Where Do We Go to Belong?

Image from Vecteezy.com

I sit here, in my warm house, with snow accumulating by the inch in Cambridge, crumbling inside about what is happening outside, in my country. Yesterday, I went down a rabbit hole watching reel after reel - scenes from brave souls protesting ICE and federal agent occupation in minus 20 degree temps in Minneapolis to tributes to the lives lost and upended with the unnecessary violence and cruel targeting. I came upon one heartbreaking video of a young Asian-American boy, crying in the backseat of his mother’s car, in a soccer uniform with a medal around his neck. In what should have been a victorious moment, this boy was crying about the taunting and bullying he faced on the field by the goalie. The goalkeeper told him that he was “an illegal immigrant” even though he was born in America, that Trump was gonna get him and send him back “to where he used to live.” The young boy, exasperated and crying says, “I was born in America. I haven’t lived anywhere else.” And I guess that’s the crux of the issue. Where do those of us, born in this country or becoming citizens through naturalization, truly belong?

I think back to when my dad came to the United States. It was 1975. His mother, my grandmother, had sold her jewelry so that my father could buy his plane ticket to make the trip across the ocean. America held so much promise and being an ever optimist, my father embraced this journey with such zeal and excitement. My father’s story is similar to many other immigrants looking to make America their new home. My father eventually sponsored his two brothers and their families. We were “all in” as a family on the American promise. For the most part, those hard days of sacrifice of leaving their families and their homes and facing covert racism in their work places and within their adopted towns and cities proved to be worth it. This past week, my brother officially received the department head’s notice that he received tenure at Johns Hopkins University. Earlier this month, I started my first stint as a General Counsel for a nationwide nonprofit. Most of us children of immigrants are success stories in our own right, accomplishing the proverbial American Dream.

And still, I look at my parents and wonder what they must be thinking now, and how much things have changed in our country. I wonder if they would still make the decision to emigrate here, knowing all that they know now. I wonder what it must feel like to still feel like you don’t belong after decades of following the laws and rules, paying both state and federal taxes and into the social security system, and contributing to their communities. During the first Trump presidency, my mother - who has been in this country since she was 17 - was told to go back to her country during her daily walk in our neighborhood that she has lived in for 45 years. My mother wears her hair in one plait and a bindi on her forehead. She is noticeably straddling two cultures and for that, after being in this country for 63 years at the time, the underlying racism she had endured here finally became overt. It finally became acceptable to say the unacceptable to immigrants like my mother and apparently, to the little boy in the reel.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what being American really means. About whether we, as children of immigrants and immigrants, will ever truly feel like we belong. Will my children feel like they belong? Will my grandchildren ever be accepted? Perhaps that feeling I had as a child of trying to fit in was always going to be futile in a system that was never going to accept us. Perhaps the most painful question of all for my parents and any immigrant is whether achieving the American Dream is worth it if it comes without true acceptance. And I think to that little boy, who could have been any one of our children, crying in the backseat of his mother’s car, asking the most basic of questions: what does it take to actually belong? Because today, as I sit in my warm house, I honestly do not know. And I grieve for my parents and all immigrants about that loss of a promise of something as great, as wonderful, as what was the American Dream.

My greatest teachers

I am an enthusiastic podcast listener. I love listening to a range of podcasts but usually focus more on politics and current events, life lessons and how best to live one’s life, and women, culture and careers. Every now and then, I hear nuggets of wisdom that I try to incorporate into my life. But as I was listening to a podcast recently, I heard supposed “lessons” that were pretty basic. I researched the experts and found out that they were just normal people like you and me spewing supposed “life lessons” to undiscerning listeners. While it was certainly a wakeup call to be be more discriminate about the content you are consuming, there was also a silver lining. That as of late for me, my greatest teachers are not ones I am listening to over a podcast or watching on Instagram reels but the very humans that I helped bring into the world; my greatest teachers are my children.

I know, it’s cliché in some respects (and I will write a post some day about the downsides of our self-help/self-improvement culture), but the point is that teachings are expert and age agnostic. And what we may need to learn in this moment may be right in front of our eyes and come from the most unlikely sources.

When Kabir first started out skiing years ago, he wasn’t getting it. Something wasn’t clicking for him. His fear of falling and not connecting with the instructor were all factors preventing him from learning the basics. Thus, he wasn’t progressing like his sister and our good family friends, all of whom were younger than him. While the other kids had advanced to their first green, Kabir was relegated to the “bump,” one notch below the bunny slope. As he stood there, watching his little sister and friends go up the chairlift, he felt humiliated. It didn’t make it easier that his little sister teased him for being on the bump. But instead of giving up and giving in to the humiliation, he doubled down. With unwavering commitment, drive and motivation to conquer skiing, Kabir not only made it up the chairlift onto a green by the end of the day, but he beat his sister down the mountain.

Kabir is the hardest worker I know. His work ethic is unparalleled to anything I have seen a young person doing in a while. When he sets his mind to something, he will work ad nauseum to make it happen. It’s relentless the way he will drill down on the task from studying for an AP exam to learning the ins and outs of his favorite sports. He gets obsessed with what his goals are and there is no distracting him from it. I joke with my friends that he has no time for girlfriends or anything really because he is so “locked in.” In theory, we know that hard work, dedication and commitment yields results. For example, we know that the #1 reason that diets fail is because people lack discipline and consistency. Our minds know all of this. But its one thing to know something mentally and another to actually DO what you know. Kabir is teaching me daily how it is done. In real time and in real life, he leads by example and is one of my greatest teachers.

My other great teacher is my daughter, Navya. Earlier this week, Navya and I went to see Dua Lipa at TD Garden with a few of her good friends. In the lead up to the concert, the moms discussed having the girls wear sequins skirts. As any obliging mother, I ordered a few on Amazon (and paid for two-day shipping since I cancelled my Prime membership- a story for another time). From the moment my daughter came home from school, she was looking out the front door in anticipation of the package’s arrival. Thankfully, it arrived in time and my daughter bounded up to her room to try them on. The skirts were all quite short. My daughter paired one of the gold sequins skirts with a black top, put black shorts underneath, all the while looking quite unsettled and unsure. I looked on from the door of her room with a bit of skepticism, however, I stayed silent. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s best to keep quiet over issues like dress and hair with a 12-year old girl. I left the house to grab food so we could head out to the concert.

When I came home, Navya announced boldly and unequivocally that she wasn’t going to wear the gold sequins skirt. She said she just didn’t feel comfortable. Mind blown! I don’t know many 12-year old girls, including myself when I was that age, who could put their feelings and comfort ahead of those of their peers. Navya knew her friends would all be matching in their sparkly sequins but she still chose to wear what felt best for her and her body. Not only was this a proud mom moment, it was such a lesson in being confident in who you are and owning that feeling. She showed me that she does not need external validation to feel good about herself and that what is most important is to listen to your gut and go with what makes you feel the best. It has taken me four decades to learn that lesson and to be honest, it is still hard for me. As we left for the concert, Navya not only looked beautiful in her still too-short blue skirt, but so confident and sure of herself. You go girl!

My children are not perfect nor do I want them to be. They make plenty of mistakes and are still learning the ropes of how to live their lives. But they are my greatest teachers as well as my greatest gifts. Now, only their mother can say that :)

Who are your greatest teachers?

Can there be kindness without hope?

Every once in a while, you are blessed to read a book that has a profound effect on your life. It may not be the cosmic shifts that happen as a teenager reading Fountainhead or the Handmaid’s Tale for the first time. But it’s an effect that alters you, makes you think, resonates so deeply that all you can do is emote. You laugh, cry, and feel all the in-betweens. And at the end, you are left wondering what just happened? What beauty did I just read?

I finished Ocean Vuong’s Emperor of Gladness last week. I immediately shared it with friends without fully appreciating its impact on me. A week later, I’m still mulling over the book because of its stark depiction of reality. In listening to Ocean (I’m using his first name because I just love the story behind it. Non sequitur- Ocean was renamed by his mother after she divorced his father to reclaim her independence. She chose Ocean because like the Pacific Ocean, they neither reside in the United States nor Vietnam. Ocean belongs to the Ocean. What a befitting name for a poet) on the Modern Love podcast, I was mesmerized by how feeling he was. How raw his emotions were and how vulnerable he was to the audience.

After reading the book, I was confused. Most of the time, it is clear what lessons the author wants to impart on their readers. In this book, it was less clear. Perhaps it was in this confusion, in this not knowing, where the magic really lies. One word kept coming back to me throughout reading this book. Kindness. In each of the bizarre and strange situations that the characters found themselves in, one personality trait came through again and again. That they were all intrinsically good people. When tested with their realities that included poor working conditions and pay in fast-food chains, drugs, crime and prison stints or untreated mental health issues in the town of Gladness, CT, these characters including the main character Hai all exhibited kindness. It wasn’t the type of kindness that comes with privilege, the kind that comes easily to those who have much. It was the kindness that comes from only having nothing to gain. Kindness that has no reward but for the deed itself. It was in these moments that Vuong’s poetry shined and the reader is left with the gift of the beauty of the written word.

After listening to the Modern Love podcast, I came to understand that the question that has plagued Vuong is whether one can be kind without hope. This was a book, as Vuong describes, without an “improvement arc.” However, I would wholeheartedly disagree. The truth is that the main character Hai does improve. Not with riches or with fame. But in his understanding of himself and the world. That all that one really has in the end is how one thinks about oneself. One can redeem oneself with their actions, however small. And it is in this kindness, in this improvement to one’s soul, that the reader and the characters can indeed hope for a better future.

Returning home

Note: I wrote this a few weeks ago. But much of it still applies. And running still helps me get out of my head…

This has a been a hard week for me. Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m falling into a dark abyss. It’s happening slowly but I know it’s happening because I see it as a slow-motion movie reel. It’s noticeable, even to me. I’m grateful for my husband who has been there shouldering much of this. Because it is hard to admit this to oneself, let alone others. How do you describe feelings of panic, unsettling, listlessness, lack of motivation, all happening at once?

There’s so much happening right now. Last night, I saw a video of a grad student at my alma mater being forced into an unmarked vehicle by masked agents. This happened a few miles from where I live. While we always knew we didn’t belong, these scenes of violence by the police, authoritarian state, even in the liberal state of Massachusetts, hits really hard. Panic. Unsettling.

I am also battling my own battles on the professional front. Too much to go into here, but it’s harder when your day job is emotionally difficult. I know, I have a job and I should be grateful. But that almost makes it worse, because I don’t feel like I have a right to complain amidst the mass layoffs and the economic strain on families across the country currently. But I finally recognize that it is suffering nevertheless.

Add to this what is happening in the cosmos, seriously, I kid you not!, and you have a perfect storm of malaise. My dear friend posted to her blog yesterday (check out her new company- Randee Joy Astrology) and I felt what she posted deeply. “This season is FULL of strong astrological energies that have most liken shaken all of us, in one way or another…Soooo, maybe you've been feeling a bit down, or a bit reflective, or wondering about the meaning of it all, or questioning a life choice, or wanting to go in a new direction....or simply just not being able to access the joy you typically do.” Bullseye. This has been exactly what I’ve been feeling.

I turned to my husband last night, tears in my eyes, not knowing what to do or how to handle these emotions. He asked that I go for a run in the morning, however hard it would be for me. So this morning, I forced myself to put my running socks on (these special socks that help prevent shin splints), changed into workout gear, and slipped into my sneakers. I wore my running jacket complete with gloves, a hat and orange sunglasses (orange makes me happy), I was ready for whatever this run would bring.

I was ready for battle…with myself. I blasted EDM and started to jog. Quickly, I got to my normal running pace. And I just released myself into the run. I slowly started to feel better. A song came on from my clubbing days and a small smile crept over my face. I remember dancing on the platform, feeling the music in my soul, being happy. I am a dancer and love EDM. I continued running around the Charles River and I had a flashback to my short-lived cross country career and turning a corner towards the finish line. I am an athlete and love moving my body. I sped up as I hit the path on Memorial Drive and remembered driving in a big purple car with my dearest college friends, me in the backseat. I am an empath and love deeply. I made my way across the bridge and immediately recall standing in that same place with my children on a warm spring day years ago. I am a mother and love my family. I hang a left at the intersection and am met with a white fist pump stenciled on the black concrete, probably from the George Floyd protest days. I am a social justice advocate and love fighting for what is right. I made my way back up to my house, crossing several intersections, and sprinting at the end. I immediately broke out into tears. I am emotional and love a good cry. This past week, I had forgotten who I was. Returning home to myself never felt so great.

Heartbreak

My heart has been breaking these past few weeks. Slowly, little bits splintering, fracturing, bleeding out. With each new executive order that comes out, ICE surrounding grocery stores or entering our schools and hospitals, the cessation of funding for humanitarian aid across the world, insensitive comments from colleagues or the media, my heart aches in places that feel different than the last time. I am not OK.

My college essay 25+ years ago was about the difficulty of toeing the line between two cultures, American and Indian. It was difficult to grow up in a suburb in Connecticut, with little diversity, in a fully Indian household. Inside our home, the smells of pakoras, dosas and sambar wafted through the air to the sounds of Indian classical music and Indian accents. Outside our home, it was the typical suburban school environment ripe with teenage independence, high school football games, American pop culture, Nirvana, Dave Mathews Band, and Pearl Jam, proms and dances, dating and teenage romance. Those of us who were first-generation, children of immigrants, tried to navigate these waters arriving with our own calculations of balance, some assimilating more than others to the dominant American culture. The game for many of us was how best to fit in while retaining a smidgeon of what made us different. Throughout it all, I had understood the balancing act as one that was squarely within my agency to choose.

Until now. What has been the most painful realization in these past few weeks (of which there have been many) is now understanding that I was under a guise this whole time that I had agency over navigating these two cultures. I mistakenly understood and took at face value the words within the Constitution that being American meant the very freedom of choosing who I wanted to be, how I wanted to fit in, and how I would be accepted. Clouded by my naïveté, perhaps the rules have always been there but I am seeing them for the first time.

I will forever get the question, “no, but where are you really from?” because I could never really be from the United States. That’s what that question implies and the purpose it was always meant to serve. My ethnicity, my skin color, my heritage all make it such that I will always be seen as “other” in a deeply profound way. That reality hurts. My children and I will always be seen as “other” despite only having lived in the United States and only knowing this country. It hits hard that we may never belong in the land of our birth. Ever.

Our brown skin will relegate us behind our white counterparts, always. I know many of my fellow brown and black folk have known this reality for generations. They have known that the game was rigged against them. I feel dumb and numb that I am discovering this now for myself. I thought I was exceptional, immune to this sentiment. Shame on me for believing the model minority myth. However much I understand or adopt the American culture, I will never be a normal, typical American. Ever.

Now, I may be considered a “DEI hire” despite my intelligence, education, talent and skills. The Obamas knew the game- they knew they had to be exceptional in all manners to survive. Just look at who occupies the White House currently and tell me this isn’t true. We are being held to such high standards simply to prove our worth to be, to exist, and to belong.

Mostly, I ache about the discovery of the reality that my younger self didn’t quite get. I grieve for the loss of hope of belonging and understanding in a country that may never be mine. While I know that in time I will pick up the pieces of my broken heart and tape them back together for the sake of my children, for now, I will stay right here, in this pain, a little while longer assessing the damage and feeling the destruction of both an identity and a dream shattered.

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.