#BostonStrong

April 15, 2013
4:28 PM

Avani Patel: "My friends and I are safe, but I can't stop shaking. At the thought of Twenty-two injuries and Two deaths, Twenty minutes down the road. At the thought of Sick minds who Stole Sweet victories from So many runners. At the thought of Families Fleeing, Friends unFound, and Faces draped in blood. I shake for you. I shake for all of you."

I am probably not the only person who had Mark Zuckerberg (indirectly) tell her about the Boston Marathon Bombings. I did not get a frantic call, or see it on the news, or experience it firsthand. Instead, I stumbled on a piece of information that, at the time, I thought was a hip-hop lyric suddenly trending on Facebook. “Bombs heard at the finish line.” I read it and continued to scroll. That’s weird. Amidst my scan, I read the same words in a different, more urgent sequence. Still, the word “bomb” was so far removed from my current locale that I assumed it was a false alarm.

I cannot offer much detail on what happened. These days were a blur, intentionally so, as my mind refuses to recount the specific sequence of events. In snippets, I can remember:

The realization that there were, in fact, bombs at the marathon

Sweaty palms

The frantic calls to those I knew were there

Shortness of breath

The frantic texts to those I knew were not

Light-headedness

The computer screen filled with words meant to provoke

Tears

The calls received to make sure I was safe

Quickening breath

The unanswered calls

Quickening breath

Realizing I was alone

Quickening breath

Voicemail machines

Quickening breath

Quickening breath

Quickening breath

The subsequent silence induced by the Watertown lockdown did not cure my hysteria. A fat baby tried to soothe me on a 5 AM FaceTime call, but my sleepless eyes would offer nothing but tears. The victorious Tsarnaev find was met with celebrations, but bid adieu with quickening breaths.



***



Today, I did not read any stories recounting the marathon. I did not watch the live feeds at the memorial site. Today, I did not want to feel. What I did not know was that from April 15th to April 19th, I had experienced my first series of anxiety attacks, which were triggered again in the months to follow. Initially, I had rejected this notion. Who was I to think anything I’ve ever, or ever would, experience could qualify as an “attack”? Who was I to think that I was allowed to be scared, or angry, or to feel anything at all?

It is not until today, one year later, that I realize that pain is not exclusive – it is not something you are “entitled” to, or something that you can choose to tap into. Sometimes, we cannot choose what affects us – we are affected beyond intent or reason, but what matters is what we do with it.

There will always be a pang felt head to toe when April 15^th is brought up in passing. There will always be a part of me that pushes this day into a box because I know what is underneath the lid. There will always be a reaction when I go back to that day, and that will not change. What can change is, upon looking back, how I move forward.

So today, along with the rest of the nation, I will finally recognize what happened on that day. But I will take another step towards my own personal finish line. Towards change, towards strength, towards victory.

 

A Letter from The Beyond

Friends, family, lovers, or an incestuous all three. Upon my passing, please accept this document as an official handbook to my funeral. Below you will find A Funeral Constitution, if you will, that details the rules accepted as "norm," and my proposed changes to said rules. If you have any questions or concerns, too bad because I'm dead and you really can't argue with that.

1.     Rule: All attendees must wear white to the funeral event.

o   Amendment: All attendees must wear bright colors to the funeral event. Death is dark enough - by stripping ourselves of color too, we lose the battle. This funeral isn’t just about me, it’s about you. So fight the war in your brightest neon pink dress, please. 

2.     Rule: There must be one week of bhajans held at the deceased's house.

o   Amendment: Welcome to one week of themed dance parties. Don't worry - I am putting away money to fund this 7-day fiesta. Please honor my death in the way that made me feel most alive - by dancing. Just because my world has stopped, doesn't mean you can’t keep moving.

3.     (Unspoken) Rule: The family of the deceased must feed any and all who enter the house.

o   Amendment: The family of the deceased will serve no one. My skype name may have been "avani.loves.food," but avani.loves.her.family more. I'm not into the idea of them cooking up a storm every morning mid-mourning. 

4.     Rule: No kids allowed.

o   Amendment: All kids allowed – babies receive free entry. JK I won’t charge cover for the rest of you non-infants, but there’s something to be said about the magic of little trolls. Even though I may not have kids of my own, because, HIVES, I recognize their inexplicable power to alter the mood with a single toothless grin.

5.     Rule: The deceased must be cremated in their finest attire.

o   Amendment: Bye world = Hi sweatpants. I imagine that walking dead would not be as comfortable in a prom dress as it would be in “my” finest pair of my brother’s sweats, paired with the biggest t-shirt in my closet. Let’s be practical, people.

6.     Rule: Random pooja items will be used to adorn the deceased.

o   Amendment: The deceased will be cremated with all of the bare essentials. For further reference, please see below:

• Pen & paper, because I want to write you guys letters from the actual beyond.
• Caramel Brulee Latte, so someone is going to have to take responsibility for ensuring my death occurs between November 1^st and January 31^st.
• All 10 seasons of FRIENDS, because obvi.
• A cheesy bean and rice burrito from Taco Bell - no fiesta sauce or I will seriously haunt your ass.
• My entire iTunes library, because how else am I going to have solo dance parties?
• All of my nail polish (see reason listed in bullet #3).
• My ghungroos, because – wait we definitely discussed this. Are you even paying attention? Uninvited to the funeral.
• A map, because I want to keep track of all the countries I want to see. Now that I am a ghost and therefore can fly, I am going EVERYWHERE. #frequentflyer #freeflights #gujjuitillidie #evenwhenimdead

7.     Rule: When paying respect to the corpse, please honor the casket with a flower.

o   Amendment (A): Please come prepared for this portion of the evening. I’d like each of you to bring a piece of paper folded in half. On one side, write something, anything, you have yet to get closure on. On the other, write a promise to yourself. When you come to my casket, rip the paper in half. Give me the half that’s been brewing inside of you. I want to take these with me, away from you, to be burned and never to be seen again. For the rest of your days, focus on that which you have in your hands. Death is about letting go, yes, but it’s also about holding on, and we so often forget that. Hopefully, there is something cathartic enough in here that will help you remember your better half.

o   Amendment (B): I imagine there will be a lot of confused aunties and baa’s at this event if left to their own devices re: Amendment (A), so please supply them with faux flowers. Instead of real roses, please fashion origami ones using the 100-page Microsoft Word document populated with my favorite quotes of all time. Flora will perish, but those words never will.

8.     Rule: No celebrities can be present at the funeral.

o   Amendment: Okay this isn’t actually a rule, but I just figure if I have enough Feyth, y’all will get it together and have Tina come holla.

9.     Rule: Tina Fey must be at the funeral.

o   Amendment: On second thought, this would probably be much better timed if arranged pre-funeral, while I’m still alive to experience her greatness. Just putting it out there as a premature dying wish.

10.   Rule: Place an honorable picture of the deceased beside the casket.

o   Amendment: Create a collage of my all-time most disgusting pictures. I figure this will repair the rose-colored glasses eyeballs by lightening the mood with some laughter if everyone remembers what I actually looked like at any hour pre-noon.

11.   Rule (of thumb): I love all of you more than I had ever let on.

o   Amendment: I am so sorry.

12.   Rule: The ashes must be scattered in the Ganges River in India.

o   Amendment: Waka waka, betchez - the ashes will be scattered in Africa. Without Ma and Dad, there would be no me. So, I want to go back to their birthplaces, my real roots, to rest.

13.   Rule: The deceased has no control over their funeral proceedings.

o   Amendment: This post.

Tough(ts) Love

When you give reasons as to why you don't love something - you don't free yourself from the emotion. They say the opposite of love is apathy, and I argue that a necessary component for love is inconvenience. To some degree, we all recognize the imperfections in the people that we love. Your boyfriend snores. Your family is obnoxious. Your friend is volatile. But you love them anyway, because those small annoyances amount to the wonky little being that has somehow wiggled its way into your heart.

You learn to love the unreliable schedule the Joey runs on, and the shitty hours of Hodgdon. The outrageous Jumbo Express prices become the comfortable cause of your empty bank account. Class in the sci tech building? It's just a slow workout on a beautiful day. You drool at the thought of breakfast at Dewick on those February walks back from Tisch at 3 AM. The thought of Spring Fling gets you through nights full of snowfall and hiding under a heated blanket. Dorm rooms become group therapy sessions, Ramen becomes a staple, and the Hill becomes your Home.

You realize, perhaps suddenly, perhaps subconsciously, but always forcefully - that this is a relationship. You see beauty in the imperfection. You remember perfection in the disaster - all to feed the flame of your affair. This forsaken place has stuck by you, when many lovers and friends, have not. Through all your screw ups, tantrums, and flakiness - it has kept its steadfast commitment. But you? You're leaving. Still imperfect, you search for something bigger, something better. You run after perfection, without realizing it's been here, waiting for you, all along.

Want a Piece of Me?

Dancers dance as a "hobby." Something we do on the side because it supplements our other "tangible" things. Like jobs, or projects, or awards.

But the most excruciating part soul of a dancer's process is the exorcism that happens after each performance. After the curtain closes, there is something that we can never, ever replicate - a creation and a feeling that we can never get back. We leave behind a piece of ourselves - something that now mysteriously belongs to the stage that others will dance on - the stage that other dancers will victoriously lose to.

So when you think that dancing is something fun, make no mistake. It's fun. But remember that there lies a piece of our soul that we give to you, never expecting it to come back. And that feeling, is the realest, most hauntingly tangible, I will ever know.

PPPPPP-Power

Put on the suit and look in the mirror. Feel the power packed into the shoulder-pads, the prestige pressed into the pants. Smile. Pearly whites, perfect tights.

Arrive at The Place. Put your name down and be seated. Eye the parfaits and pulp-free juice as you wait....wait....

Walk in and "have a seat please." Open the padpfolio and read it. Printed words on paper with perfectly sharp corners: "This is what it means to grow up. This is what it means to have power."

Make your journey back. Puff up with pride at your performance. Perhaps you had fooled them. Perhaps there was potential.

Be stopped in your tracks.

Your private cloud 9 was perforated - pricked with the pricks surrounding you.

Hey baby they say. Where you goin precious? I'll let you ride my train to get there.

Pick up the pace. Bitch got places to be? I'll show you a place you ain't never been before.

Pant harder, pant faster. PUSSYASS HOE. COME BACK AND I'LL PUT MY P RIGHT DOWN THAT PRETTY LITTLE THROAT OF YOURS.

Putter back home to your pathetic place of residence. Put your tears back into your pupils.

Peel off the suit, the pants, the pearls.

No one told you this is what it means to have Power.

That this is what it means to be Powerless.

On Death.

Alternate titles include: On things that will make you question the existence of God; On things that don’t hit you until they hit you, or someone you love; On being guilty for being alive.

It’s never fair – ever. No matter which way you slice it, death is death is death, and the dark logic always amounts to zero. And unless you add a 30 to that zero, dark, logic, you never ever want to watch it happen.

I’ve witnessed death twice in my lifetime. The first time, I was young. Not young enough to misunderstand what was going on, but young enough to feel suffocated, like he was. A crowded hospital room. An air that changed - from stories and laughter to wails and screams in the blink of an eye that couldn’t blink; it was glued shut. The Moment was preceded by repetitive breaths. His head laid to the side, profile facing us. It moved up and down on the pillow, in rhythm with each inhale, exhale. The Last Breath was slow, like a graceful release of the poisonous cells that ruined him. There was silence.

The second time, I was older. It was cold and it was Christmas. I knew the ropes. I was expectant and ready. I wore red and green. But The Moments Before threw me, and screwed me. It was different this time. More people, more chaos. Red eyes, shaky fingers, sweaty foreheads circled around her. Tongues flapped incessantly and heat stuck to the air. I was older. I was guilty. I leaned into her ear and whispered I’m sorry. The Last Breath was quick, like a hasty escape from the dreadful caroling surrounding her. The screams continued.

This is death. Memories that can only be seen with the haze of an eye filled to the brim. Two stories tied together with this one, hideous black ribbon. I wrap them up, and tuck them away. They stay there, side by side, in a nook of my memory that collects dust until summoned.

“The doctors say there are only 24 hours left.”

I say nothing.

I blow off the dust.

I slowly untie the grainy black ribbon.

I see them, waiting to greet me with their pointed faces and maniacal grins.

Hello, I say.

I wait.

Stranger Danger

I knew a place once.

I met a lady there - on a bus that she gracefully helped me find. She had a squinty smile with a pure heart,  always looking to talk to people. I mean, really talk to people and get to know what makes them tick. She was small, she was adorably uncomfortable, but her curiosity is what stuck. It's what made her tick. Como se llama? "Chakti" she'd say, "Shakti," I'd smile.

I met a man there - on a train that I'd not so gracefully found. He had tall limbs and wise eyes that were rested on this new place he called home. He started life fresh with an optimism that made me question how a former lawyer could become so zen. His empathy was overwhelming, his calming aura infective.

I met people who weren't afraid to talk to people they didn't know. They were open, and free, and loving. They were funny, funky, and fresh. It was a place that was theirs, now is mine, because they let me learn it. They let me say, I know that place.

I want this place, right here, to be a place I know, surrounded with people I don't.