Category: Prelude to Anarchy

And Then You Came Along

November 11, 2023

I had every intention of doing what my parents said, generally speaking. Okay, some of the time. For instance, I wore heavy, blingy outfits to church even though I would’ve rather worn jeans and a t-shirt. Yet, I didn’t protest too much. And speaking of that particular church, I was never too excited about going there either. Don’t get me wrong, I love God. I’ve always prayed even about stupid little things, things that were questionable to pray about probably, but I did it anyway. It was just that there were so many customs attached to culture and religion and all. Despite all of the regulations however, I had big dreams of being a good little godly Indian girl, at least when I was younger.

Stop it. Stop humming REM. It’s not like that. I didn’t lose my religion or anything but let’s just say I modified a few things, especially relating to the traditional Indian rules thing.

For instance, one high priority rule Mom and Dad made crystal clear from a very early age was that there would absolutely never ever be any dating, shmating. By the way, the more insistent or agitated they were about something, the more they rhymed. I don’t know. So anyway, that was the first broken rule.

There was also that rule about going out with friends. I just simply couldn’t. I could only go out with Indian friends. No, actually, I could only go out with cousins. Luckily, they were Indian.

And of course, I couldn’t go to the movies, bovies. All movies were bad, well, except for Indian ones. They were  3 hour-long musical masterpieces filled with secret lovers rolling down hills and spinning a lot (while trying to pretend they didn’t have vertigo).

Which reminds me, this one time when I was about 12, my parents decided to take us kids to an American movie. We went, we stared at the board of movie titles for about 22 minutes, and because the movie, Jungle Fever must’ve had some type of ring to it, my parents chose that. I don’t reckon they were expecting that type of opening scene, with the moaning and the brown on white skin gyrating. But we stayed for the whole entire thing, eyes and ears covered for much of it, peeking through chubby adolescent fingers when able. I think my parents thought it would eventually get better. Didn’t happen.

There were other, more minor infractions like, “Don’t do the drugs.” And “Don’t drink the whiskey (why whiskey specifically? And does this mean beer, wine, gin, etcetera etcetera, are acceptable?).” And most frequently, “Don’t be a whore (also known as, don’t have the sex. Ever). But most importantly, “Don’t go to the parties,” which they thought were guaranteed to  include all of the above in one big hedonistic wave.

So I stuck to some, not to others. The details aren’t important. But then, there was one of the longest running rules, which I was introduced to as a 4-year-old: Arranged marriage. This was one concept I couldn’t understand, not at 4, not at 12. And especially not at 18, because that’s when you came along.

Rules, bules.

What Are You?

April 1, 2017

IMG_5718“What are you?” people sometimes ask. It seems to come from a place of perplexity. There appears to be frustration because when someone’s ethnicity isn’t identifiable, the ability to categorize is suspended.

When people ask with malicious intent, they don’t know exactly how to mistreat those of us who appear more racially ambiguous. Their slurs appear feigned as if they’re practicing being insulting and hurtful. There’s a fake barrier that feels almost protective because they seem silly in their attacks. It’s poetic justice, their buffoonery.

But oh man, when people know exactly how they want to direct their behavior, they’re heinous and ugly. It’s premeditated, exact and ironically sincere. And that’s the purpose the question serves for them. They’re asking, What are you so that I can hate you with a special type of ignorance.

The are is sometimes drawn out and accompanied by a sneer. It’s an inability to judge. Maybe they wish they could call me the N word, or maybe confidently accuse me of being an illegal “alien,” or Muslim, although, if not so ignorant, they’d know that the latter isn’t even an ethnicity.

Yes, it’s happened to me before, on multiple occasions and in various forms. Sometimes it’s blatant, most times covert. On business trips, my white colleague and I were consistently pulled out of the airport security line to be frisked and have the contents of our luggage overturned. “This only happens when I’m with you,” she’d marvel, and we’d shake our heads.

Most often though the high-pitched, “What are you” with furrowed brows and head cocked to one side is asked by well-meaning people who are simply curious. And when I tell them, they usually respond with an, “Oh! I love Indian food” or “Have you seen Lion?” and we dive into intriguing conversations about what we are, far beyond our race. And that’s beautiful because it comes from our ability to wonder and connect.

So what am I? What are any of us? Well, we’re people and being human intrinsically means we’re knitted in many fascinating, complex ways based on how we’re created and the lives we’ve lived. So go ahead, I see the crease in your brows. Ask me what I am.

The Ominous They

March 15, 2017

IMG_4522

Tyrion, a fearless man who perpetually battles many odds, offers telling words to live by as he refers to a frightful yet elusive force – they.

Tyrion: “Podrick.”

Podrick: “Yes, my Lord.”

Tyrion: “They’ll be following you now.”  

Podrick: “Who will?”

Tyrion: “I don’t know. They, they, the ominous they.” 

– Game of Thrones

•••••

Tyrion alludes to the reality that they are an ill-defined bunch. Yet our achievements and fears are so often driven by relentless worry about what they might think or say.  But ultimately, outside of the people who are most precious to us, the others have little impact on our life decisions. They may have opinions but they have no real impact.

How many times have we allowed some warped image of they to grow into an all-powerful force in our imagination and stunt us from birthing a new idea or relationship? We ask ourselves, What will people think? Well, they’re going to think whatever they want to think. They’ll probably think a lot of things, in fact.

But the more important question is, Will that change how you live? What will you do: Will you do what they want or what you’ve been dreaming of? They, while ominous and oppressive will continue to wallow and flail in their misery and customs. But you and I… we will move forward and be curious, creative and beautiful in spite of it.

Why I Write

January 23, 2017

I write because the struggles of immigration grieve me in a personal way, a way that for a long time divided my family to near disrepair. Despite this, I believe my very conservative Christian, Indian parents attempted to understand why this American-born Indian girl had to do things a bit differently than what they had planned. And what I wanted was exactly the opposite of what had been customary for thousands of years. I, a female, wanted to do whatever I felt like doing.

Often, the shame related to making independent, very “American” decisions has led to heartbreaking consequences in some families and particularly for females. These endings are often preceded by children of immigrants desiring to adapt to American society while balancing Indian roots. These endings are also preceded by parents quickly becoming disillusioned as they begin to see the land of milk and honey for what it really is. Sometimes, it doesn’t receive families with open arms or flowing vats of opportunity. It is a place that takes far more than it can ever offer – hopes, time, a longing for family back home, culture and many, many tears. But above all things, it wants their children the most.

Some might believe I write to shame my family, and in essence, the Indian community, as we’re a highly collectivistic society. And in fact, allowing a look into the private lives of a collectivistic society is like waiting to be exiled. However, I write because if I don’t, relationships may be broken forever and families may be destroyed. Lives may potentially be lost.

I was once watching a video of author, Arundhati Roy, advocating for the rights of the most vulnerable of India. After it ended, I scrolled down to read words of praise for her efforts and her work of fiction, God of Small Things, which clings close to the often unspoken truths of India. But as I continued to scroll I saw far more comments addressing Ms. Roy with vile, demeaning adjectives and even death threats written by brutish men raised to despise females, to view us as nothing more than insentient things to be assaulted of body and spirit to their liking.

I don’t doubt opposition. Some might even say I shouldn’t be allowed to share my accounts of Indian culture, maybe that I should be banned. I should know where my place is. I should be silent.

And this is precisely why I write.