesterday for Priya, is perhaps the hardest day for those who believe in spirits and an afterlife. It is the day where we who are left behind must sever our ties with the spirit of the departed. We must let her go, let her spirt free, so the spirit can fulfill its destiny. With our clothes on, we purify ourselves with a cold water shower. We then perform a simple ceremony performed by the priest who instructs us how to cut our ties to Priya. We thank her for blessing our lives with her presence, for giving us so much of herself. And then in a moment, our bonds are cut forever. We then take another cold water shower, marking the end of our relationship with the deceased. For my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, the pain of that severance was almost too much to bear. The finality so cruel. As a mother and father, can you ever really detach from your child?

As we went back to my sister-in-law’s place yesterday, I am convinced that despite it all, nothing prepares you for death. But the heart, in all its defiance to one’s mind, soldiers on with hope, love and possibility. I pray that this hope, love and possibility will carry my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and nephew through this next difficult period knowing that the ache of losing Priya will never erase completely and only dull in time.

RIP my dear Priya. You have changed our lives for the better and we will miss you so very much. Goodbye thali.

Taking Nothing

We sat on her bed, puffy-eyed and heartbroken. She had been the matriarch of their family and the glue that bound them together. The jewelry she had been wearing when she died was strewn across the bed, her last earthly possessions. My husband’s mother, my Attayagaru, had given away almost all of her jewelry and material items, except for the items on the bed and the saris in her closet. Her children, their spouses and offspring assembled in her room for one last time to divide the remaining items. It was a gathering to which nobody wanted an invitation, but one we honored nevertheless.

We opened the cupboard where my mother-in-law stored her saris and found a world of treasure. As we took down each one of her colorful saris, we pictured her wearing them at different occasions throughout her eighty years of life. We found the faded mauve-colored sari with beautiful designs sewn in gold thread that she wore to my wedding reception. I remembered her dancing with her son that evening flashing that big toothy grin. Oh how she enjoyed that day! My Attayagaru was gone and this was all that remained. I grabbed her sari and held it close.

We found the saris she had been gifted through the years from family and friends, all meticulously ironed and maintained. Interspersed in her cupboard we found candy wrappers that gave us a little chuckle. If there was one item that my Attayagaru loved above else it was American chocolate, especially Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. At the end of her life, she wasn’t supposed to eat them and she knew this. But tucked into the saris and blouses were remnants of her guilty pleasures that brought smiles to our faces. We were grateful for her indulgences and her little rebellion. This was one of the things we loved most about this fierce woman and a trait that remained until the end of her days.

As we returned to her jewelry on the bed, it finally hit me that in death, one takes nothing with them. Absolutely nothing. One leaves this Earth the same way they came with nothing in hand. It seems like such a small realization that felt so profound at the time. I’m not sure why but it has stuck with me ever since. With the last of her jewelry claimed, I held on to my Attayagaru’s ring that day wishing it were her hand instead. 

1-800-TAMPONS

I remember sitting at my kitchen table alone, hands sweaty. I was home alone, my brother outside playing and my parents at work. Finally after months, I mustered the courage to call. I had written down my questions in preparation and I was hopeful of the outcome. I dialed and a woman answered. Relief. “Welcome to Tampax, how may I help you?” she asked. “Hi, I’m 15 years old and I need some help.” I replied.

As a competitive tennis player in the 90s, I had suffered through my period while playing tournaments and matches using bulky pads, without wings. Literally it felt like you were wearing a diaper. Back then, tennis gear was pretty basic. You would wear a tennis skirt and underneath, separate tennis bloomers that had pockets sewn into them so you could hold tennis balls. This was all fine when your skirt was a dark color and you could wear darker bloomers when having your period. But my high school team’s colors were maroon and WHITE. Yes, white skirts with white bloomers. Nothing could be worse for a young girl menstruating while playing a sport in white attire.

As my varsity team’s #1, I was guaranteed to play all matches, whether home or away. The home matches were easier for me because even though the high school locker room was a ways away from the tennis courts, I could anticipate the time it took to get there and plan things perfectly to make it to the bathroom. However, my anxiety would increase exponentially when playing away games. I had to factor in the bus rides, the warmups, and access to facilities. All these logistics were extremely perplexing for a teenage girl, trying to fit in without an embarrassing period accident.

I agonized every month and fretted over the tennis schedule, counting the days that were my heaviest and praying that I didn’t have to wear my white skirt during those matches. I almost quit the tennis team, my favorite sport, because of this. Now, there is more awareness about these things with terms such as “period stigma” but back then, I felt like I was on an island all alone in my struggles. Except that one day, this all changed when I overheard girls talking about tampons. From what I could understand, there was a product that you could insert during your periods that would stop the flow before hitting your underwear?! Where was this product and how could I start using it? A girl on my team had given me the paper insert from her tampon box and I had hidden it in my backpack. When I was home alone, I eagerly studied the paper and quickly realized that I had a huge barrier to overcome- my mother. The graphics on the paper insert made it very clear that I would have to insert the applicator in me. I came from a very conservative Indian family so inserting anything into me would be a non-starter. How could I convince my Indian mother that inserting something into my vagina would still render me a virgin, that this tampon would not take my virginity away?

That’s where my phone call to Tampax comes in. That was the question that I had been building up the courage to ask someone and I was hoping that the anonymity of a phone call would afford me the courage to do so. This was long before the internet was widely available to us and before Google was a source of information (now, 25 years later, the Tampax website has a section called “Tampax Truths” and a whole page dedicated to “Do Tampons Take your Virginity Away?”. Go figure!) So, I finally asked the Tampax representative my question, with a hushed voice and timid tone. Do you want to know the astonishing thing? The woman on the line didn’t even skip a beat. She took the question in stride, as if she had heard that question many times before. She was kind and understanding in her response, never once laughing at me, and helped me frame an answer for my mother.

Armed with information and knowledge, I talked to my mom. I told her directly and candidly what having my period during tennis matches was doing to me and how scared I was of a leak. Thankfully (god bless her!), my mom got it. Even though she didn’t quite understand how a tampon worked, she saw that there was a product that would give me some relief. I am so grateful that she understood despite her culture and reservations. On our next shopping trip, the first item that I put into our cart was a box of tampons (Tampax brand of course!), without question or incident, and I was so happy. During my next match while having my period, I strutted onto the tennis court with a smile, in my white skirt and bloomers, winning in more ways than just tennis.

My Word for 2021: Intention- Watch What Happens When You Do

We’re well into 2021 and honestly, between COVID-fatigue, continued work from home, running the SABA Foundation, MassMutual’s pro bono committee and serving as a Commissioner for Cambridge’s Commission on the Status of Women, and kids’ school (remote and in-person) and activities, it’s been overwhelming to say the least. I am a little behind on setting my New Year’s Intention as I’ve done these past few years. I recently received a sweet social media inquiry asking what my word was for 2021 (this post is for you Kevin!). As I’ve tried to do these past few months and as we enter the very long month of March, there is no better word for me this year than the very idea that I am trying to do with this exercise- INTENTION.

Dictionary.com defines “intention” as “an act or instance of determining mentally upon some action or result.” It’s the pre-work before the work. It’s the thought and energy you put into something before doing it. It’s willing the thought that you have into existence, willing something to happen The “willing” part is the intention of what I speak.

Recently, I was talking to an impressive female leader at a major company and we were chatting about my future career plans. She said something that struck a chord- “put your intention out there”.

Be bold and courageous and let people know what you intend. And watch what happens when you do.

I’ve taken this advice to heart and have started to do this with other areas of my life. Oprah has a Super Soul Conversation dedicated to Intention that is worth listening to and in it, there are many nuggets of wisdom. She writes on her website, “So if you want more love in your life, set your intention to be more loving. If you seek kindness, focus your energy on empathy and compassion. Conversely, if you wonder why there are so many angry people in your life, look no further than the resentment you hold in your own heart.”

2021 for me is about being intentional with my thoughts, feelings and actions. This year is about being clear about my intentions and doing everything I can to will these intentions to happen. I hope that with positivity, hope and self-love, I can watch what happens when I put my true intentions out to the universe. Happy 2021 all!

What’s in a name Juliet? Everything my dear.

This post first appeared on American Kahani on December 11, 2020. Picture credit: American Kahani.

I have a name crisis. Truth be told, even Kamala Harris, Vice President-elect, seems to have one as well especially as the topic of how to pronounce her name became national news. As a first-generation Indian-American, I was taught to make the unfamiliar, familiar. Taught to take the “other” out of even something so fundamental as my own name and offer it in bite-sized pieces so it was comfortable and easy to pronounce to the recipient. When Juliet asks “What’s in a name?” in her soliloquy from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, it is to make the point that her love Romeo’s last name of Montague is meaningless, inconsequential. Sorry Juliet, but I say otherwise. What’s in a name for me? Everything. It highlights the tightrope that many of us children of immigrants walk on a daily basis, balancing two cultures, yearning to belong while simultaneously being different. If you want to look at how far we have come and how far we have yet to go, looking at how people pronounce foreign names is an appropriate barometer.

My name crisis came to a head when I heard my son saying my name. He was confused; he didn’t know whether to use the Americanized version or the Indian one. I realized it’s because he didn’t know that due to years of mispronunciation, I had carefully created specific rules on how to say my name depending on to whom I am speaking. My name has taken on chameleon-like characteristics, its pronunciation changing based on whether I think you can say my name. If you are South Asian, I will pronounce my full name properly. If you are anybody other than South Asian in a professional setting, I will pronounce my name as something that rhymes with margarita. If you are anybody other than South Asian and I’ve met you after college but before 2010, I used to introduce myself as “Soochee”. Post 2010, I prefer “Sooch” or the one that rhymes with margarita. Perhaps I am not giving due credit to the recipient and using my own biases and prejudices to improperly assess their ability to say my name correctly, but these are carefully constructed rules informed by decades of experience. Yes, this is certainly a crisis of identity informed by another, not oneself, and a struggle that my son knew nothing about.

It started when the blue aerogram from my paternal grandmother that was supposed to tell my parents what to name me did not arrive. As my parents waited in the hospital room, my mom panicked. Having gone through her own name crisis, she refused to be in charge of picking my name. “What do we call her?” they asked. My father chose the name of the most beautiful woman he had known up until that moment. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my mother’s name. I was named Sucharita Sree.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love my name and its deep meaning. In Sanskrit, it means “of good character,” and “beautiful personality.” To be deserving of this name is another story but the aspiration and meaning have always been a source of great pride. Sucharita is also a rare name in the South Indian circle and until I was 24, I had not met another South Indian Sucharita.

During my childhood, my nickname quickly became “Suchi” (soft “u” hard “e”). My family and Indian friends of my parents said this with ease. But growing up in a Connecticut suburb can distort an easy two-syllable word to something more familiar. So in grade school and in my neighborhood, I became known as “Soochee”.  I grew up hating it. How far it was from the beautiful name I was given. And to make matters worse, it rhymed with “sushi,” raw fish. Sushi in the 1980s was not the fancy, desirable, yummy sushi that you get now. Japan was not a cool place to visit, Tokyo was not seen as a trendy destination and sushi was certainly not interesting to eat. It was seen as an “other” food, and already brown in skin color, this “otherness” made it harder for me to fit in, to belong. “Soochee” became my name in middle and high schools. Instead of aspiring to be one of good character or beautiful personality, I was teased and tantalized for being inedible, raw, gross.

In high school my brother started calling me “Sooch” and I seized it. Anything to get me away from raw fish. Even though some of my dearest childhood friends still call me “Soochee,” I started shifting to “Sooch” in college.  From meeting my friends in Tilton Hall that first week of college to my tennis team, Sooch became a comforting name mostly because it reminded me of my brother and of home.

I did not start using my full name until after law school. As I entered the law firm, I introduced myself as “Sucharita, rhymes with margarita”.  My mom was around one day as I said that and she cringed. It was still far from its beautiful pronunciation but at least it had no trace of raw fish anymore. Now I was an alcoholic beverage and one that most people liked. (Side note: Kamala Harris in the preface to her 2019 memoir, “The Truths We Hold” writes: “First, my name is pronounced “comma-la” like the punctuation mark.”)

Having a four-syllable first name means that people take liberty to shorten it. I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked whether somebody can call me “Sue” or “Rita”.  If somebody introduces themselves as John, is it ok to then ask to call them Josh? No, it is not. These days, I have little tolerance for such questions and simply reply “no, that is not my name.” But as a young woman entering the legal profession on the bottom of that totem pole, there were many times that I did not speak this truth. I would let these little transgressions pass without incident or mention. Privilege and power breed ignorance and subversion rendering the one with lesser power susceptible to such manipulation of something so basic as one’s own name.

Times are slowly changing. The frequency with which people ask to change my name is dwindling. There is more awareness about different cultures and the inappropriateness of certain questions. Movies and TV shows on Netflix, Amazon Prime and Hulu feature South Asians prominently and during this pandemic, pop culture has been kind to brown gals like me. Padma Lakshmi, Hassan Minaj, Jameela Jamil and Maulik Pancholy have become household names. My children see the plethora of books written by and about South Asians. This year, Gitanjali Rao graced the cover of TIME as its 2020 Kid of the Year and of course, Kamala Harris was elected as the nation’s first Vice President woman of color. This is truly a different world than I grew up in and I am ever grateful.  

Recently, I started introducing myself with my correct pronunciation. It is still hard for me to do this. It has been ingrained in me to make people feel comfortable in an attempt to not be seen as other or different. Saying my name properly makes some people uncomfortable. Reclaiming my correct pronunciation, the same way that Kamala Harris has done, while scary, is also quite empowering. I still scan and sum up the person with whom I’m entrusting with the correct pronunciation, fearful that they will make a comment like “what kind of name is that?” or simply, “what?” Or ignore me altogether and not register that I’ve just said a difficult name and that I am not worth the time to learn to say my name correctly. But then, I think of my children. And I’m hopeful that one day my son will be able to proudly pronounce my name to his peers and my daughter Navya, will no longer have to say, “My name is Navya, rhymes with “luv ya.” In time, perhaps, I too will get over having my name mispronounced my entire life and trust others, trust new people and acquaintances, with the beauty of my given name. What’s in a name Juliet? Everything my dear.

No Longer an Imposter, Chittis and All

Image was created by Bria Goeller (@briagoeller) working with the Sacramento-based company Good Trubble (@goodtrubble).

With one word, “chittis”, immigrants and children of immigrants around the country rejoiced. This was the first time, on a national stage, that I can remember a South Asian word that was not Hindi being uttered. Last Saturday, Kamala Devi Harris became the first Vice President-Elect in American history of Black-South Asian ancestry. She is also the first woman. As I sat with my children, sobbing during her victory speech, I reflected on how incredible it was for my children to witness history in the making. My children will grow up seeing a woman who looks like them in the White House.

As I sat watching my daughter’s big eyes focused on Kamala Harris, this moment was huge for so many reasons. Representation matters. Seeing yourself represented in all different areas of life helps to imagine a life bigger than your own and that anything is possible. For my daughter especially, she now knows that there will be other women of color who will become our leaders because she sees the first women of color elected as Vice President today. Growing up, my daughter’s reality was but a distant dream for me.

I grew up wanting to be white. It’s painful to think about the young girl I was and how much I tried to fit in. As we celebrate Diwali tomorrow where South Asians around the world celebrate good conquering evil, South Asian holidays and culture have slowly come into mainstream America. Many major companies are marketing their goods for Diwali this year; it is hard to miss from the Instagram Diwali stickers to the Evite Diwali invitations. Yet, this was not my childhood. Growing up in the 1980s, the United States back then was quite different.

I struggled around all things “pop culture”. While I watched the shows that my peers were watching including Full House, the Cosby Show, Beverly Hills 90210, and Saved by the Bell, there was nobody that looked like me anywhere (save for Apu on the Simpsons but that’s a complicated topic for another time). From music to TV to movies, everything that was around me outside of my home was white. Our home was like stepping back into India in the 1970s, the India that my parents brought with them to this country. The aromas of yummy Indian foods permeated throughout my childhood home. You could hear my mom conversing with her friends in Telegu or scream at us in our native tongue. We played table tennis listening to Ghantasala and M.S. Subulakshmi on the record player, watched Telegu movies, and donned Indian clothes on the weekends.

I learned to pick up pop culture references when I was in school or around my white friends. Back then, there was no google or internet to search up these references, so I became a very good listener and imitator. Through my friends, I learned about the Beetles, Cat Stevens, the Doors, the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys, Led Zeppelin and the Who. I used to ask my friends to make cassette tapes (do you remember those?) of these songs and bands because that was my only access to them. One day, a friend asked me why I don’t have music of my own and why I always copy her. This stung. I wanted to yell that “my” music was my parent’s music, the same way her music was her parents. But the difference was that my music was not accepted, it was not cool and it certainly was not American. Looking back, I learned that day that I needed to do a better job “being in the know” and feigning knowledge when none existed. Thus, I developed severe imposter syndrome. At any time I could be called out for not knowing something about white culture that would deem me un-American, an outsider in my own country. Nothing could be more painful for a young girl desperately trying to belong.

My daughter’s childhood is already so different than my own. She sees pop culture reflect the diversity of our society. From her TV shows to music, she is exposed to so much diversity that sometimes, it is hard to believe that this is the same country in which I grew up. She sees representation in music, TV and movies. When schools were open, she would bring dosas and idlis for lunch. She proudly wears Indian clothes out in public, including a bindi and bangles. And most importantly, she knows that her music, food, and culture are widely accepted in her United States of America.

As we watched Kamala Harris in her victory speech, I cried for so much that day. Mostly, I cried because it was affirmation of just how far we have come as a society and for all the possibilities for my daughter and other girls of color like her. And the little girl in me cried at finally being seen as American, an imposter no longer, chittis and all.

Stop calling it Mom Rage

Let’s stop with this nonsense about labeling current feelings of despair and frustration “mom rage.” Or equate the feelings that some mothers experience legitimately during pregnancy or postpartum with the feelings that mothers are experiencing currently during COVID-19. These feelings are different. To lump them in the same category, and label all these very different feelings as “mom rage” shifts the blame, burden and expectations to women and how women are unable to cope with these unprecedented circumstances rather than acknowledging that the current situation is unsustainable for most people, mothers included.

Last month, I started reading articles about what COVID-19 has done to mothers in particular and the rage that it has unleashed in them. It’s not that I haven’t felt “mom rage” before (as the NY Times defines it: “mom rage is the colloquial term for the unrestrained anger many women experience during pregnancy, postpartum and beyond”). But what I’m noticing, feeling and experiencing during this pandemic is not unrestrained anger in the ways described by “mom rage” so much as a complete frustration and unbridled anger towards the unrealistic expectations that are placed on women. And I recognize I am speaking from an extremely privileged standpoint by having a well-paying, full-time job with flexibility and a partner who is involved and helps out. Despite all of this, I am struggling.

What is going on is a a systemic problem, not an individual, coping issue only experienced by mothers. It’s nice to prescribe solutions to mothers of taking a break, getting outside, exercising, eating healthy, sleeping more, and the list goes on. But that doesn’t get at the heart of what is creating and sustaining this “mom rage”. And again, incorrectly, it is placing the blame on women for not being able to cope “properly” with these ludicrous expectations.

COVID-19 has disproportionately affected and even devastated women’s careers, with their mental health, financial independence and equality in the workplace hanging on by a mere thread. These threads are being cut intentionally and unintentionally across the country as women are making the wrenching choice of leaving their jobs to care for their children (check out this NPR NewsHour piece on this featuring my friend Jaspreet Chowdhary). This pandemic is breaking the fragility of the work-life balance that women have worked so hard to create. The burden of childcare has always fallen on women’s laps despite attempts at making it equal. And there is no better way to highlight this imbalance than to recognize how often a woman is interrupted while on a work call than a man while at home. The kids always seem to go mommy first another NY Times article discusses.

And so what are we to do? I think we need to start discussing the disparity of childcare expectations and impacts on women’s careers more openly. Instead of labeling an unrealistic expectation and burden placed on women as “mom rage”, let’s discuss the actual expectation and burden that is placed on women and why. How do we dismantle these systems that have been created by men for men? How do we funnel more financial resources to an already underfunded childcare system? Why is more money not being set aside for childcare despite billions being spent by the federal government during this pandemic? If we do not start looking at the systems that created this childcare deficit in the first place, there will be more collateral damage than just mom rage.

Conquering COVID-19

When we realized we were going to be home for the foreseeable future, my husband and I came up with a plan to conquer the COVID-19 quarantine. We sat down with our two children, ages 10 and 7, and together, developed a schedule for each day that would work for us all. 9-10 AM: breakfast and review work for the day; 10-11 AM: math, games and exercises: 11-12 PM: reading and writing, etc. Peppered throughout the day, my husband and I would tackle various work calls and meetings. We were going to maintain a kick-ass schedule and come out of the COVID-19 quarantine smarter, better, fitter, healthier and largely unaffected!

This enthusiasm lasted all but a few days, each day letting go of one more aspect of the rigid schedule. We are well into week 11 and how we started is not even close to where we are now. Long gone are the white boards setting the quote or intention of the day with another one carefully outlining the day’s color-coded schedule. I realize the foolishness and naïveté with which I had approached our initial days in quarantine let alone understanding the toll this would all take on our mental health.

Most days, my husband and I leave the kids on their own, giving them license to finish their schoolwork, to relax or as is the case most of the time, to do something in-between. While they have been relatively good about getting their daily work completed with minimal parental involvement (especially my son), most days they are done before lunch time. Much to our chagrin, our workdays do not follow my children’s school schedule requiring us to work well into the early evening.

So, while we continue to work, the kids are largely left unattended. We have stopped micromanaging their behaviors and are letting them be. And much to my surprise, they are flourishing. We are “quaranteaming” with a few neighbors who also have children and the kids have been playing in our private way for the past few months, of course following local protocols including wearing masks and social distancing. They have developed their own creative and imaginative games, they ride their scooters and bikes, and my son even managed to teach himself how to roller blade! My son has discovered his love for the piano, finding music to pop songs online and performing mini-concerts. My daughter has developed her own language with her friend next door, a combination of sounds, taps and signaling through the windows, talking to each other even on rainy days. It’s certainly not perfect but this unsupervised time buys us precious work hours in the afternoon and gives my children independence, fresh air and unstructured playtime.

As the kids discover new interests and hobbies, we have also been enjoying time as a family. In the evenings, we have taken to scooter walks around the neighborhood, relaxed homemade dinners, drawn-out nighttime routines including watching Great British Baking Show (my son’s British accent is so good!) and cuddle-time with a book. Certainly we have our difficult days and moments of complete and utter frustration with the current situation and home confinement. But, we are grateful for what we have and like so many other people, we are trying to do the best we can under these circumstances.

And when my daughter runs down the stairs after having just communicated with her friend next door in their secret language, with a wide toothy smile, and says ”I’m going outside Mommy!”, I grin as I return to my work, knowing that despite everything, my children are relatively happy and will be just fine. And so will I as I savor a few more borrowed hours of peace and quiet.

It's been Messy but it will be OK

The last time I wrote, the world was a different place. We were living life normally, going to work, school, restaurants, and bars. We were planning vacations, anticipating getaways, buying tickets for concerts and book readings, and making plans for the weekends. We were planning birthday parties and booking rentals, stressing about summer camps, nagging our children to finish their homework and practice their instruments and dances, limiting screen time, and chauffeuring our children to many activities while juggling multiple schedules simultaneously. As we end Week 4 of the Quarantine, our lives could not be more different and our former reality a distant memory.

COVID-19, more commonly known as coronavirus, forever has changed our lives. Working from home, “homeschooling” and social distancing have become the norm. Google hangouts, Zoom meetings, virtual “happy hours” and workout classes and all things digital have now replaced physical connection. Our FaceBook, Instagram and Twitter feeds are filled with memes depicting our adjustments to this new way of life. Instead of rushing around trying to make the next meeting, doctor’s appointment, baseball practice or end-of-day pickup, we are now in a digital race to fill our virtual grocery carts and secure delivery times online at Instacart, Whole Foods, Amazon or the plethora of other delivery services thriving during this pandemic.

And let’s not be mistaken, I’m talking about those of us who are privileged and have the luxury of jobs that allow us to work from home (thank you to the frontline healthcare workers who are risking their lives daily for us!), computers for the whole family, functioning WiFI, and resources to stockpile our food and paper goods reserves. On my google chats and group texts, I lament almost daily about balancing working and childcare, but there are those among us who are struggling with so much more including food, housing and job insecurity.

While the last few weeks have been a blur, I am grateful for all that I have including my health, family, job, shelter and food. There is an underlying current of anxiety, uncertainty and uneasiness that has permeated home and work life. Some have called this “collective trauma” and I couldn’t agree more. On the other hand, this pandemic has forced us to slow down, take stock of what is most important in life, reassess how we handle healthcare and the environment, and open our eyes and hearts to those who have been suffering all along. I hope that we as a society can make some deep, lasting changes to broken systems after this is all done. It’s been a messy journey thus far. But it will be OK.

Navigating City Streets

This past Sunday was huge for our family. I let my 9-year old son walk to the park by himself to play basketball with a buddy. He met up with another friend there. It was cold, thermometer read 35 degrees. But he insisted on going outside and getting some energy out, and with his toothy grin, I couldn’t help but say yes.

I was riddled with anxiety. My daughter had a play date of her own, upstairs with her little girl friends. I was solo parenting. I wanted to go and stalk my son and his friends at the park, but I couldn’t. In my head, I was playing back all the moments I had with my son- had I taught him well? Would he be able to navigate the city streets? Would he know what to do if a stranger approached him? What if something went wrong or somebody got hurt? What would he do? Even though he was with friends, a bunch of 9-year old boys together at a park can only give you so much comfort.

To compound matters, my son does not have a phone. And he doesn’t wear a watch. I couldn’t call him or contact him (or track him) even if I wanted to. Telling him to come back in an hour fell on deaf ears. I had read a NY Times article recently about a phoneless 11-year old who was lost in Manhattan. She survived. And found her mom. But i started going down a rabbit hole again in my mind. The 11-year old was a girl, not a 9-year old boy…..and so the spiral continued.

Then there was a knock on the door. I could hear chatter and laughter. And just like that, my son appeared at the door with two friends in tow. It had been an hour and a half. And they were cold and hungry. I jumped up to give him a hug, and welcomed in the boys with open arms. My son had found his way back home, his smile evidencing confidence, liberation and empowerment.

As a young girl, I remember riding around on my bike in my neighborhood, with no helmet (blasphemous!), meeting my friends. We would be outside for hours, playing in the woods, at one friend’s house and then another’s, using our bikes as our transportation. Granted it was the suburbs but most of my time at that age was unsupervised and unscheduled and not only did I survive, but I thrived. I don’t think my mom gave it a second thought about allowing us to go play outside with our friends, or riding around on our bikes, without adult supervision.

Fast forward 30 years, what is it about these times that have changed so much? What is my generation so afraid of and why are kids not playing outside unsupervised and unscheduled? I don’t know what the answer is for other people but for me, my lesson that day was clear. Trust. I not only needed to trust my son, but also trust that I had adequately taught my son the skills he needed to survive on the city streets. The next time my son wants to walk by himself to play with his buddies, I will let him, more confidently and with less anxiety (kind of!)