People tell me things that shouldn't effect me, shouldn't effect me. I'm so disconnected, why does it matter and why am I upset and calm down!
But I can't. Because how dare I go through the motions of life, being unaffected by every joy, every tragedy, every commonplace thing that happens to everyone outside of me?
How dare I live, oblivious to the way a mother feels when she holds that cooing baby in her arms, the first time their fingers meet and the first time those wide eyes smile?
How dare I live, oblivious to the possibility that it could have been ME goddamit who got killed for no reason who got thrown into that river who got no explanations for why my brother is DEAD.
How dare I live, in any way other than to the fullest? How dare I assume I'll have time to do something great tomorrow? How dare I make myself feel better with these lies, make excuses for my faults, find ways out of doing the hardest thing but the only thing to do which is LIVE.
How dare I see these joys, these tragedies, over and over and over again and not once put myself in those shoes. Not once pretend it's happening to me. Not once think - shit, that can still be me.
No. Don't tell me it's distant. Don't tell me it's unlikely. Don't feed me the shit I already feed myself to feel less crazy because it's here. It's close and it's breathing down my neck. It's death whispering warnings in my ear - how dare I refuse to listen.
9.27.2012
9.18.2012
9.09.2012
Just Me & the Girls
People struggle with their body image everyday. Too fat, too thin, too this too that. But my sympathy goes out to ma people - the big boobed - and our specific struggle with this so-called "gift."
When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.
Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).
And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.
But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.
The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?
So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.
When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.
Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).
And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.
But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.
The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?
So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.
6.13.2012
Stay Beautiful
Hey you. Skinny girl with the middle part and the long black ponytail. I see you walking there, arm-in-arm with your cutie little grandmother. She looks like most Indian grandmas - rockin' a tiny, yet perfectly formed white bun and a soft, soft sari draped around her effortlessly. I see the way you look at her, like you have so much to learn but so little time. You like having her around because hey, she's your grandma.
Please do me a favor. Will you please stay that way? And by you, I don't mean the collective you, I mean YOU. Remember this moment - when you're walking down Oak Tree Road as one of the five thousand people who inhabit this one street, and you pay no attention to that fact. Remember that your awkward little hunch does nothing but bring you a little bit closer to the top of your grandma's slicked back hair. In a weird way, you like that smell. Keep the skip in your step in your old navy shoes - loving the weather and the sunshine on your face.
Remember all of it, because before you know it, you'll grow into your lanky form and straighten out that posture, straighten out that hair. After 8:00 PM, you'll want to do things that involve no one over the age of 16. You'll be angsty and weird and because of it, your grandma will be old and weird.
A couple years later, you'll try to fool me. You'll take pictures with her because it's cool and you'll thrive on these moments where you feel so genuine and so real, even though your skinny arm is dominating the picture - your 90-degree head-tilt a close second. You'll help her through a crowded room and glow when you feel the eyes of a million aunties praising you.
What you don't know is that I will see right through you. I will remember the nights when you yelled at her to hurry up so you could go to the mall with your friends, even though once upon a time, she was your friend. I will remember when you made fun of the oil in her hair - the same kind she would massage into your scalp. And I will never forget when you gave your biggest performance, the greatest atrocity of them all: pretending that you cared about her as anything more than a stage prop to this pathetic little monologue.
So please, skinny girl, PLEASE. Just stay the way you are, because the world needs more people like you. And I know that because after I saw you, I felt things, and I rushed home to blog about it. It seemed exciting, as inspiration usually is, until a rock hit the pit of my stomach. Because it was only when I realized the rarity of these inherently beautiful things - like a girl strolling with her grandma - that I was reminded of how unbeautiful our world has become.
Please do me a favor. Will you please stay that way? And by you, I don't mean the collective you, I mean YOU. Remember this moment - when you're walking down Oak Tree Road as one of the five thousand people who inhabit this one street, and you pay no attention to that fact. Remember that your awkward little hunch does nothing but bring you a little bit closer to the top of your grandma's slicked back hair. In a weird way, you like that smell. Keep the skip in your step in your old navy shoes - loving the weather and the sunshine on your face.
Remember all of it, because before you know it, you'll grow into your lanky form and straighten out that posture, straighten out that hair. After 8:00 PM, you'll want to do things that involve no one over the age of 16. You'll be angsty and weird and because of it, your grandma will be old and weird.
A couple years later, you'll try to fool me. You'll take pictures with her because it's cool and you'll thrive on these moments where you feel so genuine and so real, even though your skinny arm is dominating the picture - your 90-degree head-tilt a close second. You'll help her through a crowded room and glow when you feel the eyes of a million aunties praising you.
What you don't know is that I will see right through you. I will remember the nights when you yelled at her to hurry up so you could go to the mall with your friends, even though once upon a time, she was your friend. I will remember when you made fun of the oil in her hair - the same kind she would massage into your scalp. And I will never forget when you gave your biggest performance, the greatest atrocity of them all: pretending that you cared about her as anything more than a stage prop to this pathetic little monologue.
So please, skinny girl, PLEASE. Just stay the way you are, because the world needs more people like you. And I know that because after I saw you, I felt things, and I rushed home to blog about it. It seemed exciting, as inspiration usually is, until a rock hit the pit of my stomach. Because it was only when I realized the rarity of these inherently beautiful things - like a girl strolling with her grandma - that I was reminded of how unbeautiful our world has become.
6.07.2012
Real eyes Realize
Look into the mirror. Put your palms to your face and wipe it. Rub the tops of your eyelids in circles to steady the swirling happening beneath them.
Now look at your pupils, one by one.
In the left one, see the newly-formed wrinkles on your father's neck. The veins popping from your mother's forehead.
Blink.
In the right one, watch the twinkle slowly fade. See your life slowly morphing to match the army that surrounds you.
Blink twice.
Now breathe on the mirror. Draw an S in the fog.
S for the Strength your dreams once had. For the Simple formula each day used to come with. For the Singing you would hear in every place your eardrums landed.
When you find yourself wondering how these once indestructible, curvy S's got slashed, draw it. Humanize that straight path that leads vertically through the S, and you'll have your answer.
$
$
$
Blink.
Now look at your pupils, one by one.
In the left one, see the newly-formed wrinkles on your father's neck. The veins popping from your mother's forehead.
Blink.
In the right one, watch the twinkle slowly fade. See your life slowly morphing to match the army that surrounds you.
Blink twice.
Now breathe on the mirror. Draw an S in the fog.
S for the Strength your dreams once had. For the Simple formula each day used to come with. For the Singing you would hear in every place your eardrums landed.
When you find yourself wondering how these once indestructible, curvy S's got slashed, draw it. Humanize that straight path that leads vertically through the S, and you'll have your answer.
$
$
$
Blink.
5.18.2012
Ma
I was a little too old for this morning routine, and a lot too stupid to never question it.
7:00 AM - My mom makes her way towards my room for a preliminary wake up call. I am so accustomed to this that I unconsciously start to peel myself out of my dreamy state as her footsteps approach my door.
7:10 AM - My mom comes into my room for another wake up call. A little more urgency in her voice, a little more consciousness in mine. She asks what I want to eat for breakfast, and I reply the usual: banana milkshake. She asks what I want to eat for lunch, and I reply the usual: I don't care.
7:30 AM - My mom comes into my room for the last and final wake up call. I moan and I groan, feeling as though I was being damned to Satan. (Thank God I wasn't one of those dramatic teens).
8:00 AM - I grudgingly slump down the stairs to find her making my lunch. I sip on my just-now prepared banana milkshake and glare at the boring sandwich filled with freshly washed and recently cut vegetables. She never did this the night before for fear of compromising the taste. After cleanly cutting the crust off, she packs the delicate concoction in aluminum foil and then in a plastic bag. This bothers me even more - TWO layers to peel off? How annoying! She then carefully picks only the reddest grapes off the stems, and pats them dry on a paper towel. My brown paper bag is now complete with a box of orange juice, a water bottle wrapped in a separate plastic bag so that the condensation doesn't get anything wet, a sandwich, and fruit.
8:05 AM - I am pissed. All I want to do is shove greasy french fries and millions of cookies down my throat like a normal high schooler. Why am I guilt-tripped into taking this lunch everyday? I concoct a plan to give parts of my lunch to various friends throughout the day. That way the food doesn't go to waste, and I get the fatty foods I am entitled to.
8:07 AM - I decide I am a genius.
I was right, you know. You would probably act the same way if your mom was crazy like mine. So crazy that she couldn't stand the thought of me having to use the ounce of muscle strength it would take to rip the crust off. So, so crazy that she believed her food was unworthy unless it was so fresh that the juices needed to be held in by two layers of protection. So INCREDIBLY crazy that when she wasn't able to do this for me on that one blue moon a year, she would line up all the ingredients on the table so that all I had to do was put them together.
I think about how many years I went on like this. A self-proclaimed martyr, "dealing" with the fact that my mom loves me so much that it drives her absolutely crazy. It took me much too long to realize this, because she was a sneaky little minx. She wasn't big on the 7th Heaven-style "I LOVE YOU BABY"'s. She instead packed her sacrifices, thoughtfulness, and dedication into these tiny little morsels of love that I never let my taste buds experience properly. And now, there are no amount of sorry's I can say to make it up to her. What I can do is remember - constantly, potently, painfully - everything she has done and everything she will continue to do for me.
There are things that we will never see eye-to-eye on, Ma, but know that you are the Queen of my heart. Every time I chop up vegetables, I see your pink nightgown grazing against the kitchen counter. When I Swiffer the floors of our house, I think of your calloused feet walking faithfully between the rooms. And when I feel myself becoming lazy, I imagine your relentless love that isn't finished with the world - now being injected into your newest granddaughter.
If the apocalypse comes and I someday decide to have children, I hope they are bratty. I really hope they are the worst possible human beings ever. I'll smirk and say a quiet thank you to karma, because I'll finally be getting what I deserve for treating the world's biggest CareBear like just another stuffed animal.
7:00 AM - My mom makes her way towards my room for a preliminary wake up call. I am so accustomed to this that I unconsciously start to peel myself out of my dreamy state as her footsteps approach my door.
7:10 AM - My mom comes into my room for another wake up call. A little more urgency in her voice, a little more consciousness in mine. She asks what I want to eat for breakfast, and I reply the usual: banana milkshake. She asks what I want to eat for lunch, and I reply the usual: I don't care.
7:30 AM - My mom comes into my room for the last and final wake up call. I moan and I groan, feeling as though I was being damned to Satan. (Thank God I wasn't one of those dramatic teens).
8:00 AM - I grudgingly slump down the stairs to find her making my lunch. I sip on my just-now prepared banana milkshake and glare at the boring sandwich filled with freshly washed and recently cut vegetables. She never did this the night before for fear of compromising the taste. After cleanly cutting the crust off, she packs the delicate concoction in aluminum foil and then in a plastic bag. This bothers me even more - TWO layers to peel off? How annoying! She then carefully picks only the reddest grapes off the stems, and pats them dry on a paper towel. My brown paper bag is now complete with a box of orange juice, a water bottle wrapped in a separate plastic bag so that the condensation doesn't get anything wet, a sandwich, and fruit.
8:05 AM - I am pissed. All I want to do is shove greasy french fries and millions of cookies down my throat like a normal high schooler. Why am I guilt-tripped into taking this lunch everyday? I concoct a plan to give parts of my lunch to various friends throughout the day. That way the food doesn't go to waste, and I get the fatty foods I am entitled to.
8:07 AM - I decide I am a genius.
I was right, you know. You would probably act the same way if your mom was crazy like mine. So crazy that she couldn't stand the thought of me having to use the ounce of muscle strength it would take to rip the crust off. So, so crazy that she believed her food was unworthy unless it was so fresh that the juices needed to be held in by two layers of protection. So INCREDIBLY crazy that when she wasn't able to do this for me on that one blue moon a year, she would line up all the ingredients on the table so that all I had to do was put them together.
I think about how many years I went on like this. A self-proclaimed martyr, "dealing" with the fact that my mom loves me so much that it drives her absolutely crazy. It took me much too long to realize this, because she was a sneaky little minx. She wasn't big on the 7th Heaven-style "I LOVE YOU BABY"'s. She instead packed her sacrifices, thoughtfulness, and dedication into these tiny little morsels of love that I never let my taste buds experience properly. And now, there are no amount of sorry's I can say to make it up to her. What I can do is remember - constantly, potently, painfully - everything she has done and everything she will continue to do for me.
There are things that we will never see eye-to-eye on, Ma, but know that you are the Queen of my heart. Every time I chop up vegetables, I see your pink nightgown grazing against the kitchen counter. When I Swiffer the floors of our house, I think of your calloused feet walking faithfully between the rooms. And when I feel myself becoming lazy, I imagine your relentless love that isn't finished with the world - now being injected into your newest granddaughter.
If the apocalypse comes and I someday decide to have children, I hope they are bratty. I really hope they are the worst possible human beings ever. I'll smirk and say a quiet thank you to karma, because I'll finally be getting what I deserve for treating the world's biggest CareBear like just another stuffed animal.
5.15.2012
Writing Prompt, 2
Dear Dream Guy,
Are you out there, sweatpants-wearing, messy-haired boy? If
you are, please holla at your homegirl. I promise to love the tailored-fit black
suit in your closet. The one that only comes out when both you and I are feelin’
real fancy. Don’t worry - I promise I’ll love the scrubs you rock way more.
You get to me when you say thank you and smile at the cashier in that way. You know, the way
that makes your skin wrinkle by your eyes in the shape of crow’s feet. The
smile that reaches up to your large, gleaming pupils that tear into mine like a
pleasant tornado.
Know that because you have no societal shame, I'll egg you on. You don't notice when people stare and I'll smirk because I don't care. Naturally, we look like a couple of goons
walking hand in hand– mine adorned with neon green fingernails, yours with a giant
scrunchi from the 1980’s.
For a guy, you're not really a "guy." You love midnight coffee-time and unsexy pillow-talk about
things we can change and things we can’t. Maybe, if I’m really lucky, you’ll
study my face as hard as I study yours when you wake up last.
If you are out there, dreamy boy, make yourself known. Until
then, I’ll be here. Chillin. Waiting for the day when I’m walking down a
deserted street and accidentally bump into a scrubby boy who giggles through
his squinty-eyed smile with a “Sorry! Didn’t see you there!”, somehow still
managing to keep his latte intact.
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