meet lucy

my new girl.

she woke me up this morning to go run amok in our backyard. we paid tribute to old Caesar by his cherry tree.

she's 6 months old. we found her at our local jersey mall. amid all the last minute holiday shoppers, we were brave enough to weather the storm and rescue her.

she's worth every Bergen County penny.

already the similarities are striking. Dad, the old curmudgeon, threatened to throw her out if I ever left her home...but then he admitted that she kind of looks like me. sad eyes. a nose that hold a thousand histories, that searches high and low for meaning.

she is afraid of doorways. but once she gets out she lets loose....loosey goosey. timid and brave all at once.

the similarities are striking.

mom calls her lucy locket. i call her lucy mol. meer calls her loosy goosey.

my grandmother, dad's mom used to have a dog, a stray named Pandu. nevermind the irony of naming a dog after a satyr who was cursed by a blind old man for killing his blind old wife. A fallen arrow: Pandu would never be able to consummate his love for his wife, lest he would die. My Achamma's Pandu probably consummated once and again, many times over, the tramp he was...but he was loved by her, unconditionally.

Caesar was another story: mischievous, sloppy, full of love. Would steal Dave's socks everytime he came over, begging Dave to chase him, simulataneously jealous and in love with this new man in our household. Meer would pull his tail, nearly dislocate his shoulders when both he and she were young pups....they grew up together. first she was bigger than he, then he bigger than she and finally she towered, winning by several margins.

Lucy hasn't met Dave yet. She and I will cruise through the next six months as single ladies, taking the towns of New Haven, Park Ridge and Philadelphia into our own hands. And then we'll have to let him into our lives, our space. It will be different...

I can't wait.

the Awakening

Old Frimi Sagan once wrote on the board, in neat cursive: "Rites du Paysage."

At 14, I knew enough French to translate literally: "Rites of Passage." And while I could abstract on some adolescent level, the phrase remained distant, hidden.

My beloved English teacher, round and gray, puttered around in her long cotton dresses, waxed poetically about her grandchildren who loved to run around naked. She baked cookies for our class, and we nibbled delicately while deconstructing the sexual awakening of our adolescent protagonists, whether Odysseus or Maya Angelou.

She excited us, inspired us, made us aware: that this was not the end, and greater things loomed ahead. At that time in our lives, this was a fairly new concept.

It was a time when feelings became more real: the fluttering belly at first glance, the fluttering a little further south when you jump-roped or bounced on the trampoline. Feelings you simultaneously never wanted to stop, and desparately wanted to end. Feelings you just could not exhaust.

Fortunately, I could never act on these feelings: I was too self-conscious and awkward. In life I sought invisibility, I silenced and sliced my body so that no-one would see. In dream I sought flesh and bone. Not in high school, not in college, not until I met the man who would become my husband. Any attempts prior to that were known to lack promise, self-sabotaged from the get go: like the time I invited my fellow student learning center tutor out to coffee. Failed once because I didn't have his email address...and even when when Sheela and I printed out my note and left it in his work mailbox, I knew it would never fruition, I knew he already had another girlfriend. Sheela, my girl, my love, you helped me explore, in more ways than one and I thank you...but it suppose I would not be ready until I graduated. Another rite of passage.

Rites of passage: this is what I think about as I sit in my childhood home, watching old home movies and imagining what is about to transpire within the next six months. I sit precariously, uneasily wedged between fear and excitement. I wake up, sit with my parents sipping tea or coffee, watch them age. One minute I cannot wait to start my life with this person I love, and the next I am frightened of leaving behind and creating a new. I am afraid of those who will leave me and whom I will leave, afraid of rites of passage that dictate finality, mortality. The reason why warm wells pool in my sunken eyes everytime I watch Beaches or horrible holiday movies like the Family Stone.

My family, the only people I have in this world. And I will soon leave them in a way I have never left them before.

A rite, a passage.

the miseducation of me, tea-chi

I would rather watch E!'s 100 most starlicious makeovers than Jim Lehrer.

Dave and I often fight over the remote control, because he'd rather watch Fox News so that he can scoff and grumble at conservative ideals, and I'd rather find out who paid for Linda Tripp's nose job.

I usually win.

I try to keep myself informed. I have the New York Times as my home page...although more often than not my eyes will find itself on the book reviews or the entertainment section. I listen to NPR on the radio...sometimes. Or at least I listen to wfuv, Fordham University's station that streamlines NPR headlines, thank you Karl Castle, whomever you are...and then plays my beloved cracker music, a hoaky mix of bluegrass, folk and jazz.

Here is why I think not watching PBS keeps you more informed:

1. E!'s 100 most starlicious moments is what the rest of America is watching. That and Fox News. And if you never watched either of these channels, you would never get to see the latest propaganda piece put out by our commander in chief...or at least one of his cronies: a war video game put out by the United States Army, the only one of its kind. Now I am all about supporting our troops, mostly because I feel sorry for these KIDS who join the army because they think it is one giant cyberspace party. Blechhhhh. Remember, I can't be patronizing...only matronizing.

2. E!'s most starlicious makeovers let you know the extremes celebrities will go through to keep themselves *marketable.* Marketable: a term that was often tossed around in jest, but often taken to heart, at my home, as in your skin tone is marketable, but your nose is not. Little girls watch these figureless figures and say hey I want to look like that. I was one of those little girls, until I woke up and actually LOOKED in the mirror. I have grown to love my large sunken eyes, long lashes, thick eyebrows (even with they are approaching unibrow status), full lips...and, yes large nose! Hence the previous entry. I love my flat chest and big bum. Every bony and fleshy ounce of it.

3. The History Channel-- ok not quite E!, but definitely no where near PBS status. It's definitely more pop tart, than melba toast. I don't know what that means. But I can sit for hours watching the mini bios of all our presidents past and present. Especially when they highlight the scandals.

4. Back to E! Old SNL reruns remind you of events past, in a purely different context...and let you take in the glorious Lauryn Hill, a goddess if I've ever known one. Long live satire, which I will take any day because gosh darnit sometimes you just have to laugh at the nonsense. And long live Lauryn Hill. She reminds you that some guys, some guys are only...about. That thing. That thing. That Thi-i-ing. Come on girls sing it.

So here it is the miseducation of me, tea-chi.

nose and knees

knees and nose.

I don' remember much from books I've read, but this image in Midnight's Children stands out: prostration + one giant nose= nosebleed.

nose and knees.

Every few months I wind up with a scraped up, banged up knee. It usually happens when I am running, trail or concrete, and I zone out as I am wont to do when running, driving, walking or just existing, silently. I sail over a rock or a crack or my own feet before finding myself on my knees, prostrating to mother earth below.

Two days ago it happened in front of Harkness Dorms, whilst juggling my lunch, consent forms and tape recorder. Boom. Right on the sidewalk by the children's playground. No children were there to help, and the one medical student who was walking towards the dorm didn't even look my way. No matter, I was fully capable of hobbling towards clinic where I was headed anyway, sneaking into the phlebtomy room when no-one was in there and wiping my wounds clean with some alcohol swabs. The wound hissed as I sucked in my breath.

Never mind the $30 pair of Banana Republic pants I had neatly ripped, one horizontal line dividing my thigh from my leg. Never mind that they were on sale. Never mind that I walked around the rest of the day with a giant hole in my pant leg and a teenage mutant ninja turtle bandaid in the middle.

Knees and nose.

I have another badge of honor, more permanent than the scars on my knees. And that is my enormous ancient nose. This is what I inherited from my father's clan, from the house of the Cheruvattaths: large, broad, hooked when viewing the profile. Smooth at the distal end, slightly kinked more proximally just below the thick browline. It is a nose that bears witness to many histories, holds deep within its muscular nostils many secrets. I was looking at some old pictures today, my father and my younger self, the noses the one and the same, the silence the one and the same, the temperment...no longer the same. My nose flares like his when I am filled with rage, but I have yet to see his swell, blush and melt when sorrowful. Even when his mother died, I did not see the nose transform. While at night I heard him call her name in sleep, his nose never disclosed in wake.

In time, I may find I have inherited his limp, given my predisposition. But for now, I am the proud bearer of his nose, secrets and all.

Knees and nose. Nose and knees.

the Golden Ticket

On a filofax looseleaf "shopping list" I wrote the following, in neat, carrot topped script:

To Whom it May Concern:
I had placed the enclosed parking voucher on my dashboard on December 1st, 2005. I mistakenly scratched November, thinking that it was Nov 30th instead of Dec 1st.

I am enclosing a check nonetheless. But if you would be so kind to return it or VOID the check given the circumstances, I would be grateful.

Sincerely,
TV


I've had my fair share of parking violations. But this one rotted. I mean, technically I had a 12 hour parking voucher and I parked in a 2 hour zone...for less than 2 hours! Because I couldn't dig around for enough damn quarters. I jiggled my jacket, felt up my own bum, stuck my head, arm and leg into my backpack...all for naught. Some of you have seen me do this when I search for my keys. It gets really interesting when I wear my black coat with the ripped pockets- then I really dig through the seams.

So I had to use a 12 hour voucher in a 2 hour zone. Hence the ghetto fabulous letter. Kind of like my letter of leave of absence to Einstein that I brilliantly fleshed out on looseleaf, a regular sized 8 x 6, instead of my present 2 x 4.

Anyway, I had wanted to talk about World AIDS Day, but couldn't muster up the courage on that particular day... I was too entrenched. A day of rememberance: the New Haven Green was aglow with paper bag lights lining the walkways. I hate these public days, dedicated to a disease that ravages lives and communities 364 other days in the year. But I suppose if we have to be reminded...the New York Times uses the week to publish more insightful articles about the epidemic....a particularly sad, not particularly well written piece on India, prostitution and the truckers/migrants "who bring the disease back to their wives."

Why do I get so worked up about this particular illness? I can't tell you. Maybe because it still is, and will continue to be, a disease of the marginalized, the disenfranchised. Maybe because there are layers and layers of stigma that need to be peeled in order for us to create any progressive movement towards prevention and treatment. Maybe because it could have been me, the child who received the blood transfusion in 1983, the woman who also later suffered an addiction of sorts. Never any needles...just the fear of being alone.

But more on this later. Right now I'm just coasting along on my Golden Ticket. I've had one too many Wonka bars, and I am pretty darn lucky.

the Sound and the Silence

Mondays through Friday I am a New Englander. When I'm not stifled by ivy covered walls, I actually enjoy this new role.

I was driving up the Merritt Parkway, a country road sheltered by brilliant foliage in the fall, snow covered trees and dark woods in the winter. I was lost in thought, thoughtlessly lost as usual, and I missed my exit by several miles before I actually realized so. It wasn't until I was quickly approaching a tunnel pass through the rolling hills (like white elephants) that I had awoken. I took the next exit, finding myself in the Westville section, the landscape much like the rest of town: an easy tension of gentrified business (spas/ overpriced health food stores/antique shops) and American Africana (hairbraiding stores/Golden Krust Bakeries/Episcopalian Churches). Guess which store I frequent.

On my radio: Handel's Messiah on NPR. Previously it had been Kelly Clarkson on Power 95.

How apropos.

I walk up my spiral wooden staircase to get to my apartment, each creak reminding me of the books I used to bury my nose in as a child: Jacob Have I Loved, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, and other Caldicott Medal favs. I oftened dreamed of the Sound and Cape cultures I read about...and now I am living in it. The beaches in New Haven are filled with locals. Yale faculty travel further out to the Cape or Rhode Island to escape, which also has its fair share of culturally and linguistically isolated communities. I romanticize their accents, I create stories about their lives. I am just as guilty of exoticizing this culture as those who have done the same with mine.

I missed the first two snowfalls of the year. I was in Philadelphia both times. We are expecting a storm tonight and I wait, patiently, with anticipation.

A memory:
The silence of the storm, soft and deadening, awakens me at 5:30 am, 10 minutes before my alarm goes off. I leap up from my bed and peer out the window, squinting to see the snow fall by the lamppost, quiet and unassuming on the ground below. Rush back into bed, hide under my warm down blanket, wait for the clock to turn 6, wait for the phone to ring: school's been cancelled. A day of repose, a day of hot chocolate, marshmellows and snow angels. A day to sleep in.

Two reasons to pray for no wind: 1. we get to play in the snow for a little while longer, before the cold snow bites into our toes; 2. we get to watch in amazement our gorgeous backyard transformed, snow topped trees and all. One reason a little wind can be fun: Snow Drifts.

I will be in New Haven for my first snow fall of the year.

I wait and remember, again and again.

Carolina and Goose

On days like these I wish I could share a Guinness with Carolina to just mellow, warm dark brown and smooth.

Or go for a long run with Goose to debrief.

Just completed another parent-child interview. Pulled up some interesting stuff...but always painful.

Just thinking about the two of them makes me smile.

Goose, short for Vargoose, is my partner in crime. Dave came up with the name Vargoose, and I thought he just gringoed her last name, but really he was referring to Top Gun. She's the Goose to my Maverick. Or something like that.

(An aside: the Malayalam word, or more precisely the Kottayam word, for Gringo is saipamaran. I think it comes from Sahib. A female gringo is Madama....or Madame? How the tropes of colonialism haunt us so...not that either saipmaran or madama are used in any positive context.)

Anyway back to Goose: together we storm the city streets, running thisaway and that. I met her in my small group my first year and couldn't help checking her out...in addition to that itty bitty waist and gorgeous smile, she also happened to mention that her dream was to run in a marathon. And indeed she did run New York...three weeks before I ran Philly. I can't imagine a better gal to run and dish with. The kind of girl who makes lemonade: like the time we accidently wound up running along a major highway, and instead of getting flustered Goose tells me: " I kinda like this...its nice knowing that all these people are in a rush to get somewhere and we aren't in a rush to get anywhere." Did I mention how crazy smart she is? A Hahvahd gal. You'd never know it cause she's so darn humble.

And then there is Carolina. Another smart chick. A fulbright scholar and budding EM doc. Dave says that when I'm around her I seem so happy. Her charm is infectious. She was my sympatico in anatomy, and I haven't let her go since. We were the fab four: a Muslim, Two Hindus and an Irishwoman. We almost formed our own band, but split up due to political differences. I love Carolina because she is so self-effacing and funny. She loves to laugh at herself...and we all wind up laughing with her. Because life is just too damn short to take everything so seriously. If you go to her house for dinner, her dad will share a shot of Bailey's with you. Did I mention how crazy smart she is? You'd never know it because she's always laughing at herself.

I am a terrible person because I haven't kept up with Carolina in a few weeks now. We've been playing phone tag, but really I'm the slacker.

I love and miss you both. And Goose, I ran four miles today and thought of you the whole time.