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.

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.


No Longer an Imposter, Chittis and All

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

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.

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

Walking.jpg

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.