just a little snippet while I wait for my consent forms to copy:
last night I was watching 50 greatest child stars all grown up on E! and of course 22 was Doogie Howser, MD, aka Neil Patrick Harris and they cited him as perhaps the first *blogger.* Who could forget Doogie, child medical prodigy, wrapping each episode in front of a bright blue screen, always ready with a moral quip or life's lesson learned? Ah Doogie, once the love of my life and inspiration to start my own journal on our old Commodore 64, a vain attempt since at 9 I had no clue how to save anything...or perhaps was left without the option on that "monitor-keyboard-harddrive in one" set up. Oh Doogie, who lost his virginity to the lovely Wanda, but not before he performed her appendectomy.
Ah Doogie. Ah Humanity.
And now a little snippet on the origins of the word "snippet": I had an Iranian resident during medicine who would always give "just a little snippet" about each patient during morning rounds. I loved that he prefaced every patient with "a little snippet" and I was pained by the fact that though he was an attending in is homeland, he was demoted the moment he stepped on American soil. Downgraded to an intern. A story told again and again....
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
From one brute to another
The other night I received a call from a dear friend and classmate whom I haven't seen in many months. I spent the first 6 months of my third year with Phil. I remember the day I found out I was doing surgery at Monte with him-- I was so dismayed at the thought of spending my first 8 weeks of my third year at a merciless site with a group of *gunners.* Phil will never deny that he is indeed a gunner. And from my sobering demeanor, and pacifist approach to life, he may have been surprised to unmask my true academic spirit. I too was crazy enough to wonder how a certain professor of ours calculated the p value without using statistical software. But beyond that we had some enlightening conversations, and I was pleasantly surprised to unmask a thoughtful and sensitive spirit.
Anyway, Phil called me because I was the first person he thought of when he decided to pursue a project involving spirituality in medicine. Phil is president of the Shul at Einstein, and in recent months has been finding it difficult to get what he needs, as a burgeoning doctor, out of this religious network. So he, along with another third year, had decided to come up with a project to learn and study literature on the subject. And for better or for worse, I was the first person he thought of. Always self deprecating, he humbled himself before me as "the brute" who would like to expand his literary scholarship. I, of course, was speechless....moved beyond words.
And now I have no idea what I can offer Phil in his project. Nonetheless I emailed him some of my thoughts. I share them with you perhaps because you may help me in this endeavor. From one brute to another:
Hi Phil,
It was lovely to hear from you. It certainly was nice
to hear that someone in whom I hold high esteem,
professionally and personally, would think of me for
this important project.
This issue is one that is deeply personal for me. You
may remember my dissatisfaction with my internal
medicine rotation; in retrospect I think this was
largely due to months of dealing with the chronically
ill and the dying and a lack of real spiritual
reflection. At the time I was too overwhelmed with
emotions to understand this. My feelings were more
salient in this rotation, I think because we spent the
most time in it. But perhaps there is also something
to be said about medicine as a profession which does
not always enable spiritual reflection, whatever the
reasons.
In any event, I have always been interested in
palliative care and terminal illness, but more
recently, due to my chosen research field, within the
pediatric population. While I know this is a small
part of the issue you are describing, it is one that
is near and dear to my heart, and I will try to
approach the issue of spirituality from this
perspective. It is much easier, than to approach
spirituality as a whole.
I hope this makes sense. I look forward to hearing
from you,
Tara
Anyway, Phil called me because I was the first person he thought of when he decided to pursue a project involving spirituality in medicine. Phil is president of the Shul at Einstein, and in recent months has been finding it difficult to get what he needs, as a burgeoning doctor, out of this religious network. So he, along with another third year, had decided to come up with a project to learn and study literature on the subject. And for better or for worse, I was the first person he thought of. Always self deprecating, he humbled himself before me as "the brute" who would like to expand his literary scholarship. I, of course, was speechless....moved beyond words.
And now I have no idea what I can offer Phil in his project. Nonetheless I emailed him some of my thoughts. I share them with you perhaps because you may help me in this endeavor. From one brute to another:
Hi Phil,
It was lovely to hear from you. It certainly was nice
to hear that someone in whom I hold high esteem,
professionally and personally, would think of me for
this important project.
This issue is one that is deeply personal for me. You
may remember my dissatisfaction with my internal
medicine rotation; in retrospect I think this was
largely due to months of dealing with the chronically
ill and the dying and a lack of real spiritual
reflection. At the time I was too overwhelmed with
emotions to understand this. My feelings were more
salient in this rotation, I think because we spent the
most time in it. But perhaps there is also something
to be said about medicine as a profession which does
not always enable spiritual reflection, whatever the
reasons.
In any event, I have always been interested in
palliative care and terminal illness, but more
recently, due to my chosen research field, within the
pediatric population. While I know this is a small
part of the issue you are describing, it is one that
is near and dear to my heart, and I will try to
approach the issue of spirituality from this
perspective. It is much easier, than to approach
spirituality as a whole.
I hope this makes sense. I look forward to hearing
from you,
Tara
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
It was Merely Another Thanksgiving
Cranberry chutney, Curried Corn, a 7lb Un Turkey...
And Meer.
There are few people in this world who can make me laugh so. It is a vicious cycle-- she starts, then I start, she laughs even harder as I become more apneic, I laugh even harder until I need to leave the room.
We spent the days watching home videos, Curb your Enthusiasm and Fever Pitch.
She was sad to find me even more tired than usual. She witnessed my mother giving me my shot of Procrit, and she winced when she saw my face writhed, alarmed.
And then my mother narrated the story of how she had to give me my adriamycin drip in the middle of a stormy blizzard. A slow cautious push, lest the vein sclerose. Two years before the birth of the second.
The videos reveal a whiny toddler, full of tears and expectation. They reveal a gangly, awkward child with a wicked temper and a million dollar face. The center of attention. Expressive.
Perhaps forced to make her mark as the sibling of the "special one." Dark and strong.
After the shot, we watched my mother peel her kiwis. Perfectly. Small hands, sharply contrasting our own. We smiled, knowing. Her precision, our butterfingers. But she is more like her than I, with her high cheekbones and short fuse.
I watch the two of them. Lovely and Amazing.
And Meer.
There are few people in this world who can make me laugh so. It is a vicious cycle-- she starts, then I start, she laughs even harder as I become more apneic, I laugh even harder until I need to leave the room.
We spent the days watching home videos, Curb your Enthusiasm and Fever Pitch.
She was sad to find me even more tired than usual. She witnessed my mother giving me my shot of Procrit, and she winced when she saw my face writhed, alarmed.
And then my mother narrated the story of how she had to give me my adriamycin drip in the middle of a stormy blizzard. A slow cautious push, lest the vein sclerose. Two years before the birth of the second.
The videos reveal a whiny toddler, full of tears and expectation. They reveal a gangly, awkward child with a wicked temper and a million dollar face. The center of attention. Expressive.
Perhaps forced to make her mark as the sibling of the "special one." Dark and strong.
After the shot, we watched my mother peel her kiwis. Perfectly. Small hands, sharply contrasting our own. We smiled, knowing. Her precision, our butterfingers. But she is more like her than I, with her high cheekbones and short fuse.
I watch the two of them. Lovely and Amazing.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
cityscapes 2
My New York.
I have memories of city life, three years in the Bronx, three months in Manhattan. Today I remember the latter, Medicine in Manhattan.
It will have been a year ago next Monday.
Standing outside the quarantined door of a cherpakarathan, a native son. My eyes closed, lest I see his bare bottom from beneath his hospital gown, my ears warm, listening to him make sweet, sad melodies on his violin. In minor key; this much I know from 10 years of piano lessons. He played to his window, to the city outside, mired in winter, its depths. He had been hospitalized in the psych ward for an acute manic episode, but I met him on 9L with a diagnosis of chicken pox. With masks we would walk into his room, and he would launch his flight, a spinning combination of perfect English and Malayalam. He knew my face and I knew his with its crops of vesicles and excoriations. A relief etched, in memories and beyond.
Memories of dying. Memories of one death.
Memories of my city. Memories of cloudy skies, long December/ January/February days, skyscrapers and excoriations. Memories of running from our apartment on 17th and 1st Ave, to Fifth and 59th, the foot of the park, lights twinkling and that big ole tree. Memories of walking, hustlebustle surround, from murray hill to curry hill to get some samosas. Memories of dinner with old friends: Turkish, Korean, African and Me. All hyphenated. Memories of parties. Food and Drink. Memories of the chill pinching our cheeks, first red then blue, my face the rainbow coalition. Memories of ringing in the new year with my sister and other friends, memories of giggles the morning after. Memories of a pause.
I will never forget
My New York.
I have memories of city life, three years in the Bronx, three months in Manhattan. Today I remember the latter, Medicine in Manhattan.
It will have been a year ago next Monday.
Standing outside the quarantined door of a cherpakarathan, a native son. My eyes closed, lest I see his bare bottom from beneath his hospital gown, my ears warm, listening to him make sweet, sad melodies on his violin. In minor key; this much I know from 10 years of piano lessons. He played to his window, to the city outside, mired in winter, its depths. He had been hospitalized in the psych ward for an acute manic episode, but I met him on 9L with a diagnosis of chicken pox. With masks we would walk into his room, and he would launch his flight, a spinning combination of perfect English and Malayalam. He knew my face and I knew his with its crops of vesicles and excoriations. A relief etched, in memories and beyond.
Memories of dying. Memories of one death.
Memories of my city. Memories of cloudy skies, long December/ January/February days, skyscrapers and excoriations. Memories of running from our apartment on 17th and 1st Ave, to Fifth and 59th, the foot of the park, lights twinkling and that big ole tree. Memories of walking, hustlebustle surround, from murray hill to curry hill to get some samosas. Memories of dinner with old friends: Turkish, Korean, African and Me. All hyphenated. Memories of parties. Food and Drink. Memories of the chill pinching our cheeks, first red then blue, my face the rainbow coalition. Memories of ringing in the new year with my sister and other friends, memories of giggles the morning after. Memories of a pause.
I will never forget
My New York.
cityscapes
five pigeons. two sparrows.
one piece of pizza crust.
Sparrow manages to snatch it, in spite of the obvious crust-beak disproportion. He flies away with his buddy, but sadly it drops. Snarly Pigeons dive for it, while Sparrow watches mournfully, perched on a fence above.
This is what I witnessed yeterday morning, walking down Pine Street, across the concrete park spotted with Ginkgos.
Remembering an old poem I read in elementary school: the Ginkgo and the Willow. Cityscapes, Country Life...
I am spending the days before Thanksgiving in Philadelphia. Old Danny used to call it Filthadelphia, but I think he was soured by the elitist gay scene, a buncha pretty boys with fat wallets. I actually prefer the city to my own New York.
Dave and I knew the Nor'Easter was here when he managed to simultaneously burn steaming broccoli, spill water on the couch and break the track light while swatting a towel around to clear the air of smoke.
Yup. The Nor'Easter had arrived.
In spite of it all, a kind gentleman at the local coffee shop gave me free coffee. He had a rough morning and didn't quite make the drink I ordered. While I was unaffected by this, he was, tremendously, and refused to let me pay.
Today I am thankful.
one piece of pizza crust.
Sparrow manages to snatch it, in spite of the obvious crust-beak disproportion. He flies away with his buddy, but sadly it drops. Snarly Pigeons dive for it, while Sparrow watches mournfully, perched on a fence above.
This is what I witnessed yeterday morning, walking down Pine Street, across the concrete park spotted with Ginkgos.
Remembering an old poem I read in elementary school: the Ginkgo and the Willow. Cityscapes, Country Life...
I am spending the days before Thanksgiving in Philadelphia. Old Danny used to call it Filthadelphia, but I think he was soured by the elitist gay scene, a buncha pretty boys with fat wallets. I actually prefer the city to my own New York.
Dave and I knew the Nor'Easter was here when he managed to simultaneously burn steaming broccoli, spill water on the couch and break the track light while swatting a towel around to clear the air of smoke.
Yup. The Nor'Easter had arrived.
In spite of it all, a kind gentleman at the local coffee shop gave me free coffee. He had a rough morning and didn't quite make the drink I ordered. While I was unaffected by this, he was, tremendously, and refused to let me pay.
Today I am thankful.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
pride
"our children are marrying outside the community because they have no pride in our culture."
everytime I think of this remark, spoken by one uncle and felt by many uncles and aunties, i am overwhelmed with sadness. this is what they think of me, a woman who has spent the better part of her life studying her story. It is the story of a Nation 14,000 miles across the ocean, the story of the diaspores who floated across the sea and happened upon new nations, the story of her birth. I know histories and herstories that remain untold to the residents of that land. I listen silently and absorb. Pieces of me, I break apart and put back together to understand.
And still I am castigated, confined to role of the "pardesh" the NRI, the non resident.
Understand that my mother never imagined herself in this country. She was the Nation, she is the Nation. She was born to a dissenter, a man who fought oppression and who witnessed the re-birth of his nation. She grew up listening to her forefathers speak on the radio, Jai Hind. And the tears still flow, 30 years after her exile. Jai Hind.
She was married to a man who was living in a different country. And she did not question. Even though they asked her opinion, she agreed with whatever they thought was right. Mata Pitta, Guru, Dev. Mother, Father, Teacher, God. All one and the same, and so the thought of saying no never once crossed her mind. Sure she had imagined a different life for herself once she began medical school, she wanted to serve the people of the Nation. But now she would have to call another her own.
Nearly 13 years after she arrived, she saw her friend of many years go back. This friend's daughter was becoming a teenager, and the threat became more real. Everyday she saw children having children, unmarried and alone. Everyday children torn apart by the ravages of peer pressure and the loss of parental control. Her own daughter began to refuse food, and she saw her wasting. The thought of refusing sustenance and nourishment was unfathomable...she had seen destitution, she had seen food scarcity, and though poverty was never a reality for her, food was always sacred. She had lived through rations, when America enforced sanctions for the nation's support of the USSR. So it was only natural that she blamed the country for her daughter's self-inflicted exile, her invisibility.
But there was a bigger threat at hand here. What if by coming to this country her Nation was erased? A history untold, for generations and generations until the memory of it became myth?
Why didn't she take her kids back? She couldn't. She wouldn't. There were too many other players involved.
Her story has always been my story. I was born from it, I reclaimed it, I re-write it again and again. And no matter how many times it is penned, no many times I give birth to this story, the threat of annihilation exists.
everytime I think of this remark, spoken by one uncle and felt by many uncles and aunties, i am overwhelmed with sadness. this is what they think of me, a woman who has spent the better part of her life studying her story. It is the story of a Nation 14,000 miles across the ocean, the story of the diaspores who floated across the sea and happened upon new nations, the story of her birth. I know histories and herstories that remain untold to the residents of that land. I listen silently and absorb. Pieces of me, I break apart and put back together to understand.
And still I am castigated, confined to role of the "pardesh" the NRI, the non resident.
Understand that my mother never imagined herself in this country. She was the Nation, she is the Nation. She was born to a dissenter, a man who fought oppression and who witnessed the re-birth of his nation. She grew up listening to her forefathers speak on the radio, Jai Hind. And the tears still flow, 30 years after her exile. Jai Hind.
She was married to a man who was living in a different country. And she did not question. Even though they asked her opinion, she agreed with whatever they thought was right. Mata Pitta, Guru, Dev. Mother, Father, Teacher, God. All one and the same, and so the thought of saying no never once crossed her mind. Sure she had imagined a different life for herself once she began medical school, she wanted to serve the people of the Nation. But now she would have to call another her own.
Nearly 13 years after she arrived, she saw her friend of many years go back. This friend's daughter was becoming a teenager, and the threat became more real. Everyday she saw children having children, unmarried and alone. Everyday children torn apart by the ravages of peer pressure and the loss of parental control. Her own daughter began to refuse food, and she saw her wasting. The thought of refusing sustenance and nourishment was unfathomable...she had seen destitution, she had seen food scarcity, and though poverty was never a reality for her, food was always sacred. She had lived through rations, when America enforced sanctions for the nation's support of the USSR. So it was only natural that she blamed the country for her daughter's self-inflicted exile, her invisibility.
But there was a bigger threat at hand here. What if by coming to this country her Nation was erased? A history untold, for generations and generations until the memory of it became myth?
Why didn't she take her kids back? She couldn't. She wouldn't. There were too many other players involved.
Her story has always been my story. I was born from it, I reclaimed it, I re-write it again and again. And no matter how many times it is penned, no many times I give birth to this story, the threat of annihilation exists.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Tribute to Old VS
so it has occured to me that i've got a little too much race on the brain. ala Cornel West and Skip Gates.
But not a la Old V.S.
I have this terrific caricature of Naipaul posted on my wall, from the cover of the the New York Times Book Review, and the title of which is "Thorn in Side or Pain in Neck: V.S Naipaul, knight and Nobelist, does not care for literary theory, African republics, multiculturalism, political pieties or of alot of other things examined in his collection The Writer and the World." Naipaul is in deed a site for sore eyes, looking every bit as disgruntled and constipated as I imagined him to be, carrying the dry weight of a new empire and retaining it with all his might.
I tore this out at a time when I too tried to remove myself from all of those things. I was trying to tuck it away, this history of mine. No longer did I wear those robes, no longer did I walk through Sproul in wakeful dreaming. I needed to be here, now, fully present and within my decided profession.
Recall RH whispering to me in her softened accent: "the personal is political. the political is personal." Recall seeing this same German professor of mine at the gym, naked and shameless after her shower, pointing her sagging breasts and bony fingers at me: the personal is political. Since then I had exhausted my literary asanas. I had rejected myself as woman, native, other.
But of course I come back to it. Because here I am a brown girl, working with black children, and about to marry a white boy. I have to face it everyday, when I talk to my kids and tape our interviews and listen to the tapes of my speech and their speech and feel overwhelmed by our similar differences.
I love this job because it enables me to reflect, step apart, come back and look within.
I don't believe race defines me. Yes I was born into a country which colored me. But to a large extent it also left me blind. Because when I am talking to my kids, I never remember the brown. When I am with Dave and Dave alone I never remember the white.
I am aware of the beauty of this blindness and its potential complications. I aware that there are issues I cannot avoid.
and I cannot be without.
My children are mostly black. They are all HIV positive. Layers and layers and layers...
I peel.
But not a la Old V.S.
I have this terrific caricature of Naipaul posted on my wall, from the cover of the the New York Times Book Review, and the title of which is "Thorn in Side or Pain in Neck: V.S Naipaul, knight and Nobelist, does not care for literary theory, African republics, multiculturalism, political pieties or of alot of other things examined in his collection The Writer and the World." Naipaul is in deed a site for sore eyes, looking every bit as disgruntled and constipated as I imagined him to be, carrying the dry weight of a new empire and retaining it with all his might.
I tore this out at a time when I too tried to remove myself from all of those things. I was trying to tuck it away, this history of mine. No longer did I wear those robes, no longer did I walk through Sproul in wakeful dreaming. I needed to be here, now, fully present and within my decided profession.
Recall RH whispering to me in her softened accent: "the personal is political. the political is personal." Recall seeing this same German professor of mine at the gym, naked and shameless after her shower, pointing her sagging breasts and bony fingers at me: the personal is political. Since then I had exhausted my literary asanas. I had rejected myself as woman, native, other.
But of course I come back to it. Because here I am a brown girl, working with black children, and about to marry a white boy. I have to face it everyday, when I talk to my kids and tape our interviews and listen to the tapes of my speech and their speech and feel overwhelmed by our similar differences.
I love this job because it enables me to reflect, step apart, come back and look within.
I don't believe race defines me. Yes I was born into a country which colored me. But to a large extent it also left me blind. Because when I am talking to my kids, I never remember the brown. When I am with Dave and Dave alone I never remember the white.
I am aware of the beauty of this blindness and its potential complications. I aware that there are issues I cannot avoid.
and I cannot be without.
My children are mostly black. They are all HIV positive. Layers and layers and layers...
I peel.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
my riveting rosie
so a couple of weeks ago I attended this conference at the NIH for all one year research fellows from various schools and programs. most of it was meant to inspire us to stick with it, as there is a shortage of physicians who want to go into academia. not surprising, since there is NO incentive after having racked up just about 200Gs in loans.
Then of course we had a number of women physician scientists lament the difficulties of being a woman in the field. One particularly negative woman (a researcher at Brigham, of course) commented that of the 40 people who had interviewed her for the position, two were women. And let's not forget that while 50% of medical graduates are women, only 8% of those in academic medicine are women. Most of these women hold associate professorships or less...don't even ask about tenured positions.
That said, there were a number of female physicians who were trying their best to rally the troops. We can do it! says Rosie the riveter/psychiatrist/associate professor at this and that university.
At one point there was a panel consisting of a white woman, a black woman, a white man and a black man...in that order. A forcible representation of the underrepresented.
Sure we can do it. My brown, ball-less battle is significantly less than that of Rosie's or even my mother's. Mrs. Sunshine was surprisingly bitter the other day when she lamented her lack of a job offer at a prestigious institution as an academic faculty member. She even went as far as to say that if her name were Joel Cohen, or something to that effect, she would have gotten the job. She redeemed herself slightly by mentioning that she probably wouldn't have gotten the job if her name was Jane Cohen.
Black face, White mask? White face, black mask?
and I'm still waiting for my vagina to speak.
Then of course we had a number of women physician scientists lament the difficulties of being a woman in the field. One particularly negative woman (a researcher at Brigham, of course) commented that of the 40 people who had interviewed her for the position, two were women. And let's not forget that while 50% of medical graduates are women, only 8% of those in academic medicine are women. Most of these women hold associate professorships or less...don't even ask about tenured positions.
That said, there were a number of female physicians who were trying their best to rally the troops. We can do it! says Rosie the riveter/psychiatrist/associate professor at this and that university.
At one point there was a panel consisting of a white woman, a black woman, a white man and a black man...in that order. A forcible representation of the underrepresented.
Sure we can do it. My brown, ball-less battle is significantly less than that of Rosie's or even my mother's. Mrs. Sunshine was surprisingly bitter the other day when she lamented her lack of a job offer at a prestigious institution as an academic faculty member. She even went as far as to say that if her name were Joel Cohen, or something to that effect, she would have gotten the job. She redeemed herself slightly by mentioning that she probably wouldn't have gotten the job if her name was Jane Cohen.
Black face, White mask? White face, black mask?
and I'm still waiting for my vagina to speak.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
gas station uncle
gas station uncle never remembers my name nor my face. he always greets me with a smile and immediately launches into friendly hindi banter. I smile and politely answer "I'm well" in English to his "kaise aap," but before long I have to apologize to him and admit that I am from Kerala, hindi no bolo. We then chat about our families, he tells me about his four kids, one a master's nursing student, the second a medical student in the caribbean, the third at stonybrook and the fourth in high school.
he asks me if I am married, I say no, not yet, just engaged. he has, in fact, met my future husband, and in a previous conversation politely smiled and said congratulations...but his disappointment was hardly inapparent. I read his mind, just as I had read the minds of all my aunties and uncles before they had met Dave and before they knew his kind spirit and weightless soul.
fortunately for me, gas station uncle never remembers me. he does not know that my family lives less than a mile from his gas station. our conversations are transient, passing. existing in a liminal space, neither here nor there.
until now.
he asks me if I am married, I say no, not yet, just engaged. he has, in fact, met my future husband, and in a previous conversation politely smiled and said congratulations...but his disappointment was hardly inapparent. I read his mind, just as I had read the minds of all my aunties and uncles before they had met Dave and before they knew his kind spirit and weightless soul.
fortunately for me, gas station uncle never remembers me. he does not know that my family lives less than a mile from his gas station. our conversations are transient, passing. existing in a liminal space, neither here nor there.
until now.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
brown sugar
just a quick note on my halloween experience:
I went dressed as brown sugar. I was inspired while driving home, when the old Stones' tune came on the radio. my roommates and I had been trying to come up with famous pairs for D and I to dress up as....Annie Hall and Woody Allen, J Lo and Ben Affleck, Shrek and Fiona....none seemed to compare to Mick Jagger and Brown Sugar.
Of course, I was aware of how "problematic" this idea was...in a previous era I would have been more cautious. I looked up the lyrics to the song anyway, and there really is no question....
What was Mick trying to tell us? Was he trying to deconstruct the black female body by recapitulating stereotypes? Or was he just a racist british bastard? I mean this is a man who perhaps inspired the androgynous punk rockstar...obliterating gender lines...can we give him more credit?
So I dragged Dave to a trampy girls clothing store and made him try on several tight denim jeans with sequins on the ass. The lovely store workers, all of whom were black, got a kick out of this skinny white boy trying to show some booty. And they thought that it was "cute" that I was going as brown sugar...even though they had no clue who Mick Jagger was. Different strokes.
My own brown sugar experiences run long and deep...I was about 20 years old, buying the condiment in a grocery store and while standing in line, the guy behind me says, with a leery grin, "so you like brown sugar, huh?" "Yeah?" I said, not at all confrontational, like I wanted to be in my head, but timid... as usual. Scared of flirtation, of his eyes fleshing out and sexualizing my colored body. Afraid of being wanted, of being desireable. It had made me want to purge.
I went dressed as brown sugar. I was inspired while driving home, when the old Stones' tune came on the radio. my roommates and I had been trying to come up with famous pairs for D and I to dress up as....Annie Hall and Woody Allen, J Lo and Ben Affleck, Shrek and Fiona....none seemed to compare to Mick Jagger and Brown Sugar.
Of course, I was aware of how "problematic" this idea was...in a previous era I would have been more cautious. I looked up the lyrics to the song anyway, and there really is no question....
What was Mick trying to tell us? Was he trying to deconstruct the black female body by recapitulating stereotypes? Or was he just a racist british bastard? I mean this is a man who perhaps inspired the androgynous punk rockstar...obliterating gender lines...can we give him more credit?
So I dragged Dave to a trampy girls clothing store and made him try on several tight denim jeans with sequins on the ass. The lovely store workers, all of whom were black, got a kick out of this skinny white boy trying to show some booty. And they thought that it was "cute" that I was going as brown sugar...even though they had no clue who Mick Jagger was. Different strokes.
My own brown sugar experiences run long and deep...I was about 20 years old, buying the condiment in a grocery store and while standing in line, the guy behind me says, with a leery grin, "so you like brown sugar, huh?" "Yeah?" I said, not at all confrontational, like I wanted to be in my head, but timid... as usual. Scared of flirtation, of his eyes fleshing out and sexualizing my colored body. Afraid of being wanted, of being desireable. It had made me want to purge.
I went as brown sugar this halloween. I wore lots of glitter. I donned velour pants and I wrote the word sugar in glitter glue on the ass. I wasn't afraid of flirtation, because I had Mick by my side. Problematic? Yes I think so. I was however, afraid to bend over, lest I show some crack. Damn those low riders.
Now here is my question to you: Is brown sugar a condiment? I leave you to ponder that and wonder what flava was the guy at the grocery store... and if it really matters.
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