so i was trying to explain to my mother that Dave made this incredible tofu dish with soy vey. I did my best to describe this soy sauce like seasoning, explaining that the yiddish phrase "oy vey" is similar to the malayalam "aiyo." They are both articulations of exasperation, as expressed by Little Old Ladies, withered and weary. I imagine my mother will be one of those LOLs in a couple of years, if she didn't always scrunch up her nose and chuckle in playful self-deprecation, keeping herself young at 54.
Even though she is completely tone deaf, she manages to speak with the musical lilt common among Hindi-glots. Her English is precise, although my aunt in India often argues that 30 years in this country has "yankified" her accent.
But she doesn't always pick up the vernacular very well. For example, she would say something like, "take a pill" instead of "take a chill pill," a favorite expression of ours back in our gum smacking mall rat days.
And as I tried my best to explain the pun soy vey, my mother tried her best to understand: "Soya vey? Soya vey?"
I gave up after a few minutes. But the attempt left me chuckling.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
omigosh
I am officially the COOLEST 14 year old I never was.
It took me just about 13 years to get here.
"Rory" is one of my 14 year old Onc patients. We smile and giggle when we talk about our favorite WB show.
Me: "I was SO bummed about last season's finale."
Rory: "I KNOW!"
Rory's mom: "They've got to get back together, they can't break up!"
So it goes. I sail into her room, part of the entourage: attending, fellow, me. We take turns listening to heart and lungs, feeling the belly for the spleen and liver. We talk a bit about how we can get her to eat a bit more, what our options were for anti-emetics. She's a fan of the marinnol.
And then, I pipe up: "Remind me to tell you about the time my sister met Jess, whose real name I can never pronounce."
"WHAT?! you mean Milos Ventimiglia?!?"
Yup. I am the coolest 14 year old ever. For about 4 minutes every day.
I wish Nam were there to see me. When she met me, standing in line to get our 9th grade school pictures taken, I was decked out in a matching skirt and blouse set from Bradley's. I was about three months shy of getting that memorable perm.
"Can I borrow a pen?" she asked coolly.
I handed her the one pen I had, a green "sanrio" pen with a cartoonish frog that jumped up and down on a spring everytime you clicked it. "Do you like Keroppi?"
She didn't like Keroppi. Even though she was Korean.
Thirteen years later, and Nam stuck around. If only she were there to see me...
It took me just about 13 years to get here.
"Rory" is one of my 14 year old Onc patients. We smile and giggle when we talk about our favorite WB show.
Me: "I was SO bummed about last season's finale."
Rory: "I KNOW!"
Rory's mom: "They've got to get back together, they can't break up!"
So it goes. I sail into her room, part of the entourage: attending, fellow, me. We take turns listening to heart and lungs, feeling the belly for the spleen and liver. We talk a bit about how we can get her to eat a bit more, what our options were for anti-emetics. She's a fan of the marinnol.
And then, I pipe up: "Remind me to tell you about the time my sister met Jess, whose real name I can never pronounce."
"WHAT?! you mean Milos Ventimiglia?!?"
Yup. I am the coolest 14 year old ever. For about 4 minutes every day.
I wish Nam were there to see me. When she met me, standing in line to get our 9th grade school pictures taken, I was decked out in a matching skirt and blouse set from Bradley's. I was about three months shy of getting that memorable perm.
"Can I borrow a pen?" she asked coolly.
I handed her the one pen I had, a green "sanrio" pen with a cartoonish frog that jumped up and down on a spring everytime you clicked it. "Do you like Keroppi?"
She didn't like Keroppi. Even though she was Korean.
Thirteen years later, and Nam stuck around. If only she were there to see me...
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Markers
with every passing year, the memory of it fades. I become distanced from this narrative and it no longer feels like my own.
Is it my changing body, with its newer contours and landscapes which have erased the markers? Where is my "second" belly button? Where is that dimple on the posterior iliac crest where they aspirated bone marrow, first at diagnosis, then at induction (day 15, day 29), then at remission?
The markers are still there. But the memory is becoming myth.
"i'll never forget seeing that smear. Twenty-one years later...the absence of neutrophils, the blasts."
My mother's story. Status post, hematology-oncology fellowship from LIJ. In Saudi Arabia, en route to "going back home."
She didn't pick it up right away. The differential of splenomegaly and painful limp in a 3 1/2 year old was far too vast. She probably just has a little bug. It's probably all reactive. Inflammatory. Infectious.
Not proliferative. Not clonal.
My narrative was more concise. At 3 1/2 I was far more articulate than at 27...less hesitant, less bumbling/stumbling, less concerned with words and their multiple meanings, implications, stories.
"I ate two naiappams, my mommy played with my belly and felt my spleen. I was limping.
My father's story: "I heard you screaming all the way from the office!" This was after my weekly spinal tap +/- bone marrow, when I failed conscious sedation. General anesthesia was not standard of care back then.
The thing is, I had no concept of death...or at least I never thought it would happen to me. "Death" was what happened to my Raju mama who no longer came to my home to give me various gifts, like a time warner clock or a spanish doll.
The rest of the story comes in bits and pieces: how my mother made her attending sit down with my father and tell him that "she could die," how my father would get so upset if the television in my room wasn't working, how we took the next flight back to the states and went straight from the airport to the hospital and never once thought of "going back home."
I am becoming distanced from this narrative.
I am doing a pediatric hem-onc rotation in Philadelphia. The few times I felt the lump-in-throat-warmth-in-face-moistness-in-eyes was when the parents' distress manifest. A mother's long pause with downward glance. A father taking his child's hand and covering his face.
And I thought of my amazing parents.
The markers are still there. The bilateral patellar areflexia. The dimple.
But the story is no longer mine. I'm not sure it ever was.
The autobiography of my mother. The autobiography of my father.
Is it my changing body, with its newer contours and landscapes which have erased the markers? Where is my "second" belly button? Where is that dimple on the posterior iliac crest where they aspirated bone marrow, first at diagnosis, then at induction (day 15, day 29), then at remission?
The markers are still there. But the memory is becoming myth.
"i'll never forget seeing that smear. Twenty-one years later...the absence of neutrophils, the blasts."
My mother's story. Status post, hematology-oncology fellowship from LIJ. In Saudi Arabia, en route to "going back home."
She didn't pick it up right away. The differential of splenomegaly and painful limp in a 3 1/2 year old was far too vast. She probably just has a little bug. It's probably all reactive. Inflammatory. Infectious.
Not proliferative. Not clonal.
My narrative was more concise. At 3 1/2 I was far more articulate than at 27...less hesitant, less bumbling/stumbling, less concerned with words and their multiple meanings, implications, stories.
"I ate two naiappams, my mommy played with my belly and felt my spleen. I was limping.
My father's story: "I heard you screaming all the way from the office!" This was after my weekly spinal tap +/- bone marrow, when I failed conscious sedation. General anesthesia was not standard of care back then.
The thing is, I had no concept of death...or at least I never thought it would happen to me. "Death" was what happened to my Raju mama who no longer came to my home to give me various gifts, like a time warner clock or a spanish doll.
The rest of the story comes in bits and pieces: how my mother made her attending sit down with my father and tell him that "she could die," how my father would get so upset if the television in my room wasn't working, how we took the next flight back to the states and went straight from the airport to the hospital and never once thought of "going back home."
I am becoming distanced from this narrative.
I am doing a pediatric hem-onc rotation in Philadelphia. The few times I felt the lump-in-throat-warmth-in-face-moistness-in-eyes was when the parents' distress manifest. A mother's long pause with downward glance. A father taking his child's hand and covering his face.
And I thought of my amazing parents.
The markers are still there. The bilateral patellar areflexia. The dimple.
But the story is no longer mine. I'm not sure it ever was.
The autobiography of my mother. The autobiography of my father.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
roost
every morning we awake to the wild roosters that roam our backyard. funny enough, in my current read, the Ukranian protagonist often uses the word roost as a verb to describe rest or sleep. irony? i think so.
so we are leaving our garden island tomorrow for Oakland, CA. I am trying my best to document highlights (and nadirs) of our trip, but am limited by the timeouts that mercilessly terminate my writing time. in a previous era (B.I.T, before information technology) I would have documented my travels in a journal. There is something lovely and romantic about actually using that archaic implement, the pen...I have tried it a coupla times, writing postcards to various folks...and it seems so foreign to me now. Every trip I took to India and Disneyworld as a child has been recorded in various travel journals.
And now: how lined pages seem so foreign a landscape. Sad, no?
Anyway, back to the highlights:
1. Poignantly trite punchlines: remember the one about the radiologist, the psychiatrist and the neurologist? my cousin H, a psychiatrist, and his lovely wife K, a neurologist, were on our transcontinental flight to Long Beach last monday, when over the speaker we heard those famous last words: is there a doctor on this plane? We all looked at each other sheepishly...Dave and I were spared because we are sans licensure, but my cousin slowly raised his hand. Another gentleman apparently did the same...he was a radiologist, and it seemed that the short straw was bound to be picked by the neurologist, the only one of three who could approach a patient below the "tentorium." Now keep in mind, I have complete faith in my cuz, the shrink, in his skills, have certainly consulted him professionally and personally...but it is a different game below the tentorium, and I suspect he is a bit removed from it. Fortunately the lol (little old lady) prolly just needed a bit of orange juice...
2. Nostalgia with some crackers: Remember Arrested Development? "Everyday People" was the very first CD I bought (along with Mariah Carey and the Beatles) as a 12 year old hipstah hopeful. They play Arrested Development ALL the time here on the island, and I am in Tennessee all over again. (Make me understand your plan...)
3. Indigenous food: Taro is a root grown here, and tastes something along the lines of Kassava. We had a Taro burger at a place called Bubba's Burgers in Kapa'a (where they "relish your buns"). Taro Hummus sandwhich at a kiosk called Taro Juice and Company in Hanelei, and Taro leaves in our enchiladas at the local Mexican joint. Positively flatulating, but positively yummy.
4. Dessert: Kauai Pie ice cream at Lapperts (kona coffee, coconut, macadamia nut), chocolate decadence from Happy Talk Lounge by Bali Hai...
5. Basking in the sun: the hardest job I have ever had. I tell ya, two hours kayaking along the river, three hour hikes in Kokee State Park (near Waimea Canyon), beaching with my beached whale of a pinky and I am totally wiped out. Being on vacation is hard work.
Alright then, I will update more once on the mainland...until then...
so we are leaving our garden island tomorrow for Oakland, CA. I am trying my best to document highlights (and nadirs) of our trip, but am limited by the timeouts that mercilessly terminate my writing time. in a previous era (B.I.T, before information technology) I would have documented my travels in a journal. There is something lovely and romantic about actually using that archaic implement, the pen...I have tried it a coupla times, writing postcards to various folks...and it seems so foreign to me now. Every trip I took to India and Disneyworld as a child has been recorded in various travel journals.
And now: how lined pages seem so foreign a landscape. Sad, no?
Anyway, back to the highlights:
1. Poignantly trite punchlines: remember the one about the radiologist, the psychiatrist and the neurologist? my cousin H, a psychiatrist, and his lovely wife K, a neurologist, were on our transcontinental flight to Long Beach last monday, when over the speaker we heard those famous last words: is there a doctor on this plane? We all looked at each other sheepishly...Dave and I were spared because we are sans licensure, but my cousin slowly raised his hand. Another gentleman apparently did the same...he was a radiologist, and it seemed that the short straw was bound to be picked by the neurologist, the only one of three who could approach a patient below the "tentorium." Now keep in mind, I have complete faith in my cuz, the shrink, in his skills, have certainly consulted him professionally and personally...but it is a different game below the tentorium, and I suspect he is a bit removed from it. Fortunately the lol (little old lady) prolly just needed a bit of orange juice...
2. Nostalgia with some crackers: Remember Arrested Development? "Everyday People" was the very first CD I bought (along with Mariah Carey and the Beatles) as a 12 year old hipstah hopeful. They play Arrested Development ALL the time here on the island, and I am in Tennessee all over again. (Make me understand your plan...)
3. Indigenous food: Taro is a root grown here, and tastes something along the lines of Kassava. We had a Taro burger at a place called Bubba's Burgers in Kapa'a (where they "relish your buns"). Taro Hummus sandwhich at a kiosk called Taro Juice and Company in Hanelei, and Taro leaves in our enchiladas at the local Mexican joint. Positively flatulating, but positively yummy.
4. Dessert: Kauai Pie ice cream at Lapperts (kona coffee, coconut, macadamia nut), chocolate decadence from Happy Talk Lounge by Bali Hai...
5. Basking in the sun: the hardest job I have ever had. I tell ya, two hours kayaking along the river, three hour hikes in Kokee State Park (near Waimea Canyon), beaching with my beached whale of a pinky and I am totally wiped out. Being on vacation is hard work.
Alright then, I will update more once on the mainland...until then...
Sunday, June 25, 2006
here's to fifty two times a billion
a week ago today we were married among all our beloved friends and family. to those of you who read this blog, i cannot express my gratitude for your presence in my life, and especially on that particular day...what a way to celebrate a life lived and a life ahead!
Dave and I celebrated our "1 week" anniversary today by going to the Kauai Hindu Temple. I was struck by the ease with which disciples, both of South Asian descent and otherwise, followed the lead of two "white" bramacharis. For those who are not familiar with the tradition, it is custom for rituals to be performed only by those in the Brahman caste. That is not to say that a learned Kshatriya (warrior) or Vaishya (merchant) cannot take a vow of ascetism, or become a "guru" (a spiritual teacher)...its just the rituals that seem to have been marked for inheritance. So it was striking that these two individuals were donning the string and the saffron dhotis...they must have been taught the rituals by someone who was of that tradition. The temple itself was gorgeous, nestled among lush mountains and gurgling streams....truly a place to find serenity, no matter what your religious or spiritual persuasion.
Then we had an amazing brunch at this local vegan joing called Blossoming Lotus: tofu scramble drizzled with salsa and sour cream, a vegan omlette with macadamia nut cheese, a pecan sticky bun drenched in maple syrup glaze and sweet corn bread garnished with a chunky pineapple-mango chutney. Scrumdidliumptious!
Lets see...Dave and I hiked the Na-Pali coast two days ago, and the challenge proved me less rugged than I would have liked to consider myself. At one point I was so tired and dehydrated I started to cry! (yes indeed, making myself even more dehydrated.) But the views were incredible, I will definitely upload pictures once I download them (hah!) from our new digital camera.
In other news, Dave took a surfing lesson yesterday and managed to rip the side of his swim shorts. His instructor called it a "hang 11." shaka!
Tonight we had lovely dinner by Hanelei Bay...ahi and a caesar salad with grilled fish. just lovely.
More later....mahalo for reading!
Dave and I celebrated our "1 week" anniversary today by going to the Kauai Hindu Temple. I was struck by the ease with which disciples, both of South Asian descent and otherwise, followed the lead of two "white" bramacharis. For those who are not familiar with the tradition, it is custom for rituals to be performed only by those in the Brahman caste. That is not to say that a learned Kshatriya (warrior) or Vaishya (merchant) cannot take a vow of ascetism, or become a "guru" (a spiritual teacher)...its just the rituals that seem to have been marked for inheritance. So it was striking that these two individuals were donning the string and the saffron dhotis...they must have been taught the rituals by someone who was of that tradition. The temple itself was gorgeous, nestled among lush mountains and gurgling streams....truly a place to find serenity, no matter what your religious or spiritual persuasion.
Then we had an amazing brunch at this local vegan joing called Blossoming Lotus: tofu scramble drizzled with salsa and sour cream, a vegan omlette with macadamia nut cheese, a pecan sticky bun drenched in maple syrup glaze and sweet corn bread garnished with a chunky pineapple-mango chutney. Scrumdidliumptious!
Lets see...Dave and I hiked the Na-Pali coast two days ago, and the challenge proved me less rugged than I would have liked to consider myself. At one point I was so tired and dehydrated I started to cry! (yes indeed, making myself even more dehydrated.) But the views were incredible, I will definitely upload pictures once I download them (hah!) from our new digital camera.
In other news, Dave took a surfing lesson yesterday and managed to rip the side of his swim shorts. His instructor called it a "hang 11." shaka!
Tonight we had lovely dinner by Hanelei Bay...ahi and a caesar salad with grilled fish. just lovely.
More later....mahalo for reading!
Saturday, June 24, 2006
hawaii two d'oh! part deux
day five on gilligan's island.
geico, our friendly neighborhood gecko, is our new best friend who scrambles across our stucco walls. me thinks he gobbles up all the mosquitoes that would otherwise torment me at night. consequently i have been blessed with the most golden of slumbers on the eastside of kauai.
charlotte, the spider who once took up nest by our doorway, has flown the coop. even Dave, afflicted with a bad case of arachnephobia (sp?) had been smitten (not bitten) by her.
i just finished the life of pi, and in spite of my prolonged seasickness (god he's still on the boat), the ending was actually quite lovely and i realized the "the ethnography" was actually quite self-aware. the one "antagonist" of the novel was a french cook, ala the Little Mermaid (les poisson hee hee hee haw haw haw), and i think Yann Martel himself is french canadian. can anyone else confirm this? now onto everything is illuminated by jonathan safran foer...isn't being on vacation greeeat?
argument number 9: some of you might have realized that D and I are two different people. he is of more adventurous stock than I, but the Julia Kristeva (literary critic) reference that Adam made was more lost on him than I. so arguments are bound to happen. but he teaches me to stand more firmly on my own two feet, and i hope i am giving him something in return...
be on the look out for my goofy grin everytime dave refers to me as my wife. he has done it a total of three times already...and i have yet to reciprocate. i like this marriage thing.
geico, our friendly neighborhood gecko, is our new best friend who scrambles across our stucco walls. me thinks he gobbles up all the mosquitoes that would otherwise torment me at night. consequently i have been blessed with the most golden of slumbers on the eastside of kauai.
charlotte, the spider who once took up nest by our doorway, has flown the coop. even Dave, afflicted with a bad case of arachnephobia (sp?) had been smitten (not bitten) by her.
i just finished the life of pi, and in spite of my prolonged seasickness (god he's still on the boat), the ending was actually quite lovely and i realized the "the ethnography" was actually quite self-aware. the one "antagonist" of the novel was a french cook, ala the Little Mermaid (les poisson hee hee hee haw haw haw), and i think Yann Martel himself is french canadian. can anyone else confirm this? now onto everything is illuminated by jonathan safran foer...isn't being on vacation greeeat?
argument number 9: some of you might have realized that D and I are two different people. he is of more adventurous stock than I, but the Julia Kristeva (literary critic) reference that Adam made was more lost on him than I. so arguments are bound to happen. but he teaches me to stand more firmly on my own two feet, and i hope i am giving him something in return...
be on the look out for my goofy grin everytime dave refers to me as my wife. he has done it a total of three times already...and i have yet to reciprocate. i like this marriage thing.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
hawaii two d'oh
"don't scratch it...just leave it alone and it'll go down a bit."
"thanks. i think i know the pathophysiology of a mosquito bite, Dave."
day four of post-nuptual bliss in Hawaii, and things feel just about right. Other similar conversations:
"Tar, doesn't this feel like we're in the jungle?"
"No, it feels like I'm in Westchester."
Yeah. Back to my old curmugeony self after my weekend of pampering and princesshood. life is splendid.
things that i actually love about our temporary paradise lost:
1. spectacular vistas of the ocean, no matter where you stand, no matter which mountain you are a top.
2. wild orchids and hibiscus abound
3. great food...veggie friendly too!
4. a small town feel...especially the small town coffee shop located in kap'aa with internet.
5. our rad abode...a small cottage nestled at the base of Sleeping Giant Mountain on the east side of Kauai...very secluded, but residential.
6. my awesome new uber-short hair do...liberation? no, just frustrated with my increasingly limp hair-do.
things i look forward too in the next coupla days:
1. hiking the na'pali coast
2. buying hawaiian kitsch, like jimmy buffett t-shirts
3. going to a dinner production of South Pacific in the south pacific (actually the movie, among many others including Elvis's Blue Hawaii, Jurassic Park) was filmed here in kauai.
4. waste away in margaritaville.
life is pretty good, nuptualized.
"thanks. i think i know the pathophysiology of a mosquito bite, Dave."
day four of post-nuptual bliss in Hawaii, and things feel just about right. Other similar conversations:
"Tar, doesn't this feel like we're in the jungle?"
"No, it feels like I'm in Westchester."
Yeah. Back to my old curmugeony self after my weekend of pampering and princesshood. life is splendid.
things that i actually love about our temporary paradise lost:
1. spectacular vistas of the ocean, no matter where you stand, no matter which mountain you are a top.
2. wild orchids and hibiscus abound
3. great food...veggie friendly too!
4. a small town feel...especially the small town coffee shop located in kap'aa with internet.
5. our rad abode...a small cottage nestled at the base of Sleeping Giant Mountain on the east side of Kauai...very secluded, but residential.
6. my awesome new uber-short hair do...liberation? no, just frustrated with my increasingly limp hair-do.
things i look forward too in the next coupla days:
1. hiking the na'pali coast
2. buying hawaiian kitsch, like jimmy buffett t-shirts
3. going to a dinner production of South Pacific in the south pacific (actually the movie, among many others including Elvis's Blue Hawaii, Jurassic Park) was filmed here in kauai.
4. waste away in margaritaville.
life is pretty good, nuptualized.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
writorrhea
it feels good to be back.
i've been spending the last four days in a small, poorly ventilated ER in the Bronx. At any given moment there three residents (peds or ER), two-three attendings (peds or ER), two fellows (peds ER). a couple of nurse practioners and me all running amok from one curtained room to the next. At any given moment there are about 12-20 "charts waiting to be seen."
Everyone walks around, with glistening brows, looking as though they had been to hell and back thrice over.
I fit right in.
I love every minute of it, even when I have to deal with snippy nurses and malicious residents.
Don't worry, I am not tacking on ER to my current list. (medicine? peds? peds? medicine?) But I love the thick salty air of constant hustle bustle.
A nice change of pace from my usual seizure-like state in front of a bright blue screen.
"God WHY do you HAVE to do shifts in the ER?" CB, also known as "Chop-Buster," asked disparagingly.
CB is one of my mentors. Not my primary who wrote that kind letter two weeks ago. CB has been on my bum since the day I met her. I was a directionless migrant from new york who decided to pursue this project on "qualitative research"...with no clue as to what that even entailed. When she had met me, I had blindly drafted an IRB protocol, blindly read article after article on "transitioning children with special health needs," and blindly drafted an introduction/literature review...and she was suitably impressed. And then she proceeded to slaughter everything I ever produced.
I love her. She is ruthless and oftentimes rude. The other night, after I came home from a long shift, I checked my email to find that my poster for student research day was due the last friday. I desperately called CB to ask her what she thought of my last version of the poster.
"I can't get over how ugly it is."
Yeah. She really said that. I bristled as I listened to her go on and on about how she envisioned it. It was clear we had two different aesthetics. Nonetheless I proceeded to work on the damn poster for another two hours. Mind you I had another ER shift to do the next morning.
It's been a long week.
CB busts my chops everyday. But without her I would have never reached this point. Without her I would have never been able to present my research so succintly and precisely...she knows all too well my affliction with writorrhea.
She is not a clinician. She very willingly admits that she does not like clinical medicine at all. I knew that fact when I somewhat mean-spiritedly remarked about how much I LOVE clinical medicine. Which is the truth...I love the intensity, the nastiness, the drama, the folklore...every part of it.
But I felt badly when she responded, with a vacant look on her face, "God I hate it."
But the great thing about CB is that she really knows what she wants and she is brilliant at what she does, and she KNOWS clinical medicine is not for her. I lucked out...I love medicine for all its rawness, and I love research for all its exclusivity...and fortunately I DON'T love the kind of clinical work or the kind of research that would exclude other. I can actually manage to integrate both somehow...
I didn't think this was possible. But now...
As long as I can get past the egos and the stalwarts.
I am excited beyond measure, beyond words. How's that for a change?
i've been spending the last four days in a small, poorly ventilated ER in the Bronx. At any given moment there three residents (peds or ER), two-three attendings (peds or ER), two fellows (peds ER). a couple of nurse practioners and me all running amok from one curtained room to the next. At any given moment there are about 12-20 "charts waiting to be seen."
Everyone walks around, with glistening brows, looking as though they had been to hell and back thrice over.
I fit right in.
I love every minute of it, even when I have to deal with snippy nurses and malicious residents.
Don't worry, I am not tacking on ER to my current list. (medicine? peds? peds? medicine?) But I love the thick salty air of constant hustle bustle.
A nice change of pace from my usual seizure-like state in front of a bright blue screen.
"God WHY do you HAVE to do shifts in the ER?" CB, also known as "Chop-Buster," asked disparagingly.
CB is one of my mentors. Not my primary who wrote that kind letter two weeks ago. CB has been on my bum since the day I met her. I was a directionless migrant from new york who decided to pursue this project on "qualitative research"...with no clue as to what that even entailed. When she had met me, I had blindly drafted an IRB protocol, blindly read article after article on "transitioning children with special health needs," and blindly drafted an introduction/literature review...and she was suitably impressed. And then she proceeded to slaughter everything I ever produced.
I love her. She is ruthless and oftentimes rude. The other night, after I came home from a long shift, I checked my email to find that my poster for student research day was due the last friday. I desperately called CB to ask her what she thought of my last version of the poster.
"I can't get over how ugly it is."
Yeah. She really said that. I bristled as I listened to her go on and on about how she envisioned it. It was clear we had two different aesthetics. Nonetheless I proceeded to work on the damn poster for another two hours. Mind you I had another ER shift to do the next morning.
It's been a long week.
CB busts my chops everyday. But without her I would have never reached this point. Without her I would have never been able to present my research so succintly and precisely...she knows all too well my affliction with writorrhea.
She is not a clinician. She very willingly admits that she does not like clinical medicine at all. I knew that fact when I somewhat mean-spiritedly remarked about how much I LOVE clinical medicine. Which is the truth...I love the intensity, the nastiness, the drama, the folklore...every part of it.
But I felt badly when she responded, with a vacant look on her face, "God I hate it."
But the great thing about CB is that she really knows what she wants and she is brilliant at what she does, and she KNOWS clinical medicine is not for her. I lucked out...I love medicine for all its rawness, and I love research for all its exclusivity...and fortunately I DON'T love the kind of clinical work or the kind of research that would exclude other. I can actually manage to integrate both somehow...
I didn't think this was possible. But now...
As long as I can get past the egos and the stalwarts.
I am excited beyond measure, beyond words. How's that for a change?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
DICK and the MAN
Remember the Furtive Foot who so rudely interrupted the smooth continuity between my rump and the floor at last year's NIH meeting? The one and the same that lay captive to the MAN?
He is my beneficiary and patriarch.
$23,000.
Doris Duke, our dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, is his masquerade. He is The MAN responsible for my year here.
And so yesterday I had to present to him my year of research in 10 minutes.
I took a lot of time on this presentation. I tried hard to make it clean and concise. In the process it was deprived of its richness.
All the WORDS spoken...so many WORDS. Over 500 pages of WORDS spoken by adolescents, parents and providers.
Lost in translation to The MAN whom I could see was struggling to find the p value among my quotes.
"So how do I know you are not making all of this up? Can you put in a few numbers and tables in there? Like maybe the CD4 count trends of these children...to see how sick they are?
I looked him straight in the eye, studied every relief on his disgruntled face and finally realized:
I am in control here.
It was as though every sentence he uttered was scripted.
So I confidently responded:
"While I DID document the CD4 counts of these children, among other measures of illness, I don't think it really matters how SICK these children are. Regardless of how SICK these children are, they still NEED to be transitioned, and my agenda today was to describe to you some of the BARRIERS to transitioning care of these adolescents."
He paused. He reflected. The discomfort was palpable.
"Hmm. Fair enough. Ok lets get moving, I'm sure we could talk about this all day. Our next presenter is Heather Duke, who is going to give his talk on Modulation of the Anti-Tumor Immune Response with Immunotherapy (aka protein isolation of cell surface markers on Cutaneous T cell Lymphoma).
Heather Duke is actually a 6' blond haired blue eyed abercrombie and fitched out bloke. Every other Fellow whose company I keep fits a similar description.
I am the only woman to have received the fellowship this year. I am the only medical student who is not going into a surgical specialty or into radiation oncology.
I used a lot of four letter expletives later than night to describe my company at the meeting. Somehow it seemed to flow so naturally.
One ****, I'll call him DICK for now, made an especially smarmy comment. the MAN had asked each of us to make a comment about last presenter, and I said that I don't have anything more to add to what has already been said...and just before I was about to give one additional comment, DICK said: "so you mean we've reached the point of theoretical saturation?" He was throwing back a phrase I had used in describing our qualitative analysis. You could tell he was waiting to use that line all evening.
I ignored DICK's comment and moved on. And that was that.
I will say this: three of my mentors showed up to my presentation, and they were all very pleased. And mind you that all three were previously hard core quantitative researchers who have published in esteemed journals (including NEJM). They are all extraordinary people who were willing to push the envelope a bit and take a chance on me, "the flighty social scientist"/"the blossoming academic." And I am so so grateful.
~.~.~
An email from my mentor, in the aftermath:
"TARA: No thanks are necessary. It was a pleasure to see this all come to
fruition in a wonderful 10 minute pearl.
... By the way, the 2 students who went after you stunned me with
their inability to make their data accessible to the audience. I simply could not follow them, even though they had lots of beautiful data. They will be able to write
nice papers with pretty figures but they certainly could not give me two sentences to store in my head for even 15 minutes.
So thanks for being the star! You make us all look good. And
you have taught me a lot. That's what this is all about: we provide the resources and the time and you teach your teachers.
Gratefully, "
He is my beneficiary and patriarch.
$23,000.
Doris Duke, our dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, is his masquerade. He is The MAN responsible for my year here.
And so yesterday I had to present to him my year of research in 10 minutes.
I took a lot of time on this presentation. I tried hard to make it clean and concise. In the process it was deprived of its richness.
All the WORDS spoken...so many WORDS. Over 500 pages of WORDS spoken by adolescents, parents and providers.
Lost in translation to The MAN whom I could see was struggling to find the p value among my quotes.
"So how do I know you are not making all of this up? Can you put in a few numbers and tables in there? Like maybe the CD4 count trends of these children...to see how sick they are?
I looked him straight in the eye, studied every relief on his disgruntled face and finally realized:
I am in control here.
It was as though every sentence he uttered was scripted.
So I confidently responded:
"While I DID document the CD4 counts of these children, among other measures of illness, I don't think it really matters how SICK these children are. Regardless of how SICK these children are, they still NEED to be transitioned, and my agenda today was to describe to you some of the BARRIERS to transitioning care of these adolescents."
He paused. He reflected. The discomfort was palpable.
"Hmm. Fair enough. Ok lets get moving, I'm sure we could talk about this all day. Our next presenter is Heather Duke, who is going to give his talk on Modulation of the Anti-Tumor Immune Response with Immunotherapy (aka protein isolation of cell surface markers on Cutaneous T cell Lymphoma).
Heather Duke is actually a 6' blond haired blue eyed abercrombie and fitched out bloke. Every other Fellow whose company I keep fits a similar description.
I am the only woman to have received the fellowship this year. I am the only medical student who is not going into a surgical specialty or into radiation oncology.
I used a lot of four letter expletives later than night to describe my company at the meeting. Somehow it seemed to flow so naturally.
One ****, I'll call him DICK for now, made an especially smarmy comment. the MAN had asked each of us to make a comment about last presenter, and I said that I don't have anything more to add to what has already been said...and just before I was about to give one additional comment, DICK said: "so you mean we've reached the point of theoretical saturation?" He was throwing back a phrase I had used in describing our qualitative analysis. You could tell he was waiting to use that line all evening.
I ignored DICK's comment and moved on. And that was that.
I will say this: three of my mentors showed up to my presentation, and they were all very pleased. And mind you that all three were previously hard core quantitative researchers who have published in esteemed journals (including NEJM). They are all extraordinary people who were willing to push the envelope a bit and take a chance on me, "the flighty social scientist"/"the blossoming academic." And I am so so grateful.
~.~.~
An email from my mentor, in the aftermath:
"TARA: No thanks are necessary. It was a pleasure to see this all come to
fruition in a wonderful 10 minute pearl.
... By the way, the 2 students who went after you stunned me with
their inability to make their data accessible to the audience. I simply could not follow them, even though they had lots of beautiful data. They will be able to write
nice papers with pretty figures but they certainly could not give me two sentences to store in my head for even 15 minutes.
So thanks for being the star! You make us all look good. And
you have taught me a lot. That's what this is all about: we provide the resources and the time and you teach your teachers.
Gratefully, "
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Masquerade
I am the quintessential New Yorker.
(and/or Jersey Girl. Take your pick.)
Bitter. Jaded.
Pale and Dry.
A Ball Buster.
I wasn’t always so. In fact, in high school, I radiated. I exalted the sun. I glorified the Great Outdoors. I ran twice a day, 5-6 days a week. Come rain (snow, hail) or shine.
I was sun-kissed all year round.
So it wasn’t surprising to anyone that I shunned the ivy league to go to school in California. I didn’t get "Stansbury," my first pick out west, but my second seemed remarkably a better fit than anyone could have imagined.
So I chose sunshine over the gray skies of Morningside Heights, West Philadelphia and Baltimore. And I had no regrets.
Every high schooler has his or her role in the system. I was the Long-Skirted Recluse (LSR) who loved to bask. Future tiller of soil and planter of seeds. A Rebel, whose only cause was warm weather and sunny skies.
So what happened?
Now I am a pale, puffy academic who is seeking out the IV. Even though I hate it, especially the one in which I am currently doing research, which I have secretly nicknamed "Heather Chandler." (or Heather Duke or Heather McNamara. Depending on my mood.)
As in "Dear Diary, I HATE Heather Chandler."
I am Veronica Sawyer.
(For those of you who haven't caught on yet: "Heathers" is one of my all-time favorite movies.)
~.~.~.~.~
What happened was that I wound up deciding to marry the quintessential Californian. A Scruffy, Sun-kissed, Hoodie Wearing, Skateboarding Californian. A Pacifist. A Dirty Hippie. To be fair, he does not truly hail from the Golden State. He lives five minutes from the border. But he is definitely Californian.
So I surmise based on the fact that every “war story” is prefaced with “Whoaaa. Dude.”
Um. Yeah.
So my Skater Boy had me figured out much earlier than anyone else ever did. He magically fleshed the beast that lies within. He knows that I am really the same Zantac-popping type A kid that every other student at The Dwight-Englewood College Preparatory School was.
Only worse. I am the Quintessential Imposter. A Masquerader.
And so my true colors emerge.
The Californian: sunny, warm, friendly, breezy. Laid back.
Mellow.
The New Yorker: cloudy, cold, bitter, dry. Serious.
Intense.
Me.
(and/or Jersey Girl. Take your pick.)
Bitter. Jaded.
Pale and Dry.
A Ball Buster.
I wasn’t always so. In fact, in high school, I radiated. I exalted the sun. I glorified the Great Outdoors. I ran twice a day, 5-6 days a week. Come rain (snow, hail) or shine.
I was sun-kissed all year round.
So it wasn’t surprising to anyone that I shunned the ivy league to go to school in California. I didn’t get "Stansbury," my first pick out west, but my second seemed remarkably a better fit than anyone could have imagined.
So I chose sunshine over the gray skies of Morningside Heights, West Philadelphia and Baltimore. And I had no regrets.
Every high schooler has his or her role in the system. I was the Long-Skirted Recluse (LSR) who loved to bask. Future tiller of soil and planter of seeds. A Rebel, whose only cause was warm weather and sunny skies.
So what happened?
Now I am a pale, puffy academic who is seeking out the IV. Even though I hate it, especially the one in which I am currently doing research, which I have secretly nicknamed "Heather Chandler." (or Heather Duke or Heather McNamara. Depending on my mood.)
As in "Dear Diary, I HATE Heather Chandler."
I am Veronica Sawyer.
(For those of you who haven't caught on yet: "Heathers" is one of my all-time favorite movies.)
~.~.~.~.~
What happened was that I wound up deciding to marry the quintessential Californian. A Scruffy, Sun-kissed, Hoodie Wearing, Skateboarding Californian. A Pacifist. A Dirty Hippie. To be fair, he does not truly hail from the Golden State. He lives five minutes from the border. But he is definitely Californian.
So I surmise based on the fact that every “war story” is prefaced with “Whoaaa. Dude.”
Um. Yeah.
So my Skater Boy had me figured out much earlier than anyone else ever did. He magically fleshed the beast that lies within. He knows that I am really the same Zantac-popping type A kid that every other student at The Dwight-Englewood College Preparatory School was.
Only worse. I am the Quintessential Imposter. A Masquerader.
And so my true colors emerge.
The Californian: sunny, warm, friendly, breezy. Laid back.
Mellow.
The New Yorker: cloudy, cold, bitter, dry. Serious.
Intense.
Me.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
paradise now
i'm having a bridezilla moment.
one after another.
yesterday i found *the perfect* apartment for our first home. it was open and sunny and it had a lovely little patio with a garden. I imagined myself, in a bright yellow floral scarf covering all but a few strands of maverick hairs, capri pants with dirt stained knees and my old trusted birks, tilling away and harvesting my 2x4 foot plot of land. Romantic, no? Tara, newlywed, newly anointed earth goddess, tiller of soil, planter of seeds.
keep in mind that neither of my thumbs are remotely green. but i am learning. and i finally am listening to my mother, who was blessed with two.
so I eagerly put down my application. I confidently scribbled my *income,* which technically is below the poverty line, and my *employer,* a winning combination of Doris Duke, the dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, and the Federal Government, my patriarch and lender.
Believe it or not, the owner did not think this income was sufficient. So she asked if I could have my parents cosign.
Now I have great credit. And I have managed to do pretty well with my meager salary, if I do say so myself. Of course it helps that I am a single woman who doesn't have to pay for a car or my cell phone, thanks to my folks. But I am, and have been for about seven years now on top of all my other bills. And there are MANY other bills I have had to pay.
So I stuttered and fumbled over my words and eagerly tried to convince this woman that I was CAPABLE.... without my parents help. I just didn't want to bring them into this...they have done too much for me already.
She said she would get back to me. But there were other people waiting for this apartment too.
I lost sleep over this. I kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking that my future husband is a better candidate than I am because his parents are his *employer.*
What is wrong with this system? I thought this was the land of hope and dreams and hopeful dreams...
and opportunity.
Today we decided to go check out a studio, which was considerably cheaper. It is a lovely open space, with new hardwood floors and south facing windows...but it is small. And it does not have a garden. The place belongs to Dave's current landlord who is a bit of an eccentric, an art gallery owner who doesn't like to do anything formally...ie no credit checks involved, no employment history, nothing. Just faith in us, newlywed students who have never had a problem making rent.
Clearly my kind of woman.
We sat on the steps, basked in the springtime sun and mulled. If we decided to go with this apartment, we would not be able to entertain very many guests. And I wouldn't be able to till and harvest. Our first home would be small and intimate.
But bright, open and sunny.
The garden would have to wait.
So we took it. Our first home.
one after another.
yesterday i found *the perfect* apartment for our first home. it was open and sunny and it had a lovely little patio with a garden. I imagined myself, in a bright yellow floral scarf covering all but a few strands of maverick hairs, capri pants with dirt stained knees and my old trusted birks, tilling away and harvesting my 2x4 foot plot of land. Romantic, no? Tara, newlywed, newly anointed earth goddess, tiller of soil, planter of seeds.
keep in mind that neither of my thumbs are remotely green. but i am learning. and i finally am listening to my mother, who was blessed with two.
so I eagerly put down my application. I confidently scribbled my *income,* which technically is below the poverty line, and my *employer,* a winning combination of Doris Duke, the dead philanthropic niece of James Buchanan, and the Federal Government, my patriarch and lender.
Believe it or not, the owner did not think this income was sufficient. So she asked if I could have my parents cosign.
Now I have great credit. And I have managed to do pretty well with my meager salary, if I do say so myself. Of course it helps that I am a single woman who doesn't have to pay for a car or my cell phone, thanks to my folks. But I am, and have been for about seven years now on top of all my other bills. And there are MANY other bills I have had to pay.
So I stuttered and fumbled over my words and eagerly tried to convince this woman that I was CAPABLE.... without my parents help. I just didn't want to bring them into this...they have done too much for me already.
She said she would get back to me. But there were other people waiting for this apartment too.
I lost sleep over this. I kept waking up in the middle of the night thinking that my future husband is a better candidate than I am because his parents are his *employer.*
What is wrong with this system? I thought this was the land of hope and dreams and hopeful dreams...
and opportunity.
Today we decided to go check out a studio, which was considerably cheaper. It is a lovely open space, with new hardwood floors and south facing windows...but it is small. And it does not have a garden. The place belongs to Dave's current landlord who is a bit of an eccentric, an art gallery owner who doesn't like to do anything formally...ie no credit checks involved, no employment history, nothing. Just faith in us, newlywed students who have never had a problem making rent.
Clearly my kind of woman.
We sat on the steps, basked in the springtime sun and mulled. If we decided to go with this apartment, we would not be able to entertain very many guests. And I wouldn't be able to till and harvest. Our first home would be small and intimate.
But bright, open and sunny.
The garden would have to wait.
So we took it. Our first home.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
junglee, junglee
"Arye beti, I know you doctors just wash wash wash, but at least try and put some lotion on your hands!"
She was so dismayed to find my recently henna'ed hands cracked and fissured at the knuckles.
Just wait until she attacked my junglee eyebrows, about 12 hairs shy of the limitless. One love, one brow.
Every so often I muster the courage to go see the Threading Aunties. They own a strip mall salon on a busy street in Hackensack, NJ and their clientale range from female migrants from the Hair Belt to gum smacking, long nailed Italian moms, to tight-jeaned, tanktopped Puerto Rican papis. Yes even the burliest of men visit the Threading Aunties.
They bob their chins to and fro with piece of thread between their teeth, expertly yanking each straddler, each wayward hair by its roots. While some of the older aunties wear the standard kurta pyjama top with tapered jeans and reebook sneaks, some of the younger didi's are hot to trot in their diesel jeans and slinky tops. Regardless of their attire, they all manage to have perfectly arched eyebrows and well manicured hands.
Most of the time they giggle and gossip, rapid exercises of their native tongue. I smile stupidly when they chuckle and motion for me to sit in the swivel chair. Most of the clients experience some watering of the eyes...but I am far less graceful. For about three minutes into the thread I start to sneeze. Pluck, ACHOO! Pluck, ACHOO! pluckpluckpluckachooachooachoo!
I emerge with red watery eyes, a swollen shnoz and perfectly shaped eyebrows. And two clucks that follow me as I walk out the door.
"Silly child doesn't take care of herself. No lotion, no make-up, no nothing! How did she ever find a man, God only knows."
They don't really say that. But that is what I imagine in my head. At least that is why all my aunties were so astonished to see me at my engagement party...and all I had donned was a little kohl under my eyes.
I am usually a walking disaster, the female equivalent of Pig Pen. Although to my credit, I do shower everyday...almost. It is true I rarely brush my hair, let alone powder my nose. My nails are painfully bitten down to the quick: the skin around is more often pink than brown.
I attempted to wear eyeliner on a regular basis as a freshman in college. That didn't last very long.
But things are about to change, oh yes, mark my words! At least for a day.
In June.
And then after that....God only knows.
She was so dismayed to find my recently henna'ed hands cracked and fissured at the knuckles.
Just wait until she attacked my junglee eyebrows, about 12 hairs shy of the limitless. One love, one brow.
Every so often I muster the courage to go see the Threading Aunties. They own a strip mall salon on a busy street in Hackensack, NJ and their clientale range from female migrants from the Hair Belt to gum smacking, long nailed Italian moms, to tight-jeaned, tanktopped Puerto Rican papis. Yes even the burliest of men visit the Threading Aunties.
They bob their chins to and fro with piece of thread between their teeth, expertly yanking each straddler, each wayward hair by its roots. While some of the older aunties wear the standard kurta pyjama top with tapered jeans and reebook sneaks, some of the younger didi's are hot to trot in their diesel jeans and slinky tops. Regardless of their attire, they all manage to have perfectly arched eyebrows and well manicured hands.
Most of the time they giggle and gossip, rapid exercises of their native tongue. I smile stupidly when they chuckle and motion for me to sit in the swivel chair. Most of the clients experience some watering of the eyes...but I am far less graceful. For about three minutes into the thread I start to sneeze. Pluck, ACHOO! Pluck, ACHOO! pluckpluckpluckachooachooachoo!
I emerge with red watery eyes, a swollen shnoz and perfectly shaped eyebrows. And two clucks that follow me as I walk out the door.
"Silly child doesn't take care of herself. No lotion, no make-up, no nothing! How did she ever find a man, God only knows."
They don't really say that. But that is what I imagine in my head. At least that is why all my aunties were so astonished to see me at my engagement party...and all I had donned was a little kohl under my eyes.
I am usually a walking disaster, the female equivalent of Pig Pen. Although to my credit, I do shower everyday...almost. It is true I rarely brush my hair, let alone powder my nose. My nails are painfully bitten down to the quick: the skin around is more often pink than brown.
I attempted to wear eyeliner on a regular basis as a freshman in college. That didn't last very long.
But things are about to change, oh yes, mark my words! At least for a day.
In June.
And then after that....God only knows.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Bottoms-up
said a patient to his doctor: "doctors who take care of HIV positive people are at the bottom of the barrel. If they can't be surgeons and if they can't be regular doctors then they have to be HIV doctors."
i am renegotiating my place once again. medicine? pediatrics?
peds? med?
i so desperately want to be an HIV doctor. And I so desperately want to tell this patient that he is not at the bottom of the barrel.
i am renegotiating my place once again. medicine? pediatrics?
peds? med?
i so desperately want to be an HIV doctor. And I so desperately want to tell this patient that he is not at the bottom of the barrel.
hopscotch
so I was at the gym, huff puffing away while attempting to get through my latest "great read" when my eyes drifted to the magazine table in front of the row of synchronous ellipticals. How easily they landed on a journal that had the word BROWN in big bold letters. I scanned down to find what appeared to be three attractive and self assured Indian men. From my 10 foot distance I could make out the word "studio exec."
And my exact thoughts were " wow cool I wonder if that is another South Asian art 'zine."
In spite of my efforts to focus on Pi and his lifeboat, my eyes continued to fall on that cover, eager to devour another piece of cross-cultural iconography.
When I finished my workout and actually looked at the "zine" a bit closer, I was able to make out what was merely a blur from my 10 foot vantage: the word "alumni."
It was a Brown alumni magazine. With three attractive and self-assured Indian men on the cover.
I remembered looking at the Brown alumni magazine when I was applying in high school and seeing folks of diff'rent strokes and thinking wow way to market diversity.
And then of course I would end up going to an institution that was 40% Asian American.
And wound up with a man, a "minority" who in spite of himself floated easily atop our iridescent seas.
A Jew from Nevada. An effortless sneeze.
~.~.~.~
It's a tricky thing to stand on one foot. The impulse to fall forward, then sideways, then back is tempered by your determination to stand erect, and so you thrust your arms out, again desperately hoping that two limbs are better than one. What relief you find when you can at last place both feet down, either in the middle of the game or the end when you leap from Box Number Nine to base.
Safe.
Such was not my lot as the hyphenated american, according to Jhumpa Lahiri. I was never given (or perhaps afraid to find) the space to land solidly on both feet. It was always one or the other.
My roots are too green, my body too easily bent thisaway and that.
And then there is that impending threat of falling. It is actually inevitable: once my parents leave, my roots will be severed and I will no longer straddle the hyphen, the line.
I don't want to believe this is true. The possibility is frightening.
~.~.~.~
I am haunted by this idea of nationalism and the constantly reminded of the "motherland."
My parents never use the word India to refer to the land of their birth. In our house, "India" only referred to as Nadhuh, Home.
In fact, Nadhuh specifically refers to Kerala. My mother never grew up in Nadhuh. She grew up in Bihar and Bangalore, but never Nadhuh. Nadhuh was a place they would go during their vacations.
And yet the significance of Nadhuh is weighted. It is always Home.
Our connection to Home has always been a little fuzzy. When I was little I would often wake up on a Saturday morning to the my mother's loud shrill voice. It was as though she would save up her energy mondays through fridays, soft-spoken and often silent, for the end of the week. "ACHAAA? Kerkhan-indoh?": "DAD? Can you hear me?"
(This is why ET is such an emotional movie for my family. "Phone Home?")
If that didn't wake us up, then it was the sound of cackling mustard seeds, steaming in the steel saucepan. Sometimes it was the pulsating motor grinder or the wafts of soured Dosas....
We would wake up, brush our teeth and fight with our dad for the remote control, a futile battle between cartoons and Vision of Asia. We would eat our dosas with podi on Care Bear placemats.
It is true that my identity hinges on this, my memories and those who created them.
But I don't believe that this makes the need to "find an indian partner" more urgent. Such was the sentiment expressed by a fellow blogger after having read the article in newsweek by Jhumpa Lahiri.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/11569225/site/newsweek/
Dave has spent almost as much time with my family in the last few years as I have. He knows all too well their idiosyncracies, cultural and otherwise. And he understands the strangeness that brews.
He will be able to translate to our children. With my help of course.
My identity rests on an easy tension between the old and the new, Nadhuh and Home. And it is very specific to the household I grew up in, in a family that hails from this small Southern state. Whether I marry and American Jew or a Gujurathi Indian, the attempt to hold on to the memory and prevent it from becoming myth rests entirely on me. I am the interpreter and the translator (and poor transliterator) and invariably things will get lost...
It won't be same translation my parents offered to us...it will be tweaked and twinged and lost in my own fallible interpretation.
But it will still be very real.
~.~.~
Maya Angelou, one of my favorite writers, wrote a book called "All God's Children Need Travelling Shoes." It is a story told time and again, in different places, amidst different people... but it is always the same. The story of the diaspora and holding on and what it means to be part of a Nation. I hope you will read it if you are so persuaded....
And my exact thoughts were " wow cool I wonder if that is another South Asian art 'zine."
In spite of my efforts to focus on Pi and his lifeboat, my eyes continued to fall on that cover, eager to devour another piece of cross-cultural iconography.
When I finished my workout and actually looked at the "zine" a bit closer, I was able to make out what was merely a blur from my 10 foot vantage: the word "alumni."
It was a Brown alumni magazine. With three attractive and self-assured Indian men on the cover.
I remembered looking at the Brown alumni magazine when I was applying in high school and seeing folks of diff'rent strokes and thinking wow way to market diversity.
And then of course I would end up going to an institution that was 40% Asian American.
And wound up with a man, a "minority" who in spite of himself floated easily atop our iridescent seas.
A Jew from Nevada. An effortless sneeze.
~.~.~.~
It's a tricky thing to stand on one foot. The impulse to fall forward, then sideways, then back is tempered by your determination to stand erect, and so you thrust your arms out, again desperately hoping that two limbs are better than one. What relief you find when you can at last place both feet down, either in the middle of the game or the end when you leap from Box Number Nine to base.
Safe.
Such was not my lot as the hyphenated american, according to Jhumpa Lahiri. I was never given (or perhaps afraid to find) the space to land solidly on both feet. It was always one or the other.
My roots are too green, my body too easily bent thisaway and that.
And then there is that impending threat of falling. It is actually inevitable: once my parents leave, my roots will be severed and I will no longer straddle the hyphen, the line.
I don't want to believe this is true. The possibility is frightening.
~.~.~.~
I am haunted by this idea of nationalism and the constantly reminded of the "motherland."
My parents never use the word India to refer to the land of their birth. In our house, "India" only referred to as Nadhuh, Home.
In fact, Nadhuh specifically refers to Kerala. My mother never grew up in Nadhuh. She grew up in Bihar and Bangalore, but never Nadhuh. Nadhuh was a place they would go during their vacations.
And yet the significance of Nadhuh is weighted. It is always Home.
Our connection to Home has always been a little fuzzy. When I was little I would often wake up on a Saturday morning to the my mother's loud shrill voice. It was as though she would save up her energy mondays through fridays, soft-spoken and often silent, for the end of the week. "ACHAAA? Kerkhan-indoh?": "DAD? Can you hear me?"
(This is why ET is such an emotional movie for my family. "Phone Home?")
If that didn't wake us up, then it was the sound of cackling mustard seeds, steaming in the steel saucepan. Sometimes it was the pulsating motor grinder or the wafts of soured Dosas....
We would wake up, brush our teeth and fight with our dad for the remote control, a futile battle between cartoons and Vision of Asia. We would eat our dosas with podi on Care Bear placemats.
It is true that my identity hinges on this, my memories and those who created them.
But I don't believe that this makes the need to "find an indian partner" more urgent. Such was the sentiment expressed by a fellow blogger after having read the article in newsweek by Jhumpa Lahiri.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/11569225/site/newsweek/
Dave has spent almost as much time with my family in the last few years as I have. He knows all too well their idiosyncracies, cultural and otherwise. And he understands the strangeness that brews.
He will be able to translate to our children. With my help of course.
My identity rests on an easy tension between the old and the new, Nadhuh and Home. And it is very specific to the household I grew up in, in a family that hails from this small Southern state. Whether I marry and American Jew or a Gujurathi Indian, the attempt to hold on to the memory and prevent it from becoming myth rests entirely on me. I am the interpreter and the translator (and poor transliterator) and invariably things will get lost...
It won't be same translation my parents offered to us...it will be tweaked and twinged and lost in my own fallible interpretation.
But it will still be very real.
~.~.~
Maya Angelou, one of my favorite writers, wrote a book called "All God's Children Need Travelling Shoes." It is a story told time and again, in different places, amidst different people... but it is always the same. The story of the diaspora and holding on and what it means to be part of a Nation. I hope you will read it if you are so persuaded....
Monday, March 20, 2006
old man, look at my life
"i LOVE old men!"
even though i couldn't suppress my smirk, i knew what my dear friend meant. i too LOVE old men.
i love them when they are crochety. and i love them when they are kind.
i was a candy striper at our local hospital for three years in high school. i loved every minute i spent serving water in pink plastic pitchers and making beds with hospital corners. of course there is something to be said about this idea of *service* especially when you are 14 and don't have to worry about feeding yourself or your family.
but what i loved most is when the 70 year old men harmlessly flirted with me. "If I were 16, I would've snatched you up in a second!" or "Look at her, she's young, beautiful and happy go lucky!"
And indeed I felt lucky. But also a little envious, because they had already lived a lifetime.
And I was waiting for everything to happen.
But the reflection is changing. With every pregnant pause comes the birth of a story. At 14 I was so eager for IT to begin that I didn't realize IT was already being written.
I was being written. Into their stories, into their epilogue.
And they were being written into mine. A prelude.
~.~.~
Overheard: an 80 year old esteemed pediatric surgeon told his students that he had just discovered what the word "pimping" meant from a recent NYT article.
"I had not realized that I have been pimping for 50 years."
I loved this surgical professor of mine. We would present various cases to him and he would lauch his attack: if we didn't answer his questions correctly he would pull out his BB gun from under his desk and pretend to shoot us.
He was only one of many crochety old men who pimped. And truly I loved them all.
I would look them in the eye, answer fully without hesitation and carry myself gracefully.
It's funny how I don't always seem to do that in my personal life.
I guess it is all about reciprocity. I would hold these venerable (albeit curmudgeony) old men in high esteem. And I would earn their respect in return.
It is a tremendous feeling.
I refrain from the impulse to hold my hands up together in prayer and bow.
~.~.~
"It's spring!" exclaimed a kind old man as he hurried against the biting wind.
Our cheeks were pinched, our noses were raw, our ungloved hands were fat and clumsy. Our heads turned, lethargically, in the direction he was pointing and paused.
He was referring to the one early bloomer in the Washington Square Park, a brilliant violet against a barren gray.
It reminded me of the old jacaranda trees, with its "vivid lilac-blue clusters of trumpet shaped blossoms" and scarred tree trunks. Summer in South Africa. The beginning and end of a cycle.
I smiled and thanked him. And we parted our ways.
even though i couldn't suppress my smirk, i knew what my dear friend meant. i too LOVE old men.
i love them when they are crochety. and i love them when they are kind.
i was a candy striper at our local hospital for three years in high school. i loved every minute i spent serving water in pink plastic pitchers and making beds with hospital corners. of course there is something to be said about this idea of *service* especially when you are 14 and don't have to worry about feeding yourself or your family.
but what i loved most is when the 70 year old men harmlessly flirted with me. "If I were 16, I would've snatched you up in a second!" or "Look at her, she's young, beautiful and happy go lucky!"
And indeed I felt lucky. But also a little envious, because they had already lived a lifetime.
And I was waiting for everything to happen.
But the reflection is changing. With every pregnant pause comes the birth of a story. At 14 I was so eager for IT to begin that I didn't realize IT was already being written.
I was being written. Into their stories, into their epilogue.
And they were being written into mine. A prelude.
~.~.~
Overheard: an 80 year old esteemed pediatric surgeon told his students that he had just discovered what the word "pimping" meant from a recent NYT article.
"I had not realized that I have been pimping for 50 years."
I loved this surgical professor of mine. We would present various cases to him and he would lauch his attack: if we didn't answer his questions correctly he would pull out his BB gun from under his desk and pretend to shoot us.
He was only one of many crochety old men who pimped. And truly I loved them all.
I would look them in the eye, answer fully without hesitation and carry myself gracefully.
It's funny how I don't always seem to do that in my personal life.
I guess it is all about reciprocity. I would hold these venerable (albeit curmudgeony) old men in high esteem. And I would earn their respect in return.
It is a tremendous feeling.
I refrain from the impulse to hold my hands up together in prayer and bow.
~.~.~
"It's spring!" exclaimed a kind old man as he hurried against the biting wind.
Our cheeks were pinched, our noses were raw, our ungloved hands were fat and clumsy. Our heads turned, lethargically, in the direction he was pointing and paused.
He was referring to the one early bloomer in the Washington Square Park, a brilliant violet against a barren gray.
It reminded me of the old jacaranda trees, with its "vivid lilac-blue clusters of trumpet shaped blossoms" and scarred tree trunks. Summer in South Africa. The beginning and end of a cycle.
I smiled and thanked him. And we parted our ways.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Where did it ALL go wrong?
Maybe it was when Kurt Cobain died. Only at that point I was still sporting the Aqua Net and listening to Debbie Gibson.
So one of my favorite Will and Grace episodes is when Grace is bed-ridden with a broken heart and she watches home videos, hours on end, crying “where did it all go WRONG?”
We double up, painfully aware of how close to home this scene is. Meer and I have been known to watch hours of home videos, picking apart the details and coating it with layers of psychoanalysis and postmodern theory.
So yesterday as she was fretting over this impending transition, she suggested that we watch old home videos, so that she could figure out where it all went wrong. I told her my analysis: I was the puppet who danced in front of the video camera, while my dad, The Lens, would direct.
Those were the days of 20 lb camcorders that heavily rested on his shoulders, the Eye obscuring the Face.
And then when Meer was born the tides had turned ever so slightly towards her. I was still the Object. But I was given an object in return: The Lens would direct me to direct her, It.
Sometimes she wouldn’t bite: “Meera let’s sing: baa baa black sheep….” I would chant, clapping my hands.
“Very good Tara!” she would exclaim, usurping my newly acquired authority as Elder Sister. As though I was the one who was supposed to be reciting the old nursery rhyme.
She was such a little punk.
~.~.~.~
I am in a funk.
Instead of watching home videos, I pulled out the old yearbooks. Where did it ALL go WRONG?
I graduated from high school nearly a decade ago. A lifetime had passed from the time I had entered college until the time I had graduated.
I entered medical school at 23.
In seven days I will be a month shy of 27. Yes, I am old.
Last night I went to a party. I was transported in time, back and home again, every minute a new decade. I saw the Birthday Girls, so named because our first year they would send out emails littered with exclamation marks to herald each arriving birthday. “Hey! Everyone! We! Are going! To Party!!! At So and So Club! This Friday! To Celebrate! So and So’s Birthday!!!”
The Birthday Girls were huddled at the bar, drinking and dancing away. Not a bat of the mascara-ed eye, twitch of the pink glossed lip were thrown my way.
I felt like I was 13.
It wasn’t all that bad. Most of my classmates are great people. Really. And I was so happy to hear that they did so well. Even the folks who hang out with/date the Birthday Girls are awesome people.
I wasn’t unpopular in high school at all. Occasionally invisible, but not unpopular. I definitely received acknowledgement, when due. The 1997 edition of Carpe Diem that collects dust on our basement shelf is littered with friendly remarks and jabs and pictures proving my existence: captain of the track team, editor in chief of the newpaper. And don’t forget, our sophomore year, the unofficially appointed school poet laureate (Jen The Poet) granted me the honor of “best poem” in Calliope, our literary journal.
That was the LAST time I ever submitted anything, God forbid I ever be the center of attention AGAIN. I almost DIED.
My adolescence was like any other. I was trying to figure out my changing body and its place in the world.
But perhaps there is more to it than that. Because I am still negotiating this, my placement, my existence, my relationships, my relatedness.
I am still drenched, covered in angst and smelling splendidly of Teen Spirit.
~.~.~
This was one of the quotes I wrote on my yearbook page, 17 years and waiting, with poignant expectation:
“Alice remained thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which one were the two sides of it, as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms around as far as they would go and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. ‘And now which is which,’ she thought to herself and nibbled a little on the right hand …she was a good deal frightened by this sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly, as she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so clearly against her foot that there was hardly any room to open her mouth but she did at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the left hand bit…”
Maybe it was when Kurt Cobain died. Only at that point I was still sporting the Aqua Net and listening to Debbie Gibson.
So one of my favorite Will and Grace episodes is when Grace is bed-ridden with a broken heart and she watches home videos, hours on end, crying “where did it all go WRONG?”
We double up, painfully aware of how close to home this scene is. Meer and I have been known to watch hours of home videos, picking apart the details and coating it with layers of psychoanalysis and postmodern theory.
So yesterday as she was fretting over this impending transition, she suggested that we watch old home videos, so that she could figure out where it all went wrong. I told her my analysis: I was the puppet who danced in front of the video camera, while my dad, The Lens, would direct.
Those were the days of 20 lb camcorders that heavily rested on his shoulders, the Eye obscuring the Face.
And then when Meer was born the tides had turned ever so slightly towards her. I was still the Object. But I was given an object in return: The Lens would direct me to direct her, It.
Sometimes she wouldn’t bite: “Meera let’s sing: baa baa black sheep….” I would chant, clapping my hands.
“Very good Tara!” she would exclaim, usurping my newly acquired authority as Elder Sister. As though I was the one who was supposed to be reciting the old nursery rhyme.
She was such a little punk.
~.~.~.~
I am in a funk.
Instead of watching home videos, I pulled out the old yearbooks. Where did it ALL go WRONG?
I graduated from high school nearly a decade ago. A lifetime had passed from the time I had entered college until the time I had graduated.
I entered medical school at 23.
In seven days I will be a month shy of 27. Yes, I am old.
Last night I went to a party. I was transported in time, back and home again, every minute a new decade. I saw the Birthday Girls, so named because our first year they would send out emails littered with exclamation marks to herald each arriving birthday. “Hey! Everyone! We! Are going! To Party!!! At So and So Club! This Friday! To Celebrate! So and So’s Birthday!!!”
The Birthday Girls were huddled at the bar, drinking and dancing away. Not a bat of the mascara-ed eye, twitch of the pink glossed lip were thrown my way.
I felt like I was 13.
It wasn’t all that bad. Most of my classmates are great people. Really. And I was so happy to hear that they did so well. Even the folks who hang out with/date the Birthday Girls are awesome people.
I wasn’t unpopular in high school at all. Occasionally invisible, but not unpopular. I definitely received acknowledgement, when due. The 1997 edition of Carpe Diem that collects dust on our basement shelf is littered with friendly remarks and jabs and pictures proving my existence: captain of the track team, editor in chief of the newpaper. And don’t forget, our sophomore year, the unofficially appointed school poet laureate (Jen The Poet) granted me the honor of “best poem” in Calliope, our literary journal.
That was the LAST time I ever submitted anything, God forbid I ever be the center of attention AGAIN. I almost DIED.
My adolescence was like any other. I was trying to figure out my changing body and its place in the world.
But perhaps there is more to it than that. Because I am still negotiating this, my placement, my existence, my relationships, my relatedness.
I am still drenched, covered in angst and smelling splendidly of Teen Spirit.
~.~.~
This was one of the quotes I wrote on my yearbook page, 17 years and waiting, with poignant expectation:
“Alice remained thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying to make out which one were the two sides of it, as it was perfectly round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she stretched her arms around as far as they would go and broke off a bit of the edge with each hand. ‘And now which is which,’ she thought to herself and nibbled a little on the right hand …she was a good deal frightened by this sudden change, but she felt that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly, as she set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed so clearly against her foot that there was hardly any room to open her mouth but she did at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the left hand bit…”
Saturday, March 11, 2006
jersey girl
my sister is The Filmmaker.
but she's not your ordinary new york filmmaker.
sure she can quote roland barthe and wax poetically about cinematic hoo hahs and wing dings. And she is forever informing me about how *problematic* my life, her canvas, is.
but at the end of the day, she's really just gum smacking, big haired, Northern Jersey mallrat:
"omigoddidyouseejakegyllenhaalattheoscarsheissocu-u-u-te!!"
so she doesn't really tawk like that. but when we are together we always manage to bust out into the old dialect, no matter how many other layers we wear.
So the other day we were engaging in our post-Oscar wrap-up over coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop. And we both agreed that Jon Stewart was great, a nice antithesis to the gilded screen with his jaded new york sense of humour. And then at some point one of us made the comment that either the show or Jon was "too jewy."
"Hmm, yeah. too jewy."
We looked around, sheepishly, at the brown haired ivory skinned folk around us. It had just dawned on us that the phrase "too jewy" maybe quite inappropriate without our usual jewish accessory. in a new york cafe. two blocks from Columbia University (and a little bit farther from Yeshiva U).
Oy vay.
~.~.~.
Someday my sister will win an Oscar. When were little we used to imagine that she would win for best actress, and I would win for best screenplay. (Guess which one was always the center of attention and which one was always pulling the strings?)
We would give our speeches, complete with the choked up thank yous to mom and dad for giving us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Then we would get into an argument about whom we would take. But we always knew it would be dad.
The Producer.
So now Meer The Filmmaker is actually getting closer to the dream...and the closer she gets, the more anxiety she feels. She's gotta lotta esplainin' to do on my wedding day: "So Meera, are you also going to become a doctor?"
She was thinking of silently handing everyone a business card:
"Meera Vijayan plans to go to film school, doesn't know what she is doing right now, so whaddya gonna DO about it?"
That's my Jersey girl.
but she's not your ordinary new york filmmaker.
sure she can quote roland barthe and wax poetically about cinematic hoo hahs and wing dings. And she is forever informing me about how *problematic* my life, her canvas, is.
but at the end of the day, she's really just gum smacking, big haired, Northern Jersey mallrat:
"omigoddidyouseejakegyllenhaalattheoscarsheissocu-u-u-te!!"
so she doesn't really tawk like that. but when we are together we always manage to bust out into the old dialect, no matter how many other layers we wear.
So the other day we were engaging in our post-Oscar wrap-up over coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop. And we both agreed that Jon Stewart was great, a nice antithesis to the gilded screen with his jaded new york sense of humour. And then at some point one of us made the comment that either the show or Jon was "too jewy."
"Hmm, yeah. too jewy."
We looked around, sheepishly, at the brown haired ivory skinned folk around us. It had just dawned on us that the phrase "too jewy" maybe quite inappropriate without our usual jewish accessory. in a new york cafe. two blocks from Columbia University (and a little bit farther from Yeshiva U).
Oy vay.
~.~.~.
Someday my sister will win an Oscar. When were little we used to imagine that she would win for best actress, and I would win for best screenplay. (Guess which one was always the center of attention and which one was always pulling the strings?)
We would give our speeches, complete with the choked up thank yous to mom and dad for giving us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Then we would get into an argument about whom we would take. But we always knew it would be dad.
The Producer.
So now Meer The Filmmaker is actually getting closer to the dream...and the closer she gets, the more anxiety she feels. She's gotta lotta esplainin' to do on my wedding day: "So Meera, are you also going to become a doctor?"
She was thinking of silently handing everyone a business card:
"Meera Vijayan plans to go to film school, doesn't know what she is doing right now, so whaddya gonna DO about it?"
That's my Jersey girl.
Monday, March 06, 2006
The Vicious Circle
so it wasn't quite the Algonquin Round Table. but I still fancied myself Dorothy Parker, acerbic wit, dark humor, sharp comebacks AND all.
at least in my head.
there i sat. just under 27 years, 5'5" and 130lbs. smallish frame under an oversized green floral cotton tunic and navy blue pants. sitting comfortably behind the powerbook that held my presentation.
at the front of the table sat The Head. bespectacled and begruging. button-down shirt and slacks on his 6 foot frame. slightly balding. peering down from above his glasses.
next to him another, of similar age and stature. with a full set of gray hair. chest puffed, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, a furry question mark plastered on his forehead.
and then a gray beard, shorter, but portly. seriously eating a slice of pizza.
and finally my mentor. 4'11. grayed and wrinkled. woody allenesque in speech and mannerisms: deliberate and meticulous.
but such a kind face.
he introduced me: She was awarded the Doris Duke Clinical Research Fellowship here...she interviewed several potential mentors and chose me, and I am very grateful as I have learned alot."
wow. I smiled and reciprocated. and began.
it went smoothly. I fielded questions effortlessly. I paused and reflected appropriately.
Then I finished my talk. And the firing squad began.
"The work WE do is reliable. How is THIS reliable?"
"What if we don't even NEED to transition?"
"Is this the right way to TEST your hypothesis?"
"What about controls? Do you have a comparison group?"
i answered:
"It is not necessarily RELIABLE but definitely VALID. Transition is INEVITABLE and is being driven by the INSTITUTION of medicine. My research is not hypothesis testing, but hypothesis GENERATING. Public policies are DRIVEN by this kind of research."
And then some more indignance emerged:
"These kids are NEVER going to be poster children for the disease. They are DIFFERENT. The stigma is REAL and a barrier."
At the end I received some compliments. and a half-smile from The Head, a smile uneasily wedged between mockery and respect.
i feel uncertain again of my place. am i too messy, too unstructured, too flighty, too liberal? is what i am doing meaningful/valuable?
do I have value?
yes. as i was walking to the medical school to give my talk, i thought about this research and how much it has meant to me. it has reminded me time and again: this is why i am here. this is why i have joined this profession. this is truly what i am meant to do: to listen to their stories, to narrate my own and to use these narratives to create dialogue and change.
and indeed even at Camelot I created dialogue. For better or for worse.
and always with indignance.
at least in my head.
there i sat. just under 27 years, 5'5" and 130lbs. smallish frame under an oversized green floral cotton tunic and navy blue pants. sitting comfortably behind the powerbook that held my presentation.
at the front of the table sat The Head. bespectacled and begruging. button-down shirt and slacks on his 6 foot frame. slightly balding. peering down from above his glasses.
next to him another, of similar age and stature. with a full set of gray hair. chest puffed, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, a furry question mark plastered on his forehead.
and then a gray beard, shorter, but portly. seriously eating a slice of pizza.
and finally my mentor. 4'11. grayed and wrinkled. woody allenesque in speech and mannerisms: deliberate and meticulous.
but such a kind face.
he introduced me: She was awarded the Doris Duke Clinical Research Fellowship here...she interviewed several potential mentors and chose me, and I am very grateful as I have learned alot."
wow. I smiled and reciprocated. and began.
it went smoothly. I fielded questions effortlessly. I paused and reflected appropriately.
Then I finished my talk. And the firing squad began.
"The work WE do is reliable. How is THIS reliable?"
"What if we don't even NEED to transition?"
"Is this the right way to TEST your hypothesis?"
"What about controls? Do you have a comparison group?"
i answered:
"It is not necessarily RELIABLE but definitely VALID. Transition is INEVITABLE and is being driven by the INSTITUTION of medicine. My research is not hypothesis testing, but hypothesis GENERATING. Public policies are DRIVEN by this kind of research."
And then some more indignance emerged:
"These kids are NEVER going to be poster children for the disease. They are DIFFERENT. The stigma is REAL and a barrier."
At the end I received some compliments. and a half-smile from The Head, a smile uneasily wedged between mockery and respect.
i feel uncertain again of my place. am i too messy, too unstructured, too flighty, too liberal? is what i am doing meaningful/valuable?
do I have value?
yes. as i was walking to the medical school to give my talk, i thought about this research and how much it has meant to me. it has reminded me time and again: this is why i am here. this is why i have joined this profession. this is truly what i am meant to do: to listen to their stories, to narrate my own and to use these narratives to create dialogue and change.
and indeed even at Camelot I created dialogue. For better or for worse.
and always with indignance.
Friday, March 03, 2006
the trouble with T
Liz Spikol is FUNNY.
"I've never been a violent person. I'd often like to be--especially after seeing a movie in which a person smashes a diorama they've made or hurled a glass against the wall--but my behavior lacks that kind of spontaneity. Though the grand gesture of angrily tossing letters or manuscripts into a fireplace appeals in a theatrical way, I'd be worried the whole time about copies. I'd have to go to Kinko's first.
and there's the rub: I'm always aware of what I look like from the outside. I imagine there's a little person--maybe with wings and a jaunty cap--who sort of floats around and watches me from the sidelines, prepared to mock me when I do something dumb. So if I get angry and yell at someone, there's that little sprite-like soul saying, "Do you even know how stupid you look? This isn't an after-school special, for God's sake. Pull yourself together." and I do...
The next instance [of being spontaneously violent] was when I discovered that my then-husband had, against my wishes, been smoking pot again. There was nothing wrong with his getting high, mind you, except that I was loopy and thus unable to distinguish innocuous behavior from sociopathic serial killing.
So I went to the cabinets, took out all the Fiesta® dinnerware we'd received as wedding gifts, and lobbed the colorful plates in a Frisbee-like fashion at his head. He was amazingly nimble for a pothead, and bobbed and weaved like a prizefighter. The plates sailed past his head and into the wall, but they didn't break. (For Fiesta® sales information go to www.hlchina.com.)"
Oh dear. I read this piece in the Philadelphia Weekly last December (2004) and immediately tore it out and safety-pinned on Dave's bedroom wall. Next to the above cartoon I wrote: yes, it's Me, the love of your life.
This was the morning after a minor temper tantrum I had.
Definitely not the last.
I too have had strong impulses to throw things. Sometimes at people, sometimes to the air that surrounds. I was 16 when I perhaps had my first outburst...no-one was home except my beloved golden retriever, and he watched curiously with his head cocked to one side as I stormed around the living room, pulling out pillows and seat cushions, tearing up paper to shreds, hair mussed, tears streaming, angry at everyone and no-one all at once.
And now I frequently have a target. He is no longer a pothead, but his head is indeed nimble, some might say worthy of a prizefighter, others might say similar to a bobblehead toy. Which is fortunate, as I wonder if it would truly be able to sustain any slight trauma.
Last night Dave and I came home feeling weightless and enlightened. We had just finished our last Healer's Art class, and the warmth and fuzziness still radiated within. We held hands in one large circle, and took turns finishing the sentences: I am, I can and I will...
I am fallible.
It didn't take long for the fuzzinness to diffuse and the anxiety to settle in. Soon after we came home I had to face the task of working on my powerpoint and submitting it to my mentor who is convinced that I am THE slacker of all slackers.
But of course, soon after we came home, Dave wanted to continue the experience and do some Tai Chi.
"GOD, haven't we meditated ENOUGH for one night?"
He smiled. So I indulged him. And we stood in the living room, knees slight bent, fingers slightly curved, arms falling *effortlesly* to the side...
His eyes were closed, as usual. Focused, centered.
Mine were wide open. Thoughts flurrying scurrying about.
One especially disturbing thought. The sight of three remote controls. and 2 glass mugs. AND 1 Bob's BIG Boy Bobblehead perched on top of the television. I imagined the pick up, the launch, the sail, the target, the click, the bounce, the fall, the drop, the clunk, the floor. All at once.
But of course I didn't. Because surely I would miss...I am NOT a sharpshooter. I lack coordination in all sports that require both the hand and the eye.
Anyway.
For those of you planning wedding gifts, consider Fiesta at the above website.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
The Diaspore
Sometimes I think about my dad, age 26, jumping off the eastern ghats and pulling the string. He parachutes over Indian Seas, Arabian Deserts, English Pastures and finally Atlantic waters only to land in Queens, NY. And I imagine him buying the following items, in order, according to accumulated wealth and luxury: rice and rice cooker, Dannon yogurt, and finally a bag of potato chips to complete his makeshift chore, thaira and pappadums.
Remember when we used to spin our globes fast and furiously? And then we would interrupt the whirling motion of lands and ocean to see where we would fall next? And we learned that Abu Dhabi was indeed a real place, not just some make believe land where Garfield packaged and sent his nemesis Nermal.
Later we would trace our lineages, dozens of ghost fingers dotting western Europe and one lone goblin finger timidly placed on the Land of Curry and Silk.
"Your house smells funny."
Fast forward 15, 20 years later:sitting in a car driving down the Garden State Parkway and having this conversation with my Dad: Some people, Tara, stay in one place," referring to Mom's colleague who grew up in NJ, completed undergrad and medical school in NJ and now lives with his own family in the town in which he grew up.
I hear the undercurrent though my cheap glass Hawaiian seashell: Not you my wayward child. You seem to keep wanting to leave us.
My lunch today: whole wheat bread soaked in home made yoghurt, cabbage and potato kuttan and mango achar. My mom looks at my meal and makes some comment about its (my) strangeness. This coming from a woman who puts tabasco sauce in her Ramen noodles.
Recently I heard a 21 year old figure skater who said, "Everyone has their own trajectory. Some take longer than others."
So I am sitting on the NJ transit train on my way and I get this lovely view of industrial america. And I wonder what next? where will my parachute fall? how many will get on this train and how many will get off at the next stop? And I have a mini panic attack before the train finally reaches my destination, a warm embrace, "the huggiest hug" ever. Home.
Remember when we used to spin our globes fast and furiously? And then we would interrupt the whirling motion of lands and ocean to see where we would fall next? And we learned that Abu Dhabi was indeed a real place, not just some make believe land where Garfield packaged and sent his nemesis Nermal.
Later we would trace our lineages, dozens of ghost fingers dotting western Europe and one lone goblin finger timidly placed on the Land of Curry and Silk.
"Your house smells funny."
Fast forward 15, 20 years later:sitting in a car driving down the Garden State Parkway and having this conversation with my Dad: Some people, Tara, stay in one place," referring to Mom's colleague who grew up in NJ, completed undergrad and medical school in NJ and now lives with his own family in the town in which he grew up.
I hear the undercurrent though my cheap glass Hawaiian seashell: Not you my wayward child. You seem to keep wanting to leave us.
My lunch today: whole wheat bread soaked in home made yoghurt, cabbage and potato kuttan and mango achar. My mom looks at my meal and makes some comment about its (my) strangeness. This coming from a woman who puts tabasco sauce in her Ramen noodles.
Recently I heard a 21 year old figure skater who said, "Everyone has their own trajectory. Some take longer than others."
So I am sitting on the NJ transit train on my way and I get this lovely view of industrial america. And I wonder what next? where will my parachute fall? how many will get on this train and how many will get off at the next stop? And I have a mini panic attack before the train finally reaches my destination, a warm embrace, "the huggiest hug" ever. Home.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
song of salman
just finished Zadie Smith's White Teeth and was a little disappointed in the ending. The Fat Ruddy White Man with an upturned nose and the bluest of blue eyes gets shot in the leg, fated twice in his life. It was a book about circular histories, how everything comes back. It was a story about Twins, and the mysterious connection that leaves us singulars wondering 'what if I had one'...
She received such wide spread acclaim at the age of 26, for this novel. She was compared to Salman Rushdie, her patriarch (he wrote high reviews of this book) and predecessor.
So I once asked Meer: what do you think it takes? Who becomes "genius" and who gets lost in the gray?
Who leaves a mark? Who punctuates and pluralises and enters The Canon?
"You have to have some kind of obsession, a kind of madness. Lots of people can write, but The Writer can't do anything else. It becomes her, she becomes it."
Not her words exactly. But her wise thoughts.
Professor Farber once said in a creative writing class I took in college: "a writer is someone who writes." I don't know about that...I think it might be more...the madness, the obsession.
***************
I am too scattered, too unruly.
too messy. and too lazy to clean it all up.
"Clean the fascia. Clean it up. CLEAN IT!!!" Dr. Sangari's singsong accented voice resonates through my head.
Other voices in my head:
"Why you want to do that?" -my dad on going to Berkeley, going to South Africa, taking a year (or two off), going hiking on a crisp winter day with my dog, going to the local coffee shop to study (translation, why can't you just study at home."
"I'll write you an email about it!" my mother, angry that I forgot exactly which day during the weekend of my wedding that we were going to the temple. Another example of my spiritual void.
"Whiiiiiine." Dave, in perfect mimicry, after I whinily asked him "whyyyyyyyyy?" I don't even remember the context, just remember cracking up in total, painful, awareness of my childishness.
I may have been whining a little in my last posting, and in fact have a counter-reference: Dr. L, prominent figure in child abuse research, interviewed me last April after I received the Doris Duke Fellowship. He then saw me four months later when I presented my research to the pedi research committee and said "Well Tara, this is certainly a much bigger task than what I had in mind for you. I wish you well in it." He had only met me once before. I think it might give insight into our medical culture, in which we evaluated with dozens of our peers simulateneously, by professors who see us one or two times (as was the case with the Dr._ the aforementioned professor) and cannot often tell Tara from Sam or Adam. But Dr. L had met me under a completely different context...and therefore remembered me long after our meeting.
She received such wide spread acclaim at the age of 26, for this novel. She was compared to Salman Rushdie, her patriarch (he wrote high reviews of this book) and predecessor.
So I once asked Meer: what do you think it takes? Who becomes "genius" and who gets lost in the gray?
Who leaves a mark? Who punctuates and pluralises and enters The Canon?
"You have to have some kind of obsession, a kind of madness. Lots of people can write, but The Writer can't do anything else. It becomes her, she becomes it."
Not her words exactly. But her wise thoughts.
Professor Farber once said in a creative writing class I took in college: "a writer is someone who writes." I don't know about that...I think it might be more...the madness, the obsession.
***************
I am too scattered, too unruly.
too messy. and too lazy to clean it all up.
"Clean the fascia. Clean it up. CLEAN IT!!!" Dr. Sangari's singsong accented voice resonates through my head.
Other voices in my head:
"Why you want to do that?" -my dad on going to Berkeley, going to South Africa, taking a year (or two off), going hiking on a crisp winter day with my dog, going to the local coffee shop to study (translation, why can't you just study at home."
"I'll write you an email about it!" my mother, angry that I forgot exactly which day during the weekend of my wedding that we were going to the temple. Another example of my spiritual void.
"Whiiiiiine." Dave, in perfect mimicry, after I whinily asked him "whyyyyyyyyy?" I don't even remember the context, just remember cracking up in total, painful, awareness of my childishness.
I may have been whining a little in my last posting, and in fact have a counter-reference: Dr. L, prominent figure in child abuse research, interviewed me last April after I received the Doris Duke Fellowship. He then saw me four months later when I presented my research to the pedi research committee and said "Well Tara, this is certainly a much bigger task than what I had in mind for you. I wish you well in it." He had only met me once before. I think it might give insight into our medical culture, in which we evaluated with dozens of our peers simulateneously, by professors who see us one or two times (as was the case with the Dr._ the aforementioned professor) and cannot often tell Tara from Sam or Adam. But Dr. L had met me under a completely different context...and therefore remembered me long after our meeting.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The Quiet Little Indian Girl Fires Away
Now I’m no Pat Benatar.
I can’t just look you in the eye and say hit me with your best shot.
I’ve been boxed. Shipped across a hundred seas as “the quiet little indian girl.”
Which is a joke of course. Because I am neither quiet nor little.
But I do have a HUGE (‘UUUGE) ego, busting at the seams, easily broken with the tinniest prick. (pun somewhat intended, at least in retrospect.)
I am a good medical student. And I am going to be a great clinician or researcher or whatever I damn choose to be.
I not good at very many things. But this I know. It says so on my evaluations:
“Tara is a quiet, but bright medical student with an excellent fund of knowledge and has wonderful rapport with her patients. Her presentations are precise, her notes are thoughtful… yada yada yada.”
I cannot tell you how I was hurt by what I saw as a personal and not a professional attribute…a personal attribute that was NOT true.
Because I do say what is on my mind, when I think it is appropriate. I am not afraid to make suggestions to attendings, residents and other medical students. I am confident and self-assured. And they agree.
So today I went to a meeting for those who were applying for a peds residency next year. I had emailed the clerkship director letting him know I was going to be there. And we exchanged some pretty funny emails revolving around the Barnum and Bailey Clown University in Sarasota, FL, a rednosed powder-faced floozy who can walk on her hands, and my uncanny ability to trip over my own big feet.
You would think that this kind of dialogue we had achieved some kind of more intimate relationship. But no. Because I went to the meeting today and I was given a blank stare.
So I approached him. But I was overshadowed by my peer, whom I truly believe is going to make an awesome pediatrician, but who clearly one-upped me with his legacy. He was the son of a faculty member at Monte. I heard words exchanged about whether his father was going to robe him or not.
Years and years of being in a club, even Einstein, a refuge for the disenfranchised, first Jews now others, even Einstein has its club. But legacy is not the only IT factor here.
It is one simple equation: If NOT loud, irreverent or overzealous, perky or pert, Then diminuitive.
Then not memorable.
Maybe it is because I don’t set up a hundred anxiety-ridden meetings with these people. I am lucky to have even one meeting. Because I just don’t think it is necessary.
But it is, it is. Because even when I vaguely talked about the emails (stating dates that we had set), he still did not remember.
He was one of the ones who had stated, in my exit interview for peds, that I am a little too quiet. He was also the one that wrote my evaluation that said the same exact thing.
It has been over a year. So why should he remember, if I had never approached him before?
I had a phone meeting with one of my advisors the other day. We argued over the word paternalism and transference, I for the latter, she for the former. I confidently stated my points, but acknowledged hers. I was diplomatic, and not irreverent to this woman who was clearly more experienced than I. But I stuck by my views (don’t like the word paternalism) throughout.
Once upon a time I was invited to speak to my neighbor's special ed class about what it was like to be indian. I prepared a speech, with the help of my mom, wore my hair in fat braids and cool bubble gum pink reeboks and took a deep breath...only to find out that the class was learning about American Indians, not Indian Americans. At 9 years old I had to relate this distinction (with the special ed teacher's help of course) to my neighbor and her classmates.
And so it goes. God Bless America, as my mom would say.
And I say:
“Fire awa-a-a-a-ay.”
I can’t just look you in the eye and say hit me with your best shot.
I’ve been boxed. Shipped across a hundred seas as “the quiet little indian girl.”
Which is a joke of course. Because I am neither quiet nor little.
But I do have a HUGE (‘UUUGE) ego, busting at the seams, easily broken with the tinniest prick. (pun somewhat intended, at least in retrospect.)
I am a good medical student. And I am going to be a great clinician or researcher or whatever I damn choose to be.
I not good at very many things. But this I know. It says so on my evaluations:
“Tara is a quiet, but bright medical student with an excellent fund of knowledge and has wonderful rapport with her patients. Her presentations are precise, her notes are thoughtful… yada yada yada.”
I cannot tell you how I was hurt by what I saw as a personal and not a professional attribute…a personal attribute that was NOT true.
Because I do say what is on my mind, when I think it is appropriate. I am not afraid to make suggestions to attendings, residents and other medical students. I am confident and self-assured. And they agree.
So today I went to a meeting for those who were applying for a peds residency next year. I had emailed the clerkship director letting him know I was going to be there. And we exchanged some pretty funny emails revolving around the Barnum and Bailey Clown University in Sarasota, FL, a rednosed powder-faced floozy who can walk on her hands, and my uncanny ability to trip over my own big feet.
You would think that this kind of dialogue we had achieved some kind of more intimate relationship. But no. Because I went to the meeting today and I was given a blank stare.
So I approached him. But I was overshadowed by my peer, whom I truly believe is going to make an awesome pediatrician, but who clearly one-upped me with his legacy. He was the son of a faculty member at Monte. I heard words exchanged about whether his father was going to robe him or not.
Years and years of being in a club, even Einstein, a refuge for the disenfranchised, first Jews now others, even Einstein has its club. But legacy is not the only IT factor here.
It is one simple equation: If NOT loud, irreverent or overzealous, perky or pert, Then diminuitive.
Then not memorable.
Maybe it is because I don’t set up a hundred anxiety-ridden meetings with these people. I am lucky to have even one meeting. Because I just don’t think it is necessary.
But it is, it is. Because even when I vaguely talked about the emails (stating dates that we had set), he still did not remember.
He was one of the ones who had stated, in my exit interview for peds, that I am a little too quiet. He was also the one that wrote my evaluation that said the same exact thing.
It has been over a year. So why should he remember, if I had never approached him before?
I had a phone meeting with one of my advisors the other day. We argued over the word paternalism and transference, I for the latter, she for the former. I confidently stated my points, but acknowledged hers. I was diplomatic, and not irreverent to this woman who was clearly more experienced than I. But I stuck by my views (don’t like the word paternalism) throughout.
Once upon a time I was invited to speak to my neighbor's special ed class about what it was like to be indian. I prepared a speech, with the help of my mom, wore my hair in fat braids and cool bubble gum pink reeboks and took a deep breath...only to find out that the class was learning about American Indians, not Indian Americans. At 9 years old I had to relate this distinction (with the special ed teacher's help of course) to my neighbor and her classmates.
And so it goes. God Bless America, as my mom would say.
And I say:
“Fire awa-a-a-a-ay.”
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
if the shoe fits
i know what you're thinking. you're thinking, oh god, she's going to write about her feet. her large, stinking, calloused/corned/bunioned feet. with a beached whale for a sad little pinkie. but no. this one is about the "happily ever after" syndrome.
when i was about three, just under four, i would copiously underline my cinderella storybook, while my mom copiusly underlined her now antiquated copy of Nelson's Textbook of Pediatrics. i could in fact read at that point...in spite of the fact that i was slow of speech and movement, i could actually read. strange but true.
another little bit about my childhood: i also chewed the feet of my barbie dolls. they were so chewable. and ridiculously arched.
so i grew up with these icons: barbie and cinderella. and evidently had a love/hate relationship with them.
i often imagined myself as lead young actress of the next made for tv movie about divorce, because that is what i wished my parents would do. they did not fit the cinderella-prince charming mould i so desperately wanted them to fit. they yelled, screamed, cursed each other to pieces...their armory of verbal assaults seem always be replete. two of the most mismatched souls: she a woman of prayer, Indian nationalism, Extreme Moderation; he a man of glamour, starlights, Extreme Excess. how the stars wrote this one, i had yet to learn.
when i grew older and came to understand a little bit more about the fallacy of the cinderella narrative, i began to appreciate their relationship more. they grew up together, and maybe, just maybe grew in love together. i know this much is true: my dad was with my mother the whole time she was in india, even though he had a million other things to do, a million SHOWs (and one wedding) to plan. he spend time with her family, he surprised her by attending her mother's shraadam (memorial), even though he tricked her and said he would only be there for lunch. (which is more typical of my dad...to show up just for the free meal...)
anyway...i grew up with this as my model relationship. so i was never under any delusion about "the perfect marriage." and i was unfortunate enough to inherit a double dose of their short tempers and bullishness. Dave has known this for a while, and he is kind enough to accept the package in its entirity.
our friend Lorraine made the comment that I often appear so *zen,* ie., calm, peaceful, tranquil. Both my parents have this attribute, at least in professional and social circles. But those in the inner circle know the violence that periodically erupts.
and so have i inherited all the elements: fire, earth.
by the way, the only reason i wanted to be cinderella is because of her ballroom dress. i wanted that ballroom dress. otherwise i more often play-acted as she-rah, princess of the universe. "by the power of grayskull..." i would thrust my sword into the air and transform.
Friday, February 03, 2006
I'll be your preacher-teacher
the two loves of my life lounging. her ears, his thermals...get me all the time.
so D and I keep bantering over Jon Stewart and other such political satirists. I am often put off by the self-righteous pedantry, the preachiness...and everytime we watch this show together, Dave laughs deeply and loudly and immediately turns to me to see if I am laughing, and I never am...which pisses me off more than it does him. Do I just not get the joke? Or do I just feel like I don't need to hear what I already know?
What I really hate is when people speak as though JS is the only one to tell the truth...when in fact he is just as guilty of manipulating media sources to meet his own end.
But then today D brought up this point about how the media in general has been so lenient towards "Bush the Lesser," and how only the far left has brought up impeachment even though it is clear that he has lied. And JS brings this up over and over again (to the choir nonetheless). Apparently our Repubican Senate and Congress (spearheaded by John McCain on whom D has a serious crush) tried to pass an anti-torture bill and Bush vetoed it. Certainly disturbing.
So then here is my question: why, if the media has been historically liberal, are they backing off and not creating more uproar?
I think alot of it has to do with the fact that we live in perhaps one of the toughest times in American history. The post 9-11 era. A time when our security was truly threatened. And now torture is something liberally minded US citizens can perhaps envision and flesh.
Because fear and redemption are primal. Especially if you are not sitting up high in your SUV or Toyota Hybrid, but instead are watching the rubble, getting caught under the stampede, hacking from the smoke, awaiting the NEWS of your husband, wife, son, daughter.
This Is Why I love Barak Obama: on a meet the press interview he was asked about an inflammatory statement that Hillary Clinton made about this going down as the worst presidency in history, and Obama said, well that there have been alot of really bad presidencies in the history of the US, but certainly the policies of this administration will go down as some of the worst. In other words, Hillary was preaching, and Barak was teaching. He made specific references, informing instead of yelling. (I'll also admit here that he is not so bad to look at and this may in fact color my interpretation of his words. But I do feel strongly about this issue.)
So last week we saw this desperately sad movie called Turtles Can Fly... about Kurdish children in the days before the Iraq war and landmines and all that stuff you read about, but never SEE or KNOW. It was lovely, and gratifyingly not self-righteous in the way that Born into Brothels was...because the only other "eye" was the camera lens. And of course it was a movie and not a documentary, but it almost had that documentary feel...maybe because I am the outsider, and ethnographist, a voyeur, and this director is telling me a story I simulataneously want to and don't want to hear. But the children were just beautiful...and some of them were play-acting like children should and some of them were truly assuming adult roles because they had no choice and all of it was just so stunning and horrifying all at once.
Anyway. There are lots of different ways to tell a story, from their own eyes. Some do it Jon Stewart style, using video and audio montages, others do it like this director, creating from the land. And I would rather listen to the latter. Call me self-righteous.
Monday, January 30, 2006
asklepion
The universal symbol of medicine, ie, the Asklepion (or caduceus, after Asklepios, the Greek god of healing and medicine) is likely a representation of dracunculiasis and its treatment. To this day, accepted treatment remains the same. The adult guinea worm is wrapped around a stick a few centimeters a day to coax it from a person's skin.
this one is for my peeps in the broncks.
the guiness guzzler, the musulman and the hindoo: the three of them saved my bum in gross anatomy. we had a reunion the other day in south street: looking at exquisite dissections, a far cry from our slaughter house (7) experiment. they made me laugh, doubled over with my head neck deep in carnage, at a time when i would have rather been crying and wallowing in self-pity. we were troubled by the fact that the exhibit had a disproportion of asiatic/mongoloid features, unknown, unclaimed bodies oddly postured and spectacularized for the "lay": once our privilege as newly minted medical students, now a sight for all to gape and glorify. if it weren't for the hindoo's aecom hoodie, we would never have been discovered in our street clothes.
and then there was goose and my man shek, who paid me a visit a couple of weeks ago. shek was en route to an interview in philly, so he hitched a ride with dave. i took them to the dinah for a couple of burgers and fries. they met lucy, whom they adored, we laughed at my firesetting fiasco, and then they left. goose is going to RSA and shek is going to India for the month and when they return they will know their fate for the next three to five years.
match day: a rite of passage for many a med student. a couple of months ago i would have been upset by this event because i was supposed to be there. who am i kidding: i still have pangs of sorrow and remorse for not having been a part of the graduating class of 2006. but i am so so so proud of all of these guys who have made my experience delightful...from many a run on concrete trails or 80 meter suspended indoor tracks to many a night watching the OC or Gilmore Girls to many a cheers shared after long weeks buried in books, these guys got me through it all.
i will end with this one thought: my 70+ year old south african anatomy professor/surgeon, in his final lecture, said that looking back he would have done it all over again. i can say the same now, at 26...and i can only hope that at 70, i can say it once and again.
this one is for my peeps in the broncks.
the guiness guzzler, the musulman and the hindoo: the three of them saved my bum in gross anatomy. we had a reunion the other day in south street: looking at exquisite dissections, a far cry from our slaughter house (7) experiment. they made me laugh, doubled over with my head neck deep in carnage, at a time when i would have rather been crying and wallowing in self-pity. we were troubled by the fact that the exhibit had a disproportion of asiatic/mongoloid features, unknown, unclaimed bodies oddly postured and spectacularized for the "lay": once our privilege as newly minted medical students, now a sight for all to gape and glorify. if it weren't for the hindoo's aecom hoodie, we would never have been discovered in our street clothes.
and then there was goose and my man shek, who paid me a visit a couple of weeks ago. shek was en route to an interview in philly, so he hitched a ride with dave. i took them to the dinah for a couple of burgers and fries. they met lucy, whom they adored, we laughed at my firesetting fiasco, and then they left. goose is going to RSA and shek is going to India for the month and when they return they will know their fate for the next three to five years.
match day: a rite of passage for many a med student. a couple of months ago i would have been upset by this event because i was supposed to be there. who am i kidding: i still have pangs of sorrow and remorse for not having been a part of the graduating class of 2006. but i am so so so proud of all of these guys who have made my experience delightful...from many a run on concrete trails or 80 meter suspended indoor tracks to many a night watching the OC or Gilmore Girls to many a cheers shared after long weeks buried in books, these guys got me through it all.
i will end with this one thought: my 70+ year old south african anatomy professor/surgeon, in his final lecture, said that looking back he would have done it all over again. i can say the same now, at 26...and i can only hope that at 70, i can say it once and again.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
it ain't the new yorker....
i fancied these two when i was a wee tot. not in the victorian sense…more like i wanted to B (squared) like them: Bunson and Beeker.
why my fourth grade project, which required reading a bibliography and creating a gift for that person, was dedicated to Big Al himself.
now i am swimming in it: the fast and the furious, motile minds scuttling: eating, sleeping, waking, dreaming, breathing the WORK.
Researching:
searching again and again for some kind of truth.
Even when I am trying to read and repose with a hot young ingenue by the name of Zadie Smith, I am thinking about the WORK.
A couple of months ago I was down and out, like a sailor parched on a deserted sea. I was kicked in the rump more than a few times by the MAN. (the very same MAN I tiraded against so long ago, the locus of phallogocentrism. remember the times, when we all tiraded, tirelessly?)
at the NIH meeting no less: i was sitting at the top of the stairs, having walked into the auditorium late. no sooner had ten minutes passed when i felt the Furtive Foot digging into the crack, where my skirt first met the floor. I angrily scooted forward, not looking back. It wasn’t until after the talk that I realized to whom the Furtive Foot lay captive: the MAN himself, the very same who embarrased me at a research meeting not long before. And so it was: the literal and the figurative came to flesh in one superfluous joke, and I was the butt of it.
I have not seen the MAN in some time, and I am all the more happier, and wiser. But I probably will see him soon…in April, when I have to present my abstract to him.
But I walk with greater strides these days. Because I am loving what I am doing, and no longer feel muted. Because I am giving voice, and receiving in return.
Overheard: the head of Pedi ID to a fledgling researcher, after reading her qualitative research paper: “you might consider submitting it to the New Yorker.” understated: “but not Nature or NEJM or any of the other high falouting journals whose bums we like to lick here at Yah-ALE.”
I’d take the New Yorker anyday. But NEJM would be nice as well….
Thursday, January 19, 2006
mmm...toasty
i love quiznos.
even when i call it quizmos, and both my sister and dave now know to correct me without missing a beat.
a reason to love quiznos even more:
today i got lost. in bridgeport. another one of my trips to connecticut's barracks, for an interview. after driving by the sound, getting lost in the fury for what seemed like miles, the green and red lettering descended upon my horizon, a sign no doubt. i parked my car, took the dog with me and ran towards the light. a warning from a strange, blue haired lady with pink lipstick: don't leave your dog out here, someone will surely steal her and sell her. loud and clear. so i brought her into quiznos, and fortunately they had a little foyer enclosed by two entrances...I was about to tie her under the display table, when a kind young employee volunteered to look after her. and then Ali, the manager, came out and asked if i would like to order outside so i could be with my pup. what would you like, he asked kindly. a veggie sandwich, i said, but i was also hoping to get some directions. i showed him my scribbles, courtesy of yahoo maps and he nodded and went to go look it up on his own computer.
i emerged fifteen minutes later with a bag full of goodies and my piece of paper, now with Ali's scrawls on the back. i was so grateful, the kindness of this man who had never known me.
maybe it was her face, so young and earnest, the face that melts everyone's heart. maybe it was mine, so lost and hopeful, that opened the door. whatever it was...i don't give the world enough credit. here was a man practicing a random act of kindness. am i so hardened that when i receive such acts i am so overwhelmed?
anyway. i love quiznos. i loved it before when it was quizmos, and i love it more now when i met Ali.
even when i call it quizmos, and both my sister and dave now know to correct me without missing a beat.
a reason to love quiznos even more:
today i got lost. in bridgeport. another one of my trips to connecticut's barracks, for an interview. after driving by the sound, getting lost in the fury for what seemed like miles, the green and red lettering descended upon my horizon, a sign no doubt. i parked my car, took the dog with me and ran towards the light. a warning from a strange, blue haired lady with pink lipstick: don't leave your dog out here, someone will surely steal her and sell her. loud and clear. so i brought her into quiznos, and fortunately they had a little foyer enclosed by two entrances...I was about to tie her under the display table, when a kind young employee volunteered to look after her. and then Ali, the manager, came out and asked if i would like to order outside so i could be with my pup. what would you like, he asked kindly. a veggie sandwich, i said, but i was also hoping to get some directions. i showed him my scribbles, courtesy of yahoo maps and he nodded and went to go look it up on his own computer.
i emerged fifteen minutes later with a bag full of goodies and my piece of paper, now with Ali's scrawls on the back. i was so grateful, the kindness of this man who had never known me.
maybe it was her face, so young and earnest, the face that melts everyone's heart. maybe it was mine, so lost and hopeful, that opened the door. whatever it was...i don't give the world enough credit. here was a man practicing a random act of kindness. am i so hardened that when i receive such acts i am so overwhelmed?
anyway. i love quiznos. i loved it before when it was quizmos, and i love it more now when i met Ali.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
sensate
sen·sate
adj.
Perceived by a sense or the senses.
Having physical sensation.
this was a word used by a peer when describing what she had lost during medical school. the ability to feel, perceive, smell, hear, taste. she felt robbed of her ability to sensate.
she used it as a verb. i like this better.
i think i know what she means.
but this year has been different. i don't run as much anymore, so it is no longer a chore. but when i do...it can be magical. especially on a day like last Thursday, the morning of this class I took in Philly called the Healers' Art. Fifty degrees at 8 am on a January morning...my steps were easy, my breathing soft, my body weightless. a feather on the breath of god. poor luce did not want to run that day, so i took her back to my apartment and set out for my solitary trot, two feet not six.
that evening we drew pictures with cheap crayons: what had we lost?
today i locked myself out of my apartment. again. i had gone to work in the morning to complete an interview, came back home briefly to grab some grub and to take lucy out for a little walk, and then rushed out of my apartment only to find that my keys were in fact not in my coat pocket. which meant i could not take my car back to work. nor could i take my backpack with my consent forms out of my car to work.
so i walked to the shuttle, four blocks away. in the pouring rain. without an umbrella.
but i remained surpisingly unperturbed. i took the shuttle down to clinic. talked to one family without consent forms. ran back to the office (another block in the pouring rain sans umbrella) to make new copies of my consent forms. ran back to clinic and gave the families the forms to peruse. wet and disheveled the whole time.
i had left poor luce in the cage the whole time. because if i hadn't she would have completely devoured my copy of white teeth, which she has taken a preference to.
tonight d and i had a long talk about the pecking order. i told him about my own ob gyn story. i was starting to examine a young woman, carefully leaving the cervical exam out until after my resident arrived. but i noticed than when i approached her legs (to check for pitting edema or DVTs ) she froze. something was clearly not right. so i quickly covered her up and waited for my resident to arrive. when she did she told me to glove up, and i quietly told her i didn't think i should. she shot me a look, but waited until we left the room to ream me: this was an academic institution and my job was to learn.
delivery time. my resident told me to go in there and wait for her again. not exactly knowing what i was supposed to do in there...i certainly could not get ready until she was in the room, it was only my second delivery...i waited. can't small talk with a woman who is in labor, that much i knew without being told. when my resident entered the room, the woman whispered to her husband: do not let her touch me. she was referring to me, the medical student who hadn't laid a finger anywhere close to her vagina. my resident heard this and nonetheless motioned towards me to take my position between her legs. i let the lump form once again, the warm pools swell in heavy eyelids...and delivered her baby. I quickly cleaned up, offered a meek congratulations and burst into tears in the washroom.
in the morning (sign out for us, the night float), my resident told the staff that the woman had been sexually abused as a child and was in need of social work. not a glance thrown my way. i watched her with desperation, sadness, anger...and quickly left after sign out, not offering to help with antepartum rounds. let the tears run freely as i walked home, a lovely spring saturday morning. talked to d and cried, but he probably didn't get the whole story, my mumbling bumbling self narrating.
so i told him again. tonight. no tears, just lessons i've learned.
back to sensate: i definitely felt a lot of pain my third year of medical school. no loss there. but i didn't quite take the time to feel the beauty around me: indian summers (i am allowed to use this phrase), my puppy's soft ears (the goosiest part of her body), the smell of old christmas trees on the sidewalk.
i am grateful for this word. and i am grateful that i can fulfill its meaning.
adj.
Perceived by a sense or the senses.
Having physical sensation.
this was a word used by a peer when describing what she had lost during medical school. the ability to feel, perceive, smell, hear, taste. she felt robbed of her ability to sensate.
she used it as a verb. i like this better.
i think i know what she means.
but this year has been different. i don't run as much anymore, so it is no longer a chore. but when i do...it can be magical. especially on a day like last Thursday, the morning of this class I took in Philly called the Healers' Art. Fifty degrees at 8 am on a January morning...my steps were easy, my breathing soft, my body weightless. a feather on the breath of god. poor luce did not want to run that day, so i took her back to my apartment and set out for my solitary trot, two feet not six.
that evening we drew pictures with cheap crayons: what had we lost?
today i locked myself out of my apartment. again. i had gone to work in the morning to complete an interview, came back home briefly to grab some grub and to take lucy out for a little walk, and then rushed out of my apartment only to find that my keys were in fact not in my coat pocket. which meant i could not take my car back to work. nor could i take my backpack with my consent forms out of my car to work.
so i walked to the shuttle, four blocks away. in the pouring rain. without an umbrella.
but i remained surpisingly unperturbed. i took the shuttle down to clinic. talked to one family without consent forms. ran back to the office (another block in the pouring rain sans umbrella) to make new copies of my consent forms. ran back to clinic and gave the families the forms to peruse. wet and disheveled the whole time.
i had left poor luce in the cage the whole time. because if i hadn't she would have completely devoured my copy of white teeth, which she has taken a preference to.
tonight d and i had a long talk about the pecking order. i told him about my own ob gyn story. i was starting to examine a young woman, carefully leaving the cervical exam out until after my resident arrived. but i noticed than when i approached her legs (to check for pitting edema or DVTs ) she froze. something was clearly not right. so i quickly covered her up and waited for my resident to arrive. when she did she told me to glove up, and i quietly told her i didn't think i should. she shot me a look, but waited until we left the room to ream me: this was an academic institution and my job was to learn.
delivery time. my resident told me to go in there and wait for her again. not exactly knowing what i was supposed to do in there...i certainly could not get ready until she was in the room, it was only my second delivery...i waited. can't small talk with a woman who is in labor, that much i knew without being told. when my resident entered the room, the woman whispered to her husband: do not let her touch me. she was referring to me, the medical student who hadn't laid a finger anywhere close to her vagina. my resident heard this and nonetheless motioned towards me to take my position between her legs. i let the lump form once again, the warm pools swell in heavy eyelids...and delivered her baby. I quickly cleaned up, offered a meek congratulations and burst into tears in the washroom.
in the morning (sign out for us, the night float), my resident told the staff that the woman had been sexually abused as a child and was in need of social work. not a glance thrown my way. i watched her with desperation, sadness, anger...and quickly left after sign out, not offering to help with antepartum rounds. let the tears run freely as i walked home, a lovely spring saturday morning. talked to d and cried, but he probably didn't get the whole story, my mumbling bumbling self narrating.
so i told him again. tonight. no tears, just lessons i've learned.
back to sensate: i definitely felt a lot of pain my third year of medical school. no loss there. but i didn't quite take the time to feel the beauty around me: indian summers (i am allowed to use this phrase), my puppy's soft ears (the goosiest part of her body), the smell of old christmas trees on the sidewalk.
i am grateful for this word. and i am grateful that i can fulfill its meaning.
Friday, January 06, 2006
the fire next time
what a great way to end my crappy day. kind of like how in some movies (crash, edward scissorhands) a snowfall in LA becomes this symbol of purification in what otherwise seems like hell. i started a kitchen fire and cleansed myself of the days work.
my intentions were good and pure. come home with groceries and dog food. kiss sister and dog on forehead to greet them. assume role of mother hen, now that both parents were in india. ask sister if she had eaten. ask dog if she had eaten. then proceed to clean out the oven so that i can make myself a warm Amy's Organic Pizza, so good and wholesome to nourish my own weary body.
i went into my bedroom to change when my sister knocked at the door, voice brimming: Tar! its on fire!!
I ran to the kitchen to find the oven erupted in smoke and fire. First thought: fire extinguisher. who knew where my parents kept it, as protective as they are, logic was not their forte. brief pause, a millionth of a second. then...react. fill glass with water and douse. keep dousing. open all windows. send meer and lucy into sun room and keep them there while i doused. the dousing softened the blaze, but the smoke continued and the embers still burned from below. i knew i needed an extinguisher and the only way to get one was to call 911.
I quickly banished meer and lucy out to the front, to await help. I turned on all the fans and walked outside to wait with them. The first two volunteers to show up ran in with their muddy boots and proceeded pull the lever...only to find that it didn't work. volunteer #2 ran outside to get another while volunteer #1 called for more help.
three fire trucks (sirens blowing), one squad car, 12 fire men, 2 police men, and 6 neighbors later we had our first ever block party. I schmoozed with the Meerows, congratulating them on their daughter's wedding. I smiled politely to the Digiovanni's who did not utter one word to my sister or myself, but managed to give both Imhoffs and Meerows pecks on the cheeks. I was teased by my dearest neighbors, Harry and Carol both in their 70s who have known my family and my uncle's family for over 25 years now....Carol said that we were perhaps the most exciting neighbors ever, as the last time she had seen this many lights was the day after my dad's plane was escorted by two F16s after another passanger had notified the airline of her suspicions: my dad and his comedy troupe du jour were playing "dumb charades" as they called it, and another lady on the plane was convinced they were hatching some evil terrorist plot. policemen and reporters hounded my parents for days after, and our street became the talk of the town.
Carol also made the comment that she didn't think there were this many firemen on the Park Ridge squad.
At the end of it all, we agreed: at least we know that someone is looking out for us. Or at least 12 men in firemen's uniforms will always be ready to put out your small kitchen fire.
the cause: potholders left below the oven. again brilliant moves on my parents part. but of course i should have checked under, because like the good immigrant family we are, we are above all hoarders. we stock and pile for the next kurukshetra. i shoulda known better.
we were left to clean the damages: muddied floors, black soot. lucy shit twice while watching the sirens in the front lawn.
i told my neighbors that i'll try to start another one next year so that we could do this again. they laughed...but not after making another joke about how I should learn how to cook before I got married. ba dum ching!
i feel purified, enlightened and whole again.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
pink elephant
my abdominal aorta pulsates through my shirt and winter coat as I pump gas...and strangely the rhythm of both pumps feels the one and the same.
i don't think I was having an aneurysm. i think it was the pink elephant i swallowed that got stuck in my throat. initially i felt it as a squeezing sensation in my chest, then a lump in my throat and now my abdominal aorta. three different viscera, hollow and solid.
but now i am confusing you. the price i pay for driving three hours round trip, in the misty rain: out and back from connecticut's hinterland. i knew i was approaching desolation when radio stations slowly faded, dropping off one by one.
the pink elephant was in the room the moment i walked into her home. my interviewee was tiny-- probably no taller than 4'11, at 16 years of age. i found her difficult to gauge, with my primitive questions, and i think she felt the same about me. we tried to avoid the large absurd beast in the room, but then i had to ask: so tell me a little bit about how you found out?
until that point she danced around it gracefully, at first making me believe she didn't know it was true. she made me question her capacity, her judgement, her maturity. she was skilled, indeed, in the art of cloaking.
but my question opened the box. let me start from the beginning, she said.
she started. she stopped, head bent down, tears streaming. she asked me to stop the tape and left the room. i had made a child cry.
i stopped. i breathed, deeply in, and stopped. i closed my eyes so that my ears would be my only resources at that moment, magnification, megaphonation post blinding mutism. i heard her cry how she could not continue with the interview to her mother: this same woman whom i had heard moments before scream that she had already signed my fucking papers, now transformed into Mother. Console, nourish, love without condition.
Mother came out in her robe to greet me: what did you ask her? calmly, reservedly, softly i apologized to her and showed her my script. i asked your child about the pink elephant, and she dissolved. so now i have swallowed it in order to maintain some sense of self-preservation lest i disintegrate. she understood. and then she began to narrate.
i completed the interview, gave the child her gift certificate, tried desperately to re-empower her by making her aware of my intentions: my tapes, my surveys, my numbers.
and then i drove back, an hour and a half and let the pink elephant permeate.
last year i disintegrated. i accidently disclosed my patient's status to her sister, not knowing. end stage, PML, a quick and sudden deterioration, and the sister asked me, the medical student, why. and in front of my patient, who was silenced by the JC Virus that had invaded her speech centers, i narrated her story. i took her story away from her. we spent that morning narrating her story to our attending and other residents in front of her room, so it never occurred to me that no-one else knew. i vomited the pink elephant over and over that day. i cried to my mother and to dave. i disintegrated.
today i kept my professional composure. but at what expense? the pink elephant is rotting away at my insides and i have no idea how to get it out.
excuse my poor idioms and paucity of language. i grew up in a house where english was literal and malayalam was figurative so i never really learned either.
i don't think I was having an aneurysm. i think it was the pink elephant i swallowed that got stuck in my throat. initially i felt it as a squeezing sensation in my chest, then a lump in my throat and now my abdominal aorta. three different viscera, hollow and solid.
but now i am confusing you. the price i pay for driving three hours round trip, in the misty rain: out and back from connecticut's hinterland. i knew i was approaching desolation when radio stations slowly faded, dropping off one by one.
the pink elephant was in the room the moment i walked into her home. my interviewee was tiny-- probably no taller than 4'11, at 16 years of age. i found her difficult to gauge, with my primitive questions, and i think she felt the same about me. we tried to avoid the large absurd beast in the room, but then i had to ask: so tell me a little bit about how you found out?
until that point she danced around it gracefully, at first making me believe she didn't know it was true. she made me question her capacity, her judgement, her maturity. she was skilled, indeed, in the art of cloaking.
but my question opened the box. let me start from the beginning, she said.
she started. she stopped, head bent down, tears streaming. she asked me to stop the tape and left the room. i had made a child cry.
i stopped. i breathed, deeply in, and stopped. i closed my eyes so that my ears would be my only resources at that moment, magnification, megaphonation post blinding mutism. i heard her cry how she could not continue with the interview to her mother: this same woman whom i had heard moments before scream that she had already signed my fucking papers, now transformed into Mother. Console, nourish, love without condition.
Mother came out in her robe to greet me: what did you ask her? calmly, reservedly, softly i apologized to her and showed her my script. i asked your child about the pink elephant, and she dissolved. so now i have swallowed it in order to maintain some sense of self-preservation lest i disintegrate. she understood. and then she began to narrate.
i completed the interview, gave the child her gift certificate, tried desperately to re-empower her by making her aware of my intentions: my tapes, my surveys, my numbers.
and then i drove back, an hour and a half and let the pink elephant permeate.
last year i disintegrated. i accidently disclosed my patient's status to her sister, not knowing. end stage, PML, a quick and sudden deterioration, and the sister asked me, the medical student, why. and in front of my patient, who was silenced by the JC Virus that had invaded her speech centers, i narrated her story. i took her story away from her. we spent that morning narrating her story to our attending and other residents in front of her room, so it never occurred to me that no-one else knew. i vomited the pink elephant over and over that day. i cried to my mother and to dave. i disintegrated.
today i kept my professional composure. but at what expense? the pink elephant is rotting away at my insides and i have no idea how to get it out.
excuse my poor idioms and paucity of language. i grew up in a house where english was literal and malayalam was figurative so i never really learned either.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
two little, four little, eight little feet...
of little indians.
sitting in cool beans in oradell nj, listening to maudlin morrisey, who today is brightening my mood because every day is like Sunday.
i just finished transcribing an interview...trying to get back into my research groove, now that step 2 is over (yay!) and life rolls by having completed another rite towards my indoctorination. i finished the 9 hour exam on the 30th, met my love on the corner of 75th and 3rd Ave after nearly three weeks had passed. We had dinner at the Candle Cafe, the place we had our own personal engagement dinner over a year ago October 23rd, the night after the day when he got down on bended knee, with his running shorts, thermal underwear and tube socks, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. i think you know the answer i gave him.
he met lucy for the first time and while he fell in love at first glance, we had a *discussion* about how i made this decision without him. i told him that it had been four and half years since I made any decision without him...kind of a lame excuse, since i actually had been thinking about him the whole time, and my mind and heart engaged in a dissociative fugue of sorts.
for most of my life, i've pretty much a soloist, marching to the arrhythmic beat of my own drummer. this is evident from the millions of video footage of me wandering aimlessly, lost in thought. further evidenced from the millions of stories my mom tells of me getting lost in department stores, of me often losing various valuables, including my piano teacher's check, even though my mother gave it to me just before she dropped me off, with less than 50 yards between her car and Mrs. Manus's front door. Sure I was *smart* enough to find my way to a security guard and let him or her know my three year old self could not find my mother. Sure it was only a check that could easily be voided. I've been charmed in more ways than one.
So when I met Dave four and a half years ago and we both made the decision to engage each other mind, body and soul, I had to learn to consider this person in every thought and action I performed. It was new, and strange...and at times it became an obsession. Because I had never really thought about anyone else before, and now I was thinking about him all the time. I could only plan my vacations/weekends/phone dates around him. I couldn't see a movie on my own, because I had to see it with him. I spent most of my days in berkeley, BD, on my own: catching flicks, grabbing grub from Intermezzo, running in the woods... it was a time when I only heard the patter of two feet, not four, or eight, hitting the soft earth on the fire trails behind the Lawrence- Berkeley Labs.
But now we are entering a more comfortable groove, he and I. One in which I periodically dance to the old familiar drummer in my head, and he is ok with it. At first he would wonder and wonder and wonder why I was so quiet, why I could go for hours without utterance. It made him nervous and uncomfortable. Was it something he said/did/thought? But he is beginning to understand...
And I am ok with the patter of four feet...now eight. I love Lucy when she lies quietly on my stomach, and I can feel her rhythm just a tad faster than mine. (Increased surface area to body ratio, I explained, with uncertain authority, to my sister.) I love Lucy a little less when she piddles in the house and lets out the smelliest farts my olfactories have had the privilege of meeting. Now I am no foreigner to the art of farts, and generally I find that the louder ones are less smelly than the silent ones. You can never hear Lucy's...her farts are meant for one special sense only.
My point? A new person, creature, with needs, whom I will have to love and let into my life and constantly be aware of. Less time for the drummer. It makes me stronger and much more independent than I would have ever imagined...as I have people to rely on me, I become more reliable.
One of my twelve year old kids that I interviewed gave me this definition of *independence*: "you're more reliable, your parents trust on you."
So in the last couple of weeks I panicked because I wasn't quite sure about where I fit in... not a new dilemma, an old one tried and true. But Dave and I talked and walked and mulled over Cold Stone ice cream about this fear and leaving behind. and we started to find peace, a separate peace.
I love Kelly Clarkson. Not ashamed to admit it in the least. Her rich voice and pop tart tunes get to me. especially when she sings about Miss Independent. Now, she's no Lauryn or Sarah or Cyndi or Amy and Emily...my cohort of trippin chicks. But she is one fabulous gal who is bound for Divadom. And I like it.
****
on a different note:
I read a quote by a starlet (not Kelly Clarkson) who admitted to her bread addiction. in fact she said "some people have a coke addiction, but I've got a bread addiction."
wtf. what has this world come to when we humble ourselves before the higher power and admit our defeat to BREAD? what have we come to when we compare bread to cocaine?
Lucy will never have such an addiction. She will always keep it real and remind us that we all need just a little love.
sitting in cool beans in oradell nj, listening to maudlin morrisey, who today is brightening my mood because every day is like Sunday.i just finished transcribing an interview...trying to get back into my research groove, now that step 2 is over (yay!) and life rolls by having completed another rite towards my indoctorination. i finished the 9 hour exam on the 30th, met my love on the corner of 75th and 3rd Ave after nearly three weeks had passed. We had dinner at the Candle Cafe, the place we had our own personal engagement dinner over a year ago October 23rd, the night after the day when he got down on bended knee, with his running shorts, thermal underwear and tube socks, and asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. i think you know the answer i gave him.
he met lucy for the first time and while he fell in love at first glance, we had a *discussion* about how i made this decision without him. i told him that it had been four and half years since I made any decision without him...kind of a lame excuse, since i actually had been thinking about him the whole time, and my mind and heart engaged in a dissociative fugue of sorts.
for most of my life, i've pretty much a soloist, marching to the arrhythmic beat of my own drummer. this is evident from the millions of video footage of me wandering aimlessly, lost in thought. further evidenced from the millions of stories my mom tells of me getting lost in department stores, of me often losing various valuables, including my piano teacher's check, even though my mother gave it to me just before she dropped me off, with less than 50 yards between her car and Mrs. Manus's front door. Sure I was *smart* enough to find my way to a security guard and let him or her know my three year old self could not find my mother. Sure it was only a check that could easily be voided. I've been charmed in more ways than one.
So when I met Dave four and a half years ago and we both made the decision to engage each other mind, body and soul, I had to learn to consider this person in every thought and action I performed. It was new, and strange...and at times it became an obsession. Because I had never really thought about anyone else before, and now I was thinking about him all the time. I could only plan my vacations/weekends/phone dates around him. I couldn't see a movie on my own, because I had to see it with him. I spent most of my days in berkeley, BD, on my own: catching flicks, grabbing grub from Intermezzo, running in the woods... it was a time when I only heard the patter of two feet, not four, or eight, hitting the soft earth on the fire trails behind the Lawrence- Berkeley Labs.
But now we are entering a more comfortable groove, he and I. One in which I periodically dance to the old familiar drummer in my head, and he is ok with it. At first he would wonder and wonder and wonder why I was so quiet, why I could go for hours without utterance. It made him nervous and uncomfortable. Was it something he said/did/thought? But he is beginning to understand...
And I am ok with the patter of four feet...now eight. I love Lucy when she lies quietly on my stomach, and I can feel her rhythm just a tad faster than mine. (Increased surface area to body ratio, I explained, with uncertain authority, to my sister.) I love Lucy a little less when she piddles in the house and lets out the smelliest farts my olfactories have had the privilege of meeting. Now I am no foreigner to the art of farts, and generally I find that the louder ones are less smelly than the silent ones. You can never hear Lucy's...her farts are meant for one special sense only.
My point? A new person, creature, with needs, whom I will have to love and let into my life and constantly be aware of. Less time for the drummer. It makes me stronger and much more independent than I would have ever imagined...as I have people to rely on me, I become more reliable.
One of my twelve year old kids that I interviewed gave me this definition of *independence*: "you're more reliable, your parents trust on you."
So in the last couple of weeks I panicked because I wasn't quite sure about where I fit in... not a new dilemma, an old one tried and true. But Dave and I talked and walked and mulled over Cold Stone ice cream about this fear and leaving behind. and we started to find peace, a separate peace.
I love Kelly Clarkson. Not ashamed to admit it in the least. Her rich voice and pop tart tunes get to me. especially when she sings about Miss Independent. Now, she's no Lauryn or Sarah or Cyndi or Amy and Emily...my cohort of trippin chicks. But she is one fabulous gal who is bound for Divadom. And I like it.
****
on a different note:
I read a quote by a starlet (not Kelly Clarkson) who admitted to her bread addiction. in fact she said "some people have a coke addiction, but I've got a bread addiction."
wtf. what has this world come to when we humble ourselves before the higher power and admit our defeat to BREAD? what have we come to when we compare bread to cocaine?
Lucy will never have such an addiction. She will always keep it real and remind us that we all need just a little love.
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