"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.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
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.
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