I will not apologize for the words I wrote before, and the words I write today.
There’s nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of here.
I never developed a “normal” relationship with my mother, because schizophrenia doesn’t deal such fair cards.
Now, I am 28-years-old, and our relationship is more like what is found between acquaintances. The figurative rocks we threw and threatening words we spewed at one another are a thing of the past.
But, boy what a past it was.
There were so many questions she left unanswered. So much guilt I had to internalize. Chronic days of pain I had to endure…
I am not responsible for the aftermath of my upbringing. I never asked to be born into this world. It was her responsibility to make sure I grew up to be the “good desi girl” society expects…
But instead, we fought battles. We shouted until our lungs collapsed. Played mind games until my head hurt.
I couldn’t keep up when I was drowning in a lake of my own tears…
To this day, she doesn’t know what I do for work. Who my friends in LA were. What caused me pain or joy or fear or hate in the past five years. What medications I’m taking. Why I decided to do a PhD.
And eventually, I learned to be okay with that. I was lucky and fortunate to have an amazing father—who pretty much took on the role of “mom” and “dad”. Honestly, as I got out of the house at 22 and began a new life away from “home”, I didn’t want to fight anymore. If it meant not putting in the energy to fight with her demons, that’s what I needed to do.
To preserve every ounce of sanity that I could.
But every young girl—from her pre-teen years through college especially—would no doubt thrive with mom at her side.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
Unlike those around me—who believe ignoring the issue will make it disappear—I choose to showcase the words that came pouring from my heart 7 years ago. During a life-changing weekend connecting with other South Asians, I built up the courage to share so much about a rocky home life that I kept in for too long.
I felt a strong urge to pen down the words I used to describe to the group about how she made me feel. I wrote a literal letter to my mother, but never gave it to her.
I knew that her paranoia, obsessive-compulsive, and erratic, nocturnal behavior would not disappear on the command of a few words on paper.
But for me, it was a release.
And I do not apologize for verbalizing what was in my heart, because these words were the truth of my experience…
Most people are familiar with America, but if you drop California, there really is no need to worry about being too specific.
Hollywood. Santa Monica. The Golden Gate Bridge. Yosemite. Lake Tahoe. UC Berkeley. Stanford. UCLA. Disneyland. Malibu...
Some people dream that one day, they would be lucky enough just to set foot in one of these over-hyped locales. But me? Not so much…
Despite spending 15 years growing up right in the middle of Sacramento and the Bay Area, going to school at a UC, and pursuing a PhD in the City of Angels—living smack dab in downtown LA even, for 2 out of the 5 years I called La-La Land home—I was Cali’d-out!
Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have wished for any other kind of location for my childhood and adolescent upbringing. Every single situation, obstacle, and opportunity I was in, faced, or received was because of my life in Cali.
But having lived in the Golden State since I was 7—all the way through 27—I was itching for a change.
No, dying for one.
Circa 2000. Sis and I having fun in the Cali sun. We moved into a new development, supposedly near a really good school district 😂
While Cali did give me quality friendships that have lasted many moons (yes, the number of solid friendships I have I can count on one hand) and access to a top-notch education (if you were to ask my Dad, haha), there were plenty of things it didn’t provide me with, like:
✶ a sense of community – despite the sunshine, most people in Cali I’ve come across are cold compared to other places…
✶ memorable adolescent experiences – I never had those nights in high school where I snuck out, or those “I-got-wasted” college outings…
✶ a strong connection to my cultural roots – we lived nowhere near extended family. Our life at home was rocky with my Mom’s mental health, so we rarely had guests over…
✶ a sense of home – I lived in Nor Cal. I lived in Los Angeles. It was comfortable, and it was what I knew, but never did it ever feel like home…
One could argue that this isn’t California’s fault—just the luck of my circumstances and the people I ended up interacting with, but being in California certainly didn’t help 😅.
I naively thought I would be leaving California on my terms, but the coronavirus pandemic had other plans. After leaving SoCal in late March 2020 with a bitter heart, and spending almost 3 months recovering from the vitriol of the world in the comforts of Tulsa, I did end up coming back to ‘home that never felt like home‘ for a little less than a week.
SoI was able to say good-bye, but in a way that I never imagined.
The real reason I came back to SoCal before leaving for Milan was bureaucratic. I had to go in person to pick up my work visa, because despite being 2020, some things still haven’t caught up with the times—especially if it concerns governments 🙄.
I also had to reunite with my household items, clothes, and car I left with a dear friend, J, who lives in West Covina. So along with settling documents for my trans-Atlantic move, I also needed to figure out what exactly I was bringing with me on this move.
Definitely no the car, so selling it was an urgent matter on my to-do list.
My first “day” back was actually a Monday evening after a harrowing American Airlines experience where social distancing protocol was thrown out the window 🙄. Despite having to spend $60 on a Lyft to get from LAX to West Covina, and dealing with a bitchy case of hanger, I was able to check-in to a cozy Airbnb guest suite (very cozy, I mean, literally fit for just ONE person) after fetching my car from J’s house and chatting with him and his wife for a bit. I was extremely exhausted when I arrived, as I had to unload three large suitcases and multiple loose boxes packed with things I had no time to properly organize when I was fleeing Cruella’s place at the end of March…needless to say, I fell asleep very quickly that night, even if I was staying in a guest suite meant for a barn mouse 😂.
Tuesday brought with it a packed morning. I had my visa appointment allllll the way in Century City, and so I left bright and early to make sure I could avoid any issues.
I arrived at 8am in desperate need of coffee, and I was not too enthusiastic about paying for parking before paying for a cuppa. The visa process was not bad, but definitely a time sucker. Only two women were working at the time, and I was the only “guest” there. Using the guise of “COVID”, I found the policy to enter the tiny visa office to be more ridiculous to me than usual. I mean, walking through an archway metal detector just to pick up a piece of paper? 🙄
After shelling out $30 bucks for parking and leaving 1.5hrs later, I managed to get back on the road towards DTLA and came face-to-face with traffic, of course. I got in touch with my friends J and P (one of my closest colleagues even though she was technically a Business Admin), since I had plans to meet with them both for lunch, like the good old days.
Back when I was a PhD student running around in a fervor, my lunches with P and J would be a somewhat constant in my busy days. P often craved for fast food on Figueroa, while I’d pick up something from Trader Joe’s nearby. We’d then either eat inside the fast food place of P’s choice, or “out at the tables”. The latter was my favorite, since it was at a sheltered corner of campus not too far from my lab building, with wooden picnic tables underneath shade from plenty of trees.
Our lunch meetup was a long one, but I tried to savor every minute. It was definitely the last time I’d be seeing P, since I had plans to have dinner with J and his wife later in the week. The three of us were able to enjoy a nice lunch at our ol’ spot, even though the environment around us was chillingly quiet—sure, the campus was usually quiet during the summer, but adding COVID into the mix made things feel a little more eerie…
After lunch, it took me about an hour to return to West Covina. I had an itch to go for an evening run, and wanted to see if my foot—recently recovered from an Achilles’ problem—could handle running up some East LA hills while it was possible. I also wanted to see if I could hit my highest mileage in months (40 miles) before getting aboard a plane a week later!
So, I ended up going for the run. I decided to run up some steep hills, and was met with some fantastic views. Little did I know that my decision to run in a large circle around the neighborhood versus my usual “out-and-back” routine would lead to something else.
A guy in a car at a stoplight to be exact.
In the past, I would have completely ignored any man calling me over from a car, and I would have been annoyed out of my mind by their advances, but with everything about to change in my life, I decided to play into my vulnerability.
After taking out my earbuds, I realized that the guy was wondering if I was running track at the local college.
He was “inspired”. He wanted a running buddy.
If that was what he really wanted, then I didn’t see an issue with exchanging numbers and meeting at a local, public park the next day for a run together. I’ve always preferred running with company, so I had no problems.
I had no fear either, but I stayed cautious.
After my run, I drove to Sprouts to buy a few groceries and dinner for the night. My phone was bombarded with texts I wasn’t so sure to be flattered or insulted by:
You’re so pretty. You’re Indian? I love Indian women. You’re 27? I knew it. You have such a great body…
But since I was trying something new—giving people the benefit of the doubt—I didn’t want to think too much of the situation. Instead, that evening I had a nice, warm vegan mean with a side of kombucha, a hot shower, and fell asleep in a great slumber.
The next day was Wednesday, meaning running around to attend to more errands and doubting my plans to meet up with the “Running Guy” multiple times during the day. J recommended we run near Cortez Park, after I asked where would be a “safe”, public place to run.
And being the person that I am, I went out for a mid-day run in the scorching heat to get used to the neighborhood near and around Cortez Park.
Stop to smell the gorgeous Californian flowers.
I finished five miles during that session, and later in the day, messaged Running Guy to confirm our meeting point. He suggested that we meet at Shadow Oak Park after I brought up Cortez, and I didn’t feel so sure until after confirming with J that it was indeed “safe” as well.
I soon learned that Shadow Oak Park was made for plenty of people to enjoy in broad daylight—especially the views of the great beyond from lil ol’ East LA:
Views from Shadow Oak Park, West Covina
When Running Guy finally arrived, I told him I was planning to finish up the day with 4 miles during this session, bringing my total for the day to 9 miles. The descent was no problem, but 2 miles back up hills was troublesome for me. I kept pushing myself by repeating over and over that this hill work would pay off…eventually.
Running Guy however, was pooped. He said so at the beginning that he was not a runner at all, but wanted to “get in shape”, despite playing other sports like basketball.
When we finished the run, we chatted for a bit and all seemed normal. He seemed disappointed by the fact that my time in Cali was temporary, even though I told him the day before that I was only here for a week. Despite telling me to “drive safe” as we walked over to our individual cars, I’m not so sure his following actions were supportive of that…
As I started driving away from the park, my phone began to buzz. I had a weird feeling in my stomach, and I wasn’t so sure about glancing over to see who it was, even though I fully knew.
When I had a chance to park, things got creepy…
No, I think it’s just you that’s “curious” 🙄
As soon as he had the nerve to invite himself over to my Airbnb, I knew this situation was ridiculous. Even though I had done nothing wrong however, I still felt a tinge of guilt. But why?
Perhaps it was because the first time I met a guy under a slightly flirtatious context. I felt embarrassed, but there was no reason for me to be. I called up one of my more “experienced” friends, and she gave her two cents plus some.
I felt better after confiding with her over the phone, but I still felt violated in a way. Maybe it was the onslaught of text messages coming in all at once, or the idea that perhaps he was a guy who wasn’t forthright with his intentions from the start.
I’ve told the story to a few more of my friends, all with different reactions. Some laughed at the fact that I would agree to meet a stranger within 24 hours to go running, others reprimanded me (as if they were my mother 🙄), saying I shouldn’t trust guys at all.
I listened to their words and let them flow in one ear and out the other, because their opinions really had no influence over me at this point in my life. This was an experience that I went through involving social interaction, personality dynamics, and body language, and to be honest, it felt like a warm-up lesson for what could await me in Italy 😜.
Thursday morning definitely felt weird after the situation that took place the night before. Fortunately, I had a cleaning scheduled for the car in Azusa, so it would get me out of the WeCo area. I shouldn’t have allowed the situation with Mr. Creep influence my choice about not running that morning in the neighborhood, but I didn’t want to take my chances. I convinced myself that running in Azusa while the car was getting taken care of was a good use of time (they had the car for an hour and a half) and I would be able to run in a new-to-me area.
A purely Californian view 🌴
The gray, cloudy skies seemed a little depressing for mid-June, but I loved it. The humidity was still atrocious, but I’m a sucker for a dark, foggy sky.
The car was ready after two hours, so I immediately picked up lunch and fell asleep in a nice nap once I got back (to my temporary) home. When I woke up, I had a hankering for vegan diner food, and knew that I should seize the moment now, because who knew what Milan had to offer in that category?
I was able to take the car out to the local Covina Tasty, where I “treated” myself to a veggie burger and a vanilla soft serve with butterscotch topping—the kind that hardens into a shell 😝.
A treat from a local eatery 🙂
Not sure if my nostalgia for childhood summer days in NorCal or more-recent memories of hopping around to a new restaurant every weekend in LA for the past five years made me push to get such a simple meal, but it was just what I needed that evening.
On Friday, I wanted to venture out of WeCo again, this time going to Alhambra. Back in my first year of my PhD training, a number of my classmates lived in Alhambra due to it’s affordability, safety factor, and vicinity to campus. I was more enthralled by the bright lights of the deep city, so I never gave cities like Alhambra a chance.
Alhambra on a hot June day…
But running here on Friday made me feel nostalgic for those times six years ago…despite the battles I was internally struggling with at the time, I remember the people I met and the activities I participated in fondly.
My run through Alhambra was a quiet one, but seemed oddly empty on the streets because of the extended, semi-stay-at-home order situation. After my run, I walked around the park where I started and watched some of the wildlife (ducks, haha) before driving off for a refreshing treat.
My destination of choice was a corgi-themed cafe called Cafe Der. I would have calculated my steps regarding pictures, what to order, and how to describe the food for an Instagram caption if I was still running a food blog, but those days were coming to an end.
Cafe Der in Alhambra
Over the past few months, my looming next chapter began to influence how much passion I really had for my “passions”, especially food and running—I still love those things, but my heart didn’t have the desire to keep things as they were.
Just like with everything else 🤷🏽♀️
Sunday was calm, but things already started to feel bittersweet. By the time I woke up around 9am (after multiple instances of waking up and forcing myself back to sleep), it was blistering hot. I still wanted to go for a run though…my 40 mile goal for the week was so close I could taste it!
Knowing I’d be leaving California, and the US, indefinitely the next morning, I felt like I *had* to venture out nearby. One last hurrah of going out to a restaurant, taking pics for the ‘gram, and bringing home dessert like old times? Why not?
After dropping off a few more items for donation, I picked up a smoothie from Jamba Juice to cool down my body before setting out to run. I picked a “park” in Arcadia thinking I’d be in the mood to check off one more cafe visit in the area after my run.
Running in Peck Park was a horrible decision on my part, due to the unbearable heat, but I somehow managed to crank out a decent amount of miles.
Peck Park in Arcadia…so hot and dry…how did I run here?
I couldn’t fit all my miles for the day in this blistering session, so I vowed to finish up in the evening when things felt cooler. I also had to coordinate with J about dropping off the car at his house (again), since I was selling it to a third-party vendor for convenience.
Before going by J’s house, I made one final stop at Sprout’s to pick up some food for dinner and snacks for the morning—-one last time in the car, driving out to get ready-made vegan hot bar food and kombucha. I was secretly going to miss that little piece of freedom.
After settling that and saying a final good-bye to my dear friend, I tied up my running shoes again and finished up the week with a 4 mile out-and-back. I felt so much lighter and faster as I finished up these miles…running against the backdrop of a Californian sunset is one thing I’ll miss about the Sunshine State. I’ll admit that.
West Covina, on a Sunday evening
I left the AirBNB around 11am the next morning. I took a pricey Lyft back to LAX, with my three large suitcases, a rollerboard, and a handbag in tow. On the other hand, I held nothing in my heart for the place I was about to leave.
You know it’s time to move on when your childhood home no longer belongs to you. When your parents have uprooted their lives to live somewhere else. As much as my Dad says he wishes I could stay with him forever, I can see he has nestled into the lifestyle of an “empty nester” quite comfortably.
You know it’s time to move on when you have no friends left in the city. When they’ve moved as far north as Sacramento, as well as across state borders to places like Vegas and Austin. Now I was the one leaving them all miles behind, by choosing to start a new life in Milan, but they had all left me earlier. It was another sign that California and I were ready to split from each other.
And, you know it’s time to move on when your heart has already found a new place to fly to. When spending hours walking along Wilshire, running down Figueroa, and strolling down Pico no longer sparks joy. When visiting new restaurants on weekends, potentially running into celebrities, and getting lost in famous neighborhoods is more of an inconvenience than a priority.
Yup, my final week in La-La Land and the Sunshine State had served its purpose. I can’t predict where I’ll end up in the future, after Italy…if there is an after Italy. Will I call Cali home again? Who knows, but I knew that the time to say good-bye was now.
This was a post I wrote back in February 2018, and it was featured on Brown Girl Magazine’s website. It was a piece I put my heart into, so I wanted to give it a home here on SGD, where it fits perfectly.
For six years of my life, from the formative years of 18-23, my soul had disappeared. I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.
In the years that I needed a mother the most, I was losing her to schizophrenia. I spent my years in middle and high school playing a live version of Minesweeper, and no matter how many times I adapted to the rules of this challenging game, something always set her off. It would have been easier to follow her bizarre rules and give in to her unrealistic demands like my father did, but I put up a fight and collected wounds as a result.
I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.
My mother began to stay up late into the night, her eyes glazed over a fluorescing TV screen, constantly rewinding 30 seconds of a Dora the Explorer episode and scribbling into her notebook the messages she was receiving. We would have shouting matches too, almost like siblings, and my younger sister coped by retreating to her bedroom and locking the door. I was losing the strength to keep up, and the schizophrenic side of my mother was winning.
Fighting her was proving to be worthless, but internalizing my emotions seemed to be something I could manage—something I could control. Assigning myself a daily calorie limit and keeping a detailed food journal may have begun as “a fresh start” and a way to “regain control” of my dysfunctional environment, but the numbers soon began to take a hold of me.
There is a way out: July 2015 -> February 2018
The amount of calories I allotted myself each day was barely enough for a toddler to be sustained on, and I was forcing myself to divide that number up into meals throughout the day. It was a challenge turned obsession, and it was the driving force of my isolation. In college, my roommate was out with friends playing soccer on the intramural team and returning at 2am from a frat party, while I swallowed two pills of melatonin and was in bed by 8pm, pressing on my concave stomach in vain thinking it would stop the hunger pangs.
My morning ritual required measuring tape and a mirror. I never worried about my arms or wrists, but when it was time to examine my lower half, I double and triple-checked the circumference of my thighs: upper, middle, and right above the knee. My hands would land on my hips and I would sigh over the weird dips and curves they seemed to make.
An eating disorder may have overshadowed my life, but depression was laced through it. There was one day in particular I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, tears falling down my cheeks, but not feeling one ounce of sadness. Perhaps it was my body’s mechanism of trying to release something that just wasn’t there. My stomach grumbled from the lack of food inside of it, but I lay on the floor motionless. I was under a rain cloud I could not take cover from, and I could not shake it away.
There is a way out: August 2015 -> December 2019
When something causes you to become so inert that your insides are physically, mentally, and emotionally wiped clean, it’s hard to imagine coming back to reality. For six years, my good days included saving enough calories for a meager 300 calorie dinner, or being able to treat myself with a protein bar alongside black Splenda-sweetened coffee for breakfast. In contrast, I experienced too many bad days waking up at 4am and consuming my daily intake in cereal and yogurt because the feeling of hunger was too strong. Too many moments of hunger-fueled anger and regressing into a child, shivering on the couch while my Dad feverishly worked to prepare the only meal I would allow myself to eat for dinner.
I consider myself to be an optimistic person, but I never thought a full recovery from an eating disorder could ever be possible, and so it was hard to believe that my epiphany happened gradually in October of 2015. I came across blogs and Instagram accounts of young women who had chosen recovery, as well as scientific articles describing the necessity of weight restoration, refeeding, and intuitive eating. I was intrigued, and curiously thought what would happen if I embraced recovery…
When I did embark on recovery road, it was as if an alien had entered my brain and everything was on autopilot. I found myself willing to eat double the amount of the daily calorie intake I was used to, but as the months went by, I realized I was going to be hitting road bumps very soon.
There is a way out: May 2015 -> December 2018
2016 was rough, and now being weight-restored, I didn’t feel like I could justify eating “crazy” amounts of food. I felt tight in everything I wore, and I wanted to blame it all on water retention, but most of the pounds were real and necessary weight gain. And while I felt like I was constantly battling myself in regards to food and body image, I made one of the best decisions in my recovery journey and sought out therapy. I was lucky to find a therapist and group therapy that focused on recovering from eating disorders, but it seemed like the battle would never end. Oftentimes it seemed like my body image was the worst it had ever been, and it left me doubting my decision to recover. I had days where I “missed my old body” and looking at pictures—even from months prior—left me feeling so upset with myself.
But eventually, I was able to grow. People, and my relationships with them became more important. Laughs over lunch replaced calculations. Attention was something I used to crave, but not verbally request, and while it feels nice to be thought about, it is no longer something I desire. I can look at myself in mirrors and reflective surfaces and be content with what I see. The moments I harangue myself over the thickness of my thighs or the curves of my hips are few and far between. Take it from someone who never thought she’d be happy with her hips, who doesn’t have a nurturing relationship with her mother, and feels disconnected from her Desi heritage in most aspects: a complete recovery from an eating disorder is absolutely possible. I may have had what many still refer to as a “white girl’s disease”, but it made me a stronger brown woman.
STRONGER BROWN WOMAN.
My fellow SGD ladies (and gents)—if you pictured yourself as you read this, my heart goes out to you so, so much. Reach out to me. There are ways out of this. Just don’t give up 🧡
When it comes to community—be it extended family, parents’ friends, aunties, uncles—I believe most SGDs have varied experiences.
Some have stories upon stories about how suffocating the desi community can be—the toxic gossip, the extreme competitiveness among parents that permeates down to the kids, the nosy aunties, the façade of it all—it can understandably be overbearing.
Before her mental illness took hold of her, my mother was part of a large desi community in Oklahoma. I vaguely remember the large, clean houses with the faint scent of sandalwood, the festivities we would be invited to, and the amount of times I ran up and down staircases alongside a bunch of other brown rugrats. I was a wee one myself, and I had yet to comprehend the politics that governed a raw desi immigrant community.
My dad used to tell me there was a reason we moved to a more “desi-barren” area of NorCal in late 1999. He was trepeditious about the desi communities in the Bay Area and associated counties. He wasn’t so sure if he wanted his young, elementary school-aged daughters to grow up in cutthroat territory. But he also wasn’t so sure about exiling his family from the community altogether. Did it really have to be all or nothing?
As I grew older, I began to see second gens of other cultures find solace in the company of others like themselves. I may have lived in a “desi-barren” area, but there were Filipinos galore! I immediately learned that second gen Filipinos were off limits—if a new kid was Filipino, they would find a group of Filipino friends within an hour, no joke.
For a while, I thought my sister and I were the only South Asian kids in our entire school—a very real memory for most SGDs. When I learned there was a girl of Punjabi descent around my age walking around the same halls as me, I made it my mission to make her my friend.
I spotted her playing tether ball with who I gathered to be her best friend: a skinny pale girl with a pout on her face most of the time. I bravely approached them both and stood by the side of the pole, waiting to play whoever won.
When Miss Punjab won, I took my place as we punched the ball back and forth. Despite not being immersed in desi culture at the time, I still had a clue about…some things.
“Have you seen Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham?” I asked excitedly. The movie had come out quite recently, and my question seemed to bring about a smile on Miss Punjab’s face.
“Yeah, it was pretty cool! Shah Rukh Khan is great!”
Of course, bonding between two SGDs involves SRK.
It didn’t look like her pouty-faced friend was a fan though. Over the next few days at lunchtime recess, I would join both girls at the tether ball courts, not really invited, but assuming that I was now a friend—especially Miss Punjab’s.
Perhaps I was naive thinking that our meeting on the playground would extend to hanging out at each other’s houses, our parents meeting and coming together for Diwali, and instill in me a sense of belonging—that perhaps I would be able to grow up with a friend who shared the color of my skin and seemed to like me.
But I was fooled. During one of these tether ball sessions where I had awkwardly invited myself, the pouty pale girl had had enough. Without warning, she stopped the game and growled at Miss Punjab to follow her to another area of the playground. Miss Punjab obliged, and despite pressing my luck with this “friendship”, I knew this was a blatant, planned act of rejection.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
As I grew older, I realized bringing “new” people into our house would only set my mother off. It didn’t matter if they were desi, not desi, blood relatives, or close family friends…no one was ever truly welcome into our cold, dark, isolated home.
I found solace with a few neighborhood kids, two of whom became my greatest friends to this day. But none of my friends were desi. A good or bad thing? I don’t know, but that’s how it was. When we made our trips to India over the years, extended family sometimes inquired about our association with a desi community abroad, and were surprised to learn of our lack of participation in one. They couldn’t comprehend it.
It wasn’t until I was about to finish my undergraduate that I had my first independent encounter with an inclusive desi community. When I first came across Bay Area Solidarity Summer (BASS), I wasn’t sure what to make of it:
Flyer for BASS, circa 2013.
At first, I wasn’t sure about applying. It seemed weird for me, an almost 21-year-old fresh out of college to be gallivanting around with naive high school kids…but perhaps, maybe this time, despite all of the past disappointments of trying to find my community…this could be my chance?
When late July rolled around in 2013, it was time to set off to Berkeley. My Dad volunteered to drive me down from our home in the North Bay to drop me off, despite his disrelish for Bay Area traffic 😅. Normally, our trips to the Bay would be exciting for me, since they would be an excuse to visit an exuberant cousin who we were only able to associate with outside our home. This time however, I felt a little nervous and doubtful of what I signed up for—I wasn’t sure if this purposeful mixing of young desi women of multi-second gen (or first gen) backgrounds would be the solution to my “problem”.
I didn’t hesitate when we arrived in front of an old Victorian-style house in the heart of the city. I was not the first to arrive, but I was one of the earlier ones, and despite feeling tired and nervous, I managed to greet the other ladies who were mingling in the hall and the team of facilitators for the weekend. As other attendees filed in, we soon made our way to the living room of the house, met our facilitators, and gathered together as a total of 15 desi youth to break the ice—with a task that required us to piece together a timeline of South Asian activism spanning 100 years…
We were “put to work” right away! I remember learning so much that day—amazed by the fact that the South Asian community accomplished so much in regards to activism. Something that unfortunately isn’t touched upon in a white-centric school curriculum… {image source}
From that point on, we embarked on a journey that spanned a weekend. Sitting in on workshops, listening to activist leader elders, challenging our stance on sensitive issues, and opening up our hearts to understand what our South Asian elders faced as immigrants were experiences I’d never forget. I learned so much from a group of brave, strong role models in the South Asian activist community…topics that resonate, albeit chillingly, with the racially-intensified events that have happened this year. We learned then and there that our struggles as POC are important, but allyship is just as significant.
Meeting activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) was a powerful example of that.
{Left to Right} – Activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) sharing their activist experiences with us; group task to understand how to organize and structure movements for social change; learning about exploitative economic models and more just alternatives; understanding how to be allies for our Islamic brothers and sisters, and how to fight Islamophobia/systems of hate {image source}
Despite being thrown into a world of knowledge about the struggles and feats of my South Asian ancestors, the sessions definitely pulled on my energy purse strings. Unfortunately, I was still struggling with an eating disorder during this experience, so despite participating as much as I could in the activities, I could not bring myself to have as much energy as some of the more vivacious, bubbly, extroverted ladies.
Break-out sessions during a music-making for activism workshop. {image source}
Needless to say, I wasn’t very vocal compared to others. But I found kind souls to connect with as the hours carried on that weekend. And the more time we spent with one another, the more comfortable I felt.
Berkeley South Asian Radical History Walking Tour with the BASS ladies, 2013. {image source}
As Sunday approached, I grew nervous because our final activity would be a participant-led session. All 15 of us ladies would have the chance to speak out about anything—what we learned, our own struggles as South Asians, anything. Alumni, past speakers, and past facilitators were also invited to attend, which made our group circle span the entire circumference of the living room floor.
One by one, each young woman from my group spoke up about their experience over the weekend, or the struggles they faced as South Asians growing up.
Networking with community activists and alumni on the final night of BASS. {image source}
I ended up being the last participant to speak. I wasn’t sure how to follow 14 other ladies—especially the vocally excited ones who spoke about their plans to spark activism as soon as they returned home. Or the ones who already had collaborations set up for activist projects. Or the ones who were able to eloquently express their immigrant struggles as first-gen desis.
I could only speak on what made my heart hurt at the moment.
My words were slow at first, but then flooded out—words that pieced together the anger and loneliness I felt after fighting with a mother arrested by mental illness. That the domestic turmoil under my roof left my sister, my father and I unable to seek outside help. That my eating disorder was triggered by years of having to control the uncontrollable.
That belonging to a community—a desi community—was something I didn’t feel until this past weekend.
When I finished speaking, I was met stunned silence, some tears, and hug after hug after hug. There were gentle pats on the back, and vocal appreciation of my courage to share such sensitive information and be vulnerable.
The following morning, we left each other goodbye notes. I opened mine as soon as I climbed into my dad’s car, and my eyes started to water.
It might seem cheesy to an outsider…I’m not afraid to admit that I often try to avoid being cliche even if that means putting down gestures like these as “over the top” or “annoyingly unoriginal”, but receiving these notes from my brown-skinned peers after a heavily informational and emotionally-moving session shifted my attitude…
I didn’t expect to find myself the recipient of 20+ hugs from compassionate individuals. I didn’t expect to find a group of young women who squeal for M.I.A. as much as warm chai on a Sunday afternoon. I didn’t expect to dance awkwardly down the line as my peers cheered for us as we moved to Drake’s “Started From the Bottom”. I didn’t expect to reveal the harsh memories of a broken home to a group of strangers who immediately became supporters.
I didn’t expect to belong.
But, if at least for only a weekend…and maybe a few weeks after…I finally understood how it felt to be part of a commUNITY.
One summer night in the middle of Berkeley in a Victorian-style house, a group of 15 young women, descending from a wide spectrum of the South Asian diaspora, found commUNITY.
To learn more about BASS, check out their website and Facebook page. As a second gen desi, this was one of the best experiences of my life 💜
I hate walking into a room feeling stuck in a mold that was imposed upon me by others.
Mahabalipuram, a town in the Chengalpattu district of Tamil Nadu. 56 kilometers south of Chennai.
Growing up, I would vow before each trip to Chennai that things would finally be different. I would speak up. I would face my grandmother and say, “Pati, nee eppadi irruken?”, and not the safe and comfortable “How are you?”
But as soon as our plane hit the tarmac in Chennai, the humidity would blast me and a frog would nestle in my throat. I would subconsciously tuck behind my Dad as if his presence would help me disappear for the next three weeks…
We would walk out into
the open, luggage in tow, with a million eyeballs facing us as we tried to find
our familiar faces. Uncles and aunts would be there, but my tongue would stay
still. I felt embarrassed to speak in English, so I would just smile and
hesitantly laugh at every word my relatives spoke to me.
Every time they turned to my Dad, they spoke in Tamil. My ears would tune in, just in case one of my uncles threw in a joke along with a head shake, a hand wave, and loud clap. I would try to laugh as hard as I could just so they would know I understood. But when their eyes landed on me—-in the rare moments after the meet and greet—it would be a simple question, and it was always in English.
Rusting gate in Thiruporur, a town in Chengalpattu district in Tamil Nadu ⭐ Hate to admit that I often felt “locked in” in regards to being able to truly express myself on these trips to Chennai.
Those trips to India
left me exhausted, ashamed, and embarrassed. Meeting extended relatives brought
on anxiety more than anything, and the pressure to be Indian, when I was
obviously not (at least in their eyes) made things more confusing than I could
handle.
The last time I went
to India, it was four years ago, a few months before embarking on my PhD
journey. It was one of those trips I went in saying things would be different. This
time, I would try.
But the three weeks I spent in a homeland that felt foreign took an opposite turn. I was battling an eating disorder, and on top of trying to cover up my shame of not being able to speak Tamil fluently and confidently, I felt overwhelmed with the food I was trying so hard to avoid. Instead of drinking chai and indulging in sweets, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.
4 years later, and I am still at a crossroads with my mother tongue.
Wearing the clothes, but feeling self-conscious—especially on the traditional streets of Triplicane.
At least my dad had a choice. He grew up in a large family, interactions abound. He may have fallen in love with the American radio shows and Western movies his eyes laid upon as a boy, but despite making the move to America and actively choosing to live a new life, assimilate into a new culture, and allowing his accent to fade away, he still managed to have no problem with coming back.
But I was born into a world I had no decision in wanting to be a part of. No one asked me if I wanted to be an ABCD—an American-Born Confused Desi .
When it came time for
me to formally learn a second language, I was in high school. Though when I
walked in on the first day of class, I was already put into a stereotype: in
the eye of my German teacher of Chinese-origin, I was the studious, quiet
Indian girl who probably spoke Hindi at home and was going to ace his class and
add German to my language repertoire because I study all the time.
He got the quiet part right, and to a certain extent, I picked up German—-the passive way of course. In my four years of high school, I was “Inge” every minute I was in his classroom (we had to pick German names for us to use on our first day), and while the first 3 years were fun, I still could not build up the courage to speak the language and build oral fluency. I did what was mandatory in class, but I had no desire to build upon the language outside of class. Especially when I developed depression in my senior year—-speaking fluent German was far from my priorities when I was face down on the kitchen floor sobbing every night, facing an existential crisis at only 17.
I’ve made attempts after each trip—with recent memories of time spent with family still fresh in my mind. This would be enough to motivate me to dust off the number of Tamil learning books I accumulated over the years. I’d bring up my desire to start practicing to my Dad, and we’d hold a few short conversations here and there over the phone, but I found myself losing patience and steering back to English.
Because it was comfortable, and provided me with the words necessary to express myself.
Orange County Airport Views ⭐ Returning to the US after long trips in Chennai gave my subconscious a sense of relief. I felt like I could “be myself” again.
If I was too exhausted after a long work day, depressed by an emotionally traumatic event or angered by someone and needed to vent, my basic vocabulary in Tamil was not enough for me to get my emotions out. It would be a battle of frustration just to find the words…and that would only add to the negative feelings I harbored at the moment.
As a student in the last stages of her PhD, change is hitting me from all angles. As with all transitional points that have occurred in my life so far, I have a deep, intrinsic feeling that my next chapter waits for me beyond the abnormally sunny skies of LA. As people get older, nature usually kicks in—people want to settle, find comfort, and engross themselves into a routine that they can rely on for years.
But I am a person who can’t be static. I want to explore the world, live in different countries, and be a “global citizen“.
I just feel guilty for not being fluent in the language of my heritage 😞.
This will continue to be my internal battle until I am able to truly decide if this is what I need to feel like I “belong”, and if so, I will need to fiercely prioritize my time with the language. I oftentimes feel frustrated because looking to the past, my parents could have made it their duty to make sure my sister and I spoke Tamil fluently. I could have been more adamant to learn when I was younger. I could have tried this, done that, used this, read that…
One thing I try to emphasize to myself is that my lack of fluency doesn’t make me any less “desi”. Most of the time, it certainly feels like it does, but in all other aspects of my culture—my Hindu faith, my awareness of basic customs, my observance of societal “rules” when visiting Chennai—I’m as desi as can be.
Weak in fluency, strong in cultural awareness
One of these days, my daydreams to communicate effortlessly with extended relatives will become a reality.
Hopefully as I grow older and wiser, my confidence with Tamil will grow with me.
Hopefully the frog in my throat will find a new place to haunt, and I’ll be comfortable enough to express myself in the words of my ancestors.
That multi-lingual confidence ⭐ it’s in me somewhere 😉
