Why She Stays: Behind the Doors of Domestic Abuse


Why do you think she stays? Because she wants to? Because she loves him that much? Maybe. But she may also stay because red is the only color she can identify when she sees him. She may stay because she’s terrified of the thought of her children having to live in a shelter, having no financial resources, having no one to rely on. She may stay because he threatens to take her children if she tries to leave.

In the eyes of others, he’s charming and kind. But no one knows that he’s also someone who pays the children’s school fees if he feels like it, and the light bill or buy groceries some of the time, but there’s usually a catch. He always makes sure she and the kids feel guilty about it, as though they’re strangers depending on his unjustified kindness. He’s someone and he’s no one, all at once. This is where her confusion lies.

There are also other things he is not. He is not someone who can give love, because he cannot receive it. He is not someone who is able to put himself in anyone else’s shoes. He is not someone who will share her burdens. He is not someone who wants to model compassion and integrity for his children. He doesn’t know how to pretend to be these things, nor does he care to.

He is not someone who will protect his family, and in fact, he is the one from who they need protection. He is secretly proud of his cowardly ways.

So you ask, why does she stay? What’s wrong with her? Well, would you leave if you had nowhere to go, no one who could help you, no money to feed your children or no way to get them to school or doctors’ appointments? What about if he took away your family’s medical insurance? And what about if your child had some chronic condition? What if he threatened to call immigration?

It seems easy to question some other random person. Yet, it’s more often not some other random person, it’s your co-worker, your neighbor, your friend, your sister. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you don’t know it is. Maybe you think someone else’s situation is worse and so you justify to yourself that yours isn’t that bad, so it couldn’t be considered abuse.

He doesn’t punch or slap you like those other men. He only occasionally curses at you or randomly accuses you of cheating when he’s really angry. Sometimes he shoves you but always says he feels terrible afterward. He doesn’t stop you from working. Yet he drops by unannounced from time-to-time, and come to think of it, more frequently lately.

He says he loves you so much he wants to spend all of his time with you, especially when you try to hang out with friends or make plans to see family. He says he wants to take care of the finances. He gives you an allowance because it’s convenient. He feels there is no need for you to have access to the account. Access for what?

No, no, no. None of this is me, you say. Okay. But are you afraid to say the wrong things, to do something that might upset him, go to places he may not approve of, wear clothes he might find inappropriate? Do you have a running reel in the back of your mind of what he might say about this or that, about just about every decision in your life?

But you’re always on his mind because he cares, you say. I get it. It’s all very difficult. It’s insidious. It’s perplexing. Comprehending his intentions can be difficult and even the fleeting idea of leaving is not an easy one to consider.

Let’s now once again reconsider why she stays, why you stay, why we stay, why we’ve considered leaving, why we don’t have to do any of it alone whether we stay or go. Most of us, 1 out of 3 females in fact, has been abused, most often by a loved one. You are not alone.

So again I want you to believe me when I say it, you don’t have to do it alone, no matter what you decide.




Originally published at http://www.girlsglobe.org on June 5, 2017.

Child Married to 36-Year-Old-Man

Photo Credit: New York Times

It doesn’t matter how many times you read this headline, it’s not going to make any damn sense. Read the article here: Child Married to 36-year-old Man.

If you’re feeling nauseous afterwards, here’s a story of an honorable 36-year-old man also affected by the complexities of culture. No one is immune. Introducing Mr. Atul Rana.





Who Says I’m a Bad Mother?

Girls' Globe

Women may often be described as goddess-like, but perfect we are not. When my daughters were born I was ill-prepared and scared, and I momentarily felt like I lost a sense of myself.

Don’t get me wrong – my little miracles were precious to me from the first hint that I was pregnant, but it was a major life change. Sharing these mixed emotions seemed to perplex people, as though I should have been ever-joyous, selfless and nurturing, even despite sleep deprivation and my body being transformed beyond recognition.

I was a working mother who also attended school but I wanted to ensure the girls were my first priority. I made sure I was home most days after they were dismissed from school. We spent our afternoons doing homework, laughing and talking as they eagerly told stories of their day. Each night, I was thankful that I was able to…

View original post 507 more words

What Are You?

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.

We are Conquistadors!



I did it! Actually, we did it. There could be no other way. You, my dear, were the reason they were finally willing to understand the world as it should be seen.

When my parents came to America, they brought with them a few belongings, some big dreams and a host of misconceptions about what the people of America were like. In fact, they seemed to understand all non-Indians in a grossly inaccurate, almost caricaturistic light. It wasn’t malicious, it was simply their perspective.

In fact ironically, when I think of their perceptions, they parallel to Americans’ views of Apu from The Simpsons. He’s a clownish little Indian man with a heavy accent and unethical business practices. In the same vein, my parents saw all Americans as sex crazed hippies with no concept of collectivism, family, sacrifice or desire to maintain an untainted reputation, regardless of the costs.

It makes some sense. They would be encountering so many people unlike themselves, they had to create a sort of blueprint for understanding the many puzzle pieces that made up America. This can be useful to a degree I suppose, but it was also quite harmful. It drew lines between the perceived stark differences separating Indians and “the others.”

My parents were unable to relinquish how their custom-laden world could even vaguely line up with any strand of American culture. And further, meshing even slightly with “bad, loose, selfish” America would be treason of Indian culture.

Had my parents considered though that their children were born into this sin and may one day adopt some of these dreaded qualities? Well, no. Not for a long, long time, not until they had to face you, my very un-Indian boyfriend. Until then, they held on tight to their misinformed notions, which sometimes unwittingly teetered on the brink of intolerance.

And so when you came along, the concept of us was incomprehensible to them, a paradox. But slowly they began to bend. The change was so subtle that it almost went undetected. It was in the small interactions – silence replaced by laughter, formalities replaced by meaningful exchanges – that they were being redefined. They needed you, they needed light. They needed exposure and reflection of their own vulnerabilities.

We did this! We pushed them out of their uncomfortable places. We showed them something they had never dreamt of. We, my love, are conquistadors!

The Ominous They


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.

“Oh! That’s Why You’re so Down.”

I think people really believe it’s a compliment when they say it. When they find out my husband is black, they screech with excitement, “Oh, thattttt’s why!” like they’ve been playing a secret guessing game and nobody told me because I’m the subject of the conundrum.

Excuse me. I wonder, “That’s why” what? Well, lots of presumptuous things, according to some. They go on to explain freely, without my prompt:

That’s why you “Talk American,” or “Don’t have an Indian accent,” or “Have that accent,” or “Dress like that,” or “Aren’t like those other Indians” or “That’s why you’re so down.”

Or this, which happens every time my own friend introduces me to someone new: “Hey guys, this is my Indian friend, Patty. She’s Indian, but she’s really black. Cuz she’s cool.” Ouch. Cool does not equal Indian, apparently. I love this particular friend and I know she means no harm and most importantly, totally misses the underhanded comment. So, I quietly forgive her. Every damn time. I forgive her also because of the dumb stereotypes portrayed  in the media of the stiff, Indian doctor with no bedside manner, droning voice and serious personality deficit. Or the heavily accented convenient store cashier who also lacks personality and wears a name tag with some version of Abu or Apu or last name default, Shah, Patel or Ali. Customers cringe as they try to get through a simple transaction of buying cigarettes because the guy’s accent is as thick as cement.

Ultimately, I know it’s not because of ill feelings or the intent to insult or belittle. It’s just that people simply don’t think of Indian-American me when they look at me, they (in their minds) see Indian, dot wearing, blingy sheet wrapped, molasses accented, curry smelling, personality-lacking, good at math, bobblehead-movement-having, Indian me. I’m none of these (well, except for the bobble head thing, when feeling particularly passionate about something).

People are accustomed to making rash estimations of who a person is. We make crazy ignorant assumptions in a matter of seconds. There’s a reason for this. Survival. The part of the brain called the limbic system wants to know whether someone is a threat, a friend, foe, neutral, same or different. It’s the same reason women quickly assume an unfamiliar man is a potential danger. And when the limbic system is trained by ignorance, it’s the reason people clutch their purses when they see a black man walking towards them. It’s the reason a person is convinced her attacker was some shade of brown. It’s the reason a woman on an airplane thinks the person in the seat next to her intently solving math problems is a terrorist making plans to blow something up (even though he’s a well-respected Italian economist). The limbic system isn’t racist. A frightened society is. The limbic system isn’t biased. People are.

Thus, in some folks’ perspectives, I’m down not because I was born in Chicago and grew up among Puerto Rican, Mexican, Italian, Cuban, black, white, Indian and other ethnicities. It can’t be because I have friends from many walks of life, like those who were once homeless to friends who have some really phat summer homes. It’s because my husband is black. I’m reduced to my affiliation with the person I married.

It’s cool though (my black husband didn’t teach me to say that, by the way). I know most people don’t mean to make ridiculous generalizations. They’re fascinated by oddities like not marrying someone from the same race or people whose impeccable American accents don’t match their brown skin. And that’s why I’m teaching. Hopefully people are learning that individuals are just that, individual, dynamic and not reduced to how they look or who they love.