second gen desi experience – Page 7 – ⋆ Second Gen Desi ⋆

Pree August 13, 2021 Milan, Italy

Comfort in English

Reading Time: 7 minutes

Once again, I’ve retreated to the tongue that gives me comfort—English.

Despite years of back-and-forth with my parents trying to practice Tamil.

Despite taking four years of German in high school, and letting an intermediate level college class my freshman year intimidate me from going further.

Despite being enamored by the idea of an adventurous life abroad—first being swayed by Spanish but then pushed towards the direction of Italian, due to available job opportunities in my career field.

But it’s not like I’m monolingual either.

Give me a few minutes, but I can piece letters of the Tamil alphabet together. I remember the phonetics–a, aa, e, ee–and eventually my brain puts two-and-two together.

But are my relatives patient enough for me to spit out the syllables?

In German class, I reveled in the moments Herr L. gave me a 100% on the oral parts of our German exams, or when he awarded me the top German student award my sophomore year of high school.

Did I really let a cold, middle-aged teacher’s assistant get in the way of furthering my Deutsch?

And in graduate school, I thought I wouldn’t ever want to leave LA. But then I experienced a short solo trip abroad, and it led me to daydreaming about a new life chapter in Southern Europe. I took weekend Italian classes for fun. Got my former boss to approve my taking of an introductory Italian course at the university I was working at as a freshly-minted PhD, since I was applying for a post-doc research position abroad. Just when I thought I was doing the right amount of preparation, mixed with a healthy blend of enthusiasm…

COVID-19 hit. Along with other obstacles I wasn’t expecting—little by little, my enthusiasm and motivation for learning a language I thought I would be ready for—Italian—was fading away by the minute.

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————

I’ve met expats here in Italy who say if they could have changed one thing about preparing for their life abroad in Italy, it would have been to learn the language before arriving. But I have to ask, how much is enough? My casual approach with and exposure to Italian began in December 2018, followed by a summer break, and then a university-tailored introductory semester course in Fall 2019. Even with all of that I didn’t feel prepared, but I did feel motivated. I remember telling my Italian teacher at the end of my “mid-term exam” that I would be moving to Milan in February 2020, and he quipped that I had enough of a foundation to build on. That I was all-set for a really exciting time.

Was what I knew really enough for late summer nights in the heart of Milan?

Needless to say, the dire situation Italy was in during spring 2020 left me troubled and crushed. How could I stay motivated with what was going on in the world? With no end in sight, how could I be so sure I would be moving to Italy at all?

So, I took a break from Italian, that is until things seemed to reshift back into balance. When I finally arrived in Milan late June 2020, I had a quarantine to get through. This allowed me to “stall” in regards to communicating with others, as I was nervous about how much I could get by with, with the little Italian I thought I knew.

My new work colleagues appreciated that I was learning, but they were quick to “assure” me that I would learn Italian as time passed. Not to worry, you can get by with English for now.

But this attitude only left me frustrated, because I was genuinely trying to be vulnerable. I wanted to meet someone who would force me to only communicate in Italian, but everyone seemed too impatient for that.

I soon grew tired of my “switch-to-English” giveaways. My Bank of America credit card. My United States passport. Upon seeing these clues, the baristas, the delivery guys, the grocery store clerks, and the government workers wouldn’t give me a chance to try.

It just felt like I was always getting shut down.

As I continued into summer 2020, I did my best not to give up. I signed up for a premium subscription to a language learning app called Busuu, since it seemed to offer language level tests (that A/B/C system) and certificates to prove your language level. Supposedly, the app even adjusted the predicted time you would reach a certain level (i.e. B2) based on your progress, however I never noticed any changes despite my daily log-ins and obsessiveness to meet the daily time goals. I was able to reason with myself and decide that I would keep my language learning as a solitary activity for the time being, and put things into practice with people as time went on.

Language exchanges for international women seemed like a wonderful opportunity to socialize and practice speaking Italian, in theory…

The chance to practice with others did present itself as short-lived language exchanges. I was able to attend these events on a weekly basis from September through end of October 2020, and even though the idea of participating in a language exchange seemed perfect, what usually ended up happening was that the native English speakers helped the native Italian speakers more than the other way around…

What it really ended up being was an excuse for late evening aperitivo (and dinner for me!) at “trendy” places like the Duomo or Piazza Gae Aulenti.

I was the girl who had to settle for a frappucino at 7pm, because I wanted a drink like all the other girls in attendance, but just not one with alcohol!

But even with a language app and in-person language exchanges, I quickly realized that being in Italy, why wasn’t I taking the opportunity to pursue private lessons with a native speaker? So I met with a girl who was in the same Whatsapp group for international women in the city that I was in. She was a native speaker, and even though she studied languages in college and seemed to be “fascinated by world cultures”, she was anything BUT a patient teacher.

I started my lessons with her, twice a week, at the end of September 2020. I would leave from work on Tuesdays and Thursdays, exhausted as could be, and somehow found my way to her tiny apartment in Lambrate, only to be scolded constantly about everything I was saying wrong.

By our 8th class, I was fed up with her attitude. She knew fully well what my background was—a foreigner with basic Italian, looking to improve her conversational skills. Yet this girl could not hold back on her attitude, telling me I needed to study and memorize as if I was taking lessons from her for an upcoming exam.

Missy. I came to Italy for what I thought would be an enriching experience. Not to be repirmanded by a impaziente brat like you.

I took to Instagram to “clap back” at her so to speak, and I was met with numerous comments in support of my situation, with commenters agreeing that this so-called “tutor” had no right to act the way she did. That teachers—especially foreign language teachers—should show kindness, patience, and empathy.

A fellow expat helped me connect with M., a British woman who spoke fluent Italian. I thought perhaps taking lessons with someone who could understand my background better was worth a shot. And given that COVID lockdowns were reinstated in late October 2020, our bi-weekly Skype sessions were appropriate with the new mandates.

M knew that my weakest link was with speaking. A couple of lessons in, we would devote the first half hour of lessons to just having a conversation, which I appreciated at first, but then found mentally draining.

Going into 2021, I was feeling extremely exhausted. Extremely depressed. There were other factors in my life that were taking precedence, and trying to hold onto Italian lessons when I felt like my foundation was crumbling was unbearable.

Those short-lived moments of September-October 2020 seemed like a distant memory once 2021 hit…

I remember not signing into a Saturday morning class at the end of March 2021. I was feeling frustrated and angered by the events that had played out by the end of that work week. I couldn’t shake away the emotional turmoil I was feeling.

M. had called wondering why I hadn’t signed in for class that morning, and I felt bad for not giving her enough notice, knowing that she was taking time out of her day too. But I had to be honest with myself, and I left her an audio message with uncontrollable sobs that intercalated with my shaky words.

I wasn’t sure if this was worth it. If I could stick it out here. And if I couldn’t…what was the point of learning this language?

She was kind in her response, and empathized with my situation with sincerity. She knew my desire to address some major factors in my life, and understood that in order for me to do that, lessons would have to take a backseat.

Once I acknowledged that I needed this hiatus in order to tackle the issues that seemed to be clouding my life, I felt okay. Italian would certainly be more fun to learn once I was in a better state physically, mentally, and emotionally.

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————

My goals have changed since that first Italian class in December 2018. Life’s twists and turns brought me to Italy, but the experiences that followed have tested my patience, my strength, my confidence, and most importantly, my humility.

It depends on the situation, but I have accepted that there are times I need to be kind to myself on this journey. If I need to recruit a native speaker to help me with governmental paperwork, I don’t feel guilty if they end up making numerous phone calls on behalf of me, but I still do get frustrated if someone cuts to English with me if I feel like I’m doing okay.

I’m still waiting on a lot of things. Opportunities that will perhaps push me to practice Italian more. Situations that present themselves as worth learning Italian for. But until that happens, I’ve allowed myself to “take a break” from actively learning Italian, even as I continue to live and work here.

And for those that doubt my language learning journey or question my why, I must say this: there is nothing wrong in retreating to the language that gives you the words to express the deepest feelings in your soul. There is nothing wrong in seeking comfort in the language that gives you your voice, while trying to understand your purpose in a new world.

Pree February 5, 2021 Stockholm, Sweden

Remembering Malmö and Copenhagen

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Before the COVID crisis took over, I took the privilege of travel for granted. Looking back, I was lucky to have opportunites to travel both domestically (within the US) and internationally, solo or with family.

Since moving to Italy, I have yet to go beyond Lombardia’s borders. Even within Lombardia, I’ve only really “visited” Milan and Como.

And coming from LA, it didn’t take too long to master these cities 😉

As much as my solo trip to Sweden in the summer of 2019 was indeed lonely, I am still awestruck by the fact that I completed a 10-day trip-for-one, despite the many moments of ennui I experienced.

My trip started in Stockholm, followed by stops in Gothenburg, Malmo, and Copenhagen. Although the latter of the cities is technically in Denmark, it happened to be my most favorite part of the trip.

I documented my Swedish & Copenhagen adventures on a former blog before I decided to close it down for Second Gen Desi. But with COVID still around and with it still influencing our current travel policies, I decided to dig through my archives and find my old travel posts so that I could try to relive the memories.

Since I was unable to copy over the text, we’ll have to settle for these screenshots, and you’ll have to forgive me for the small, poor photo quality 😅.

Still, I’m glad I took the time to type out a recap of my trip, even if it was three months after I returned 😅😅.

Hard to believe there was a time of crowds and flurry at the peak of summer. I can only imagine what Italy was like in the summer of 2019, and I wonder if we can ever get back to that type of traveling lifestyle ever again…

As for Sweden, I don’t have much of a desire to return for leisure, but I have heard amazing things about Norway and Finland…but to be honest, I’d be happy just to make it out of Lombardia for my travel plans this year 😉

Pree October 30, 2020 Milan, Italy

Benvenuti a Milano

Reading Time: 10 minutes

Relatively speaking, living in Italy was on my radar much later, and more recently in my life.

When I began my PhD in August 2014, working abroad for my post-doc never came across my mind. I was too infatuated with Los Angeles, and pre-occupied with my obsession with nutrition, partially influenced by my controlling eating disorder.

But as the years slowly inched forward, I found myself on a healthier path, finally coming to terms with my body and oh, so troubled mind. With more fuel for my brain, I was able to focus on different aspects of life, and go beyond my tunnel vision of calories and nutrients.

As I made more wholesome relationships, began to network, attend conferences, and travel on my own, I realized I had a desire to grow beyond what I had cultivated in Los Angeles. I grew tired of the city, and as friends began to graduate and leave for other places, I grew tired of the people as well. I was aching for a change, and it was throbbing deep within my soul.

At first, Spain was on my mind as a potential location for “my next chapter”. When I came back from my first international trip/business trip/solo trip (3-in-1 😂) to Barcelona in September 2017, the next several months were full of daydreams that occupied my mind during my commute to work.

After getting a taste of what could be, I was eager to find a way back, even if I had to wait at least two more years to finish my PhD!

I downloaded Duolingo, and started “learning” Spanish. I found several post-doc fellowships to keep in mind of, and I had a folder where I kept all of their links in my Chrome browser.

As work began to pile up in my current position—especially as I entered into my fourth year—I put my Spanish daydreaming on hold. I was determined to make it happen, but I obviously had a PhD to complete first! Somewhere amidst the chaos, I realized that the only “decent” post-doc fellowship for a non-Spanish/non-EU citizen was in it’s last year—in 2018. I knew that it wouldn’t work out after all, but I was still eager to make it to Europe.

As if on cue, Italy popped up. A random Google search one day led me to a page for a fellowship program that offered funding to non-Italians for 3 years to do cancer research.

As one thing led to another, I found the perfect primary investigator (PI) to support my application. We began exchanging emails in March 2019, submitted my application in June 2019—a few weeks before my thesis defense actually 😉—and received the good news in November 2019.

When I realized Italy was happening, I was beyond ecstatic. I would become not only an Italian, but a Milanese.

And it was going to happen in late February 2020…until it didn’t.

As we all know, COVID happened. It allowed me to spend quality time with family, but the circumstances in Italy seemed dark and hopeless. I’d refresh the Worldometer stats each day to see if there would be a drop in cases, but every day of April 2020 just brought upon more and more anxiety.

I was honestly beginning to lose hope. I thought of back-up plans, and took a break from learning Italian. If I wasn’t so sure I was going anymore, what was the point?

But things finally took a positive turn at the end of May 2020. I was receiving emails again, got the greenlight to return to LA to process my visa, the go-ahead to book my tickets and temporary apartment, and finally allowed to comfortably imagine what my new life would be like…

…beautiful buildings at every turn, friendly colleagues, warm Italians who spoke not one word of English and who would delight in my attempts to learn the language, making new friends, frequenting fancy aperitivi, dating for the first time…

And this new life began on June 23, 2020.

Seeing Milan for the first time, up in the air…

And my first impressions of the city were…wow, everything feels much smaller, and not as grand as I was thinking…

The most bizzare part was not going through a passport/visa check. My flight path was Los Angeles ➙ Paris ➙ Milan, and there was some paperwork I had to fill out between LA and Paris, but the fact that nothing was checked was very weird…especially during the age of COVID.

Still, I followed everyone out, hauled my three hefty pieces of luggage + my carry-ons to where I met a family acquaintance. My cousin’s husband (the folks we met in Dubai) connected me with one of his work contacts who lived in Milan, and she thoughtfully offered to help me get into the city and get some groceries for me since I had to complete a two-week quarantine upon arrival.

My temporary stay was in an Airbnb that I thought was affordable and a decent distance away from work—but there were definitely drawbacks. The small space in the not-so-gorgeous neighborhood of Cimiano did not help emphasize the idea that Milan was a gorgeous, fashionable European city…

When someone asks what you need for 2 weeks, it can be tough to answer. For me at least, since I only buy a few things at a time…but I was asked to give a list of everything I needed, so my mind went to the basics—milk, cheese, eggs, bread, fruit, veggies, pasta. Needless to say, my diet was very well-rounded in those 14 days

But I had to get used to these “cozy” accommodations because it was my abode for, at least, 14 long, isolating days. I got used to sleeping in late (10/11am for me!!), running in place to get my exercise in, having breakfast and lunch around noon, taking a nap in the afternoon (man, I miss those naps now…), and trying to keep myself occupied (and sane) until night.

Fresh fruit with a view (?) – I rarely go for oranges or grapes, so you know I did not get to picky with that quarantine shopping list 😅

Surprisingly, those two weeks did go by pretty quickly looking back.

The first thing I did to ease myself out of my quarantine was get used to the local park settings. Parco Lambro was only a mile away, and it has since become my go-to place for my weekday morning runs.

It was here that I met my first friends in Milan—the good ol’ topi muschiati

The muskrats of Parco Lambro. Doesn’t it look like a mother eggplant and a baby kiwi? 😂

As my end-of-quarantine day neared, so did my groceries. I was still a bit hesitant about going out grocery shopping in an Italian grocery store for the first time, but I put on my mask and walked 30 minutes to a supermarket when there was one about 10 minutes away from where I was staying 🤣

I was supposed to stay at my current residence until the end of July, but due to my Airbnb “host” not being cooperative with certain pieces of paperwork required for my Permesso di Soggiorno, I had to quickly find another residence.

The back and forth with Airbnb regarding this issue was an absolute nightmare, and honestly worthy of it’s own blog post. Doubt I would ever find the time and energy to rehash that experience here on the blog, but that experience alone has made me look to support other home-stay companies in the future…

Luckily, I did find another place in a timely manner, and my boss even helped me move—which was shocking to me, only because I’ve never had a boss who helped me with things in my life outside of work 😂.

As I settled into my second residence, I also began work soon after. It felt weird to work in the lab again after many months working remotely, but a new environment, new colleagues, and a new project was what I needed to feel productive again.

And knowing I had the following weekend to explore without quarantine restrictions was a sweet thing to look forward to.

I didn’t venture out too far during my first weekend of freedom. I stayed within the vicinity of the northeast corner of the city, with my main goal for the day being to order an authentic Italian cappuccino in Italian.

And I was successful, but I was too shy to ask for some dolci along with it. Let alone zucchero. But evern without the sweetness, I was happy with my warm cuppa from UpCycle Milano:

The end of my quarantine however also coincided with the start of unbearably hot summer temperatures. I ended up walking from the cafe, which was in the Citta Studi neighborhood, to only a few blocks south before turning around.

Politecnico di Milano was my turn-around point

So I didn’t trek through much in that first weekend, but I was able to plan for the next weekend properly. I pretty much explored “most” of Milan within this weekend, as I made it a point to get out of the apartment and check out as many neighborhoods as I can, even if I was feeling a little lonesome and homesick.

At Parco Sempione, I was able to meet up with a fellow runner for a hot evening run.

We haven’t met since, but it was a nice excuse to get some miles in in a new place.

From there, I fell in love with Brera, probably my most favorite area of Milan.

If I could find an affordable place in Brera…wow, sign me up!

Now this was what I was thinking ALL of Milan would look like 😂.

A stroll through this beautiful neighborhood eventually led me to the cuore of the city, the Duomo:

Funny how even in the middle of July, the “crowds” were not much!

Oh, and the galleria next to the Duomo made me speechless…

So this made for an eventful Saturday (evening), yet I wanted to do some more exploring on Sunday.

Stumbling upon Piazza Duca d’Aosta during my stroll on Sunday

I was met with unsurprisingly empty streets. Since I had arrived in the peak of summer, when people were weary and relieved from the passing of the first COVID wave, I expected that many Milanese would leave the city for the countryside. I wanted to appreciate the fact that the city was all mine, but I was definitely having a huge case of FOMO.

A perfect example of “New vs. Old” in the city

But I did stumble upon more people as I neared Piazza Gae Aulenti, one of my favorites in Milan because it’s next to the “plant buildings”, or more officially known as Bosco Verticale.

The perfect place to be in the summertime.

I spent a good hour here walking up and down the paths, watching people passing by and sunbathers on the many lawns scattered about. There was something about all the lush greenery that made me feel okay with slowing down and not “rushing to get to the next place”.

After spending a while among the fresh greenery, I made my way to Porta Venezia. In an attempt to find ways to socialize and meet people outside of work—and after 14 days of isolation—I scheduled a spot in a walking tour. How pathetically touristy of me 😉.

Since it was a HOT Sunday afternoon, it was just me, a volunteer walking tour guide (a sweet woman) and another expat who was actually from Japan and Germany!

The three of us managed to spend two hours together, though I had silently hoped it would only be one…my feet were killing me at this point, and I suppose it was the fact I did too much walking before the actual tour 🙈.

The buildings were pretty and I agree, the architecture was gorgeous, but the heat, my feet, and FOMO were getting to me again. I couldn’t concentrate on the walking tour guide’s voice because I was too pre-occupied with the idea that I felt like the same ol’ girl that left LA—wandering aimlessly through city streets all alone, unsure of if she’d find groups of people to actually have fun with, or even just a decent boyfriend to spend her days with.

This going out to do solo stuff was getting tiring, but I felt guilty for having these thoughts because I had just moved to a whole new country! Why couldn’t I just take a deep breath and appreciate it more?

Some of that gorgeous architecture in Porta Venezia

When the walking tour was over, I made my way back home. Of course I stopped for gelato along the way, I at least deserved that 😂.

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

It’s been about 4 months since moving to Milan, and it has been a surreal experience, to say the least. To think that earlier in the year, things seemed dire and impossible, to now, where I am writing blog posts in the comfort of my monolocale in the northeast corner of the city…it’s unfathomable. And despite the eeriness of COVID that still looms above us, I have to be grateful that given the situation, life has been good. I’ve had my ups and downs (and towards the latter half of my current stay, I’ve been battling what feels like more down days than I would like), but I try to be thankful because I eventually did make it to Italy, and I have a chance to create a life of my own choosing.

I’ve realized that Milan is definitely not my city, nor is it the la città più bella in all of Italia, but I can’t complain about it’s comfortably small size and excellent safety (especially when compared to Los Angeles). Overall the people are nicer than in LA, but they certainly lack the pazienza I wish they had when it comes to my current struggle with learning Italian. I can see why it’s not much of a destination for tourists, but it is a cozy place to call home.

We’ll see where this city takes me…hopefully it will have some more good things to offer me in the future ✨

Pree September 25, 2020 Los Angeles

An ABCD with an ED

Reading Time: 5 minutes

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.

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 🧡

Pree September 4, 2020 Berkeley, California

CommUNITY

Reading Time: 8 minutes

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.

Remember, I was quite the exuberant third-grader 😉 .

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:

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…
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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 💜