Hey there, Aunty. Listen up, because there’s something I gotta say.
‘Sup Aunty?
I tend to hesitate whenever I see you or any other older brown woman in a sari or a salwar kameez slowly strolling on the sidewalk, especially in Suburbia, USA. I’m just out here for my daily run, but I’m afraid of what will pass through your mind and eventually be expressed on your face.
Even though I consciously slow down my pace, I cringe knowing that as soon as I race by, you will take one look at my crop tank and booty shorts and immediately begin judging.
As much as I want to believe that you and these other aunties are woke and would not be bewildered by the sight of a young desi woman running in, well, running clothes, my mind harkens back to my teenage years and the fears I had regarding my own mother’s judgement.
Spaghetti straps were taboo, but even sleeveless tops had my mother giving me the side-eye. The one time I managed to purchase a mini skirt with my own money from American Eagle in high school? I made sure to always pair it with leggings…even when we took a family trip to Tahoe in the middle of a Californian heat wave.
Despite having my Western fashion monitored with hawk-eye precision, I never had issue with “dressing the part” in desi environments. However, despite walking into temples in a long, baggy salwar kameez (nevermind the scorching heat…), never forgetting to wear pottu, and wearing my hair in a simple ponytail, the stares from you and other aunties never seemed to cease.
But then I grew up, and moved away from home. As I slowly re-pieced my wardrobe with things more appropriate for a twenty-something, I felt more confident in picking out more “adventurous” clothing.
It was never a shopping spree out of spite. I knew the difference between trendy and trash.
That glittery dress that happened to hit me mid-thigh but was full-sleeved? ✅
That tube top that matched well with a pair of harem pants? ✅
Those cut-off shorts paired with a thick black moto jacket (ya know, for those Californian winters 😁)? ✅
For me, it was never about showing too much…I just wanted to be able to have a choice in what to show.
Did you know I ran my fastest pace in months the day I wore this?
But I guess the constant fear of judgement by you and other women still haunts me. There have been a number of occasions where I found my fingers quick to zip up a jacket, or to pull down the hem of my shorts after sitting down, just to make sure I didn’t risk becoming a target of a staredown.
But Aunty, this is what you and your sisters need to understand:
👊🏽Wearing “Western” clothing doesn’t make you a slut.
👊🏽 In this day and age, most women wear “provocative” clothing to feel good about their bodies and themselves.
👊🏽 So what if a guy looks over? That’s his problem. Not ours.
👊🏽 And the reason he looked over? Probably because we know we are BOMB AF and not afraid to flaunt it.
When she got a PhD and ain’t afraid to look back at it 👊🏽
Be proud of the fact that the next generation of desi women are strong, fearless, financially independent, and intelligent.
And we are aware of our roots. Just so you know, wearing a sports bra in public won’t change that.
Uh-huh, life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is ‘Cause life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is
-Canadian Kween, Avril Lavigne
Back in the early 2000s, I thrived as an outgoing, bubbly third-grader, known to her peers as a funny, friendly girl with tan skin and long, straight black hair. My laugh was infectious, and I remember picking up mild sarcasm from my Dad, as well as a fascination with puns.
Needless to say, Spongebob was the man.
One of my favorite things about going to elementary school in northern California those days was the fact that seasons had their appropriate weather. On a cold, rainy day in winter 2002, we were blessed with rainy day recess. I was so excited to play “Heads Up, 7UP” or some other fun game that required the sequestering of 8-9 year olds in the same room, with no outdoor activities to distract the more “rambunctious” kiddos.
“I HAVE ARRRRIIIIVVVEEEDD!!” I remember screeching as I entered the room giddy with excitement.
I wasn’t expecting the cold look from my teacher, however, and what followed.
“Priya! That is no way to enter a room! Walk back out RIGHT now and enter appropriately!” she yelled.
I was absolutely shocked. Here I thought my vivacious demeanor would be received with laughter and warmth from my “favorite” teacher at the time. Instead, I was left feeling like a fool and ashamed for my actions.
Seriously, Mrs. K?
How dare ya, bitch.
I did exactly what I was told. I didn’t dare question why Mrs. K reacted that way. Perhaps she was having a stressful day that day, and wanted to be anywhere but in a classroom filled with loud, sugar-hyped kids. Still, no reason to take it out on a kid…don’t they teach you that when you get your teaching degree?
I wouldn’t say that it was a life-changing moment, but it made me more cautious in my interactions with others as I grew older. This was also around the time that my mom began to show signs for schizophrenia—remarking about voices telling her to do things, distancing herself from people, finding ways to blame others for occurrences that impacted her world—and even as her close family, we were not immune to the effects of her disease.
I had to quickly learn her triggers. Not bring up things to her that involved birthday party invitations or look like I sided with my Dad during arguments they had. Anything to prevent her from yelling at me for hours or sending me to “time-out”.
I wanted peace and happiness more than anything, but I quickly had to master the art of walking on eggshells.
This feeling has permeated into my social life, for sure. As I approached middle school, I hid away the “extrovert” side of my personality—wrapped thickly in a blanket and tucked away somewhere in my heart—until I could fully trust the person enough to share that side of me with them. Instead, I quickly adopted the adjectives of “quiet”, “shy”, and “introverted”, from classmates and teachers alike.
These girls were the only ones in my life who were able to see all sides of me. I could truly be myself around them. No worries about eggshells 🙂
I realized that I hated being asked questions that involved “favorites”, unless it had to do with food or color. Why did it matter what my favorite music or actor or movie or TV show was? Whatever my answer was, it was quickly responded with depreciating laughter from my peers. I didn’t want to explain, and I had no energy for it…
The easiest thing to do was say, “I don’t know”, “It always changes…”, or the classic “Hehe, pretty much everything except country! Eww, country…”
Little did they know that Shania Twain was my lady, and that country music was a part of our family’s roadtrip playlists along with Fleetwood Mac and Celine Dion 🤷🏽♀️.
As I got past high school and my college years fighting with the same issues, I naively thought things could change as I planned my leave for graduate school. Given the opportunity to live independently and have full control of my life matters, I thought that I could easily transition into being myself again and feeling comfortable in front of a more general audience. Little did I know that out in the real world, especially Los Angeles, decency towards one another was just a minor recommendation.
After living in LA for the past 5.5 years with roommates and crazy-ass landlords, as well as having to navigate how to handle the crazy personalities of the people I often came across, I learned that a) I have a very high tolerance for dealing with irascible people and b) life is too short to not surround yourself with genuine and caring people.
In my first two years living apart from family, I was graced 🙄 with the presence of quirky roommates. Oil-splayed-stove-top-messy, passive-aggressive young ladies who I’d have frequent air-conditioning wars with.
I’m sorry, but who is able to sleep comfortably in a room 80 degrees Fahrenheit?!
At the time, I wasn’t one who was quick to jump aboard the confrontation train. I tried to compromise at times, and even though we agreed to keep the room at a balmy 75, no more or no less, my roommates were not quick to adjust the thermostat when the number steadily creeped up during the unbearably hot LA summers.
So I thought I hit the jackpot when it came time for my lease renewal, and I found an “out” through a room rental in Santa Monica. Just my luck that it was in a house owned by an older couple my Dad and I nicknamed the “The Onions”, due to their wrinkly, purple-tinged skin 😬.
My close friends are bewildered by the fact that I lived there for two years…surviving on crockpot dinners that were a source of drama when I first moved in (apparently, cooked broccoli made the older man recoil in disgust, yet I didn’t say a word when they cooked smelly fish…). I was used to weird house rules like squeegee-ing the shower door immediately after use, specifically stacking my 3 cups of yogurt on the left side of the fridge, and not using the kitchen for “heavy cooking”…my mom trained me well not to be so shocked by odd-ball orders 😛.
I was given a year of reprieve when my sister and I had a chance to share an apartment in Anaheim soon after, and boy did I cry when she left for Austin. Thinking I would soon be out of SoCal anyways due to post-doc plans elsewhere and graduation, I opted for another room rental to save money.
As luck would have it, I ended up with Cruella (name obviously changed, but well-deserved…), who seemed normal—but was she? Even she seemed like an odd-ball in her texts—writing in caps, misspelling my name even though my signature and rent payments gave her a blatant clue—but I didn’t let it bother me since my rent would be lower than ever before, and I wouldn’t have to leave Orange County.
I was used to weird by now anyways. Heck, I should have gotten my PhD in “handling weird-ass people” because that became my side-job once I moved to LA, unbeknownst to me. As months went on at Cruella’s, I realized that the weirdest aspect of it all was the fact she would only communicate through text. Even if she was in the house.
Uh…come again?
Again, I didn’t think too much of it. I’d say “hi” to her if I did see her, chat with her in the kitchen if we were there at the same time, and as usual, I kept to myself to avoid any drama. Most importantly, I paid my rent on time without fail.
Damn, I’m the most perfect tenant. Landlords be lucky to have me 🙄.
But then, the most bizarre thing happened. After coming home from work one day, I came across Cruella and her small dog, said hello, and made my way into the kitchen to prep a quick salad to eat in my room, per usual. Her dog came over to sniff me, which I have no issue with because hello, #DogLover right here.
Without thinking of what was to come, I took my dinner up to my room and began to mentally unwind from my exhausting work day when my phone buzzed several times. I didn’t think much of it, until I swiped to find scathing, accusing texts from Cruella saying I had kicked her dog.
Where. was. this. craziness. coming. from.
Where was she getting this from?! My heart began to race, even though I had nothing to be guilty for. My attempts to rationalize with her and figure out why she would make such accusations were futile. To drive a blade even further into my flesh, she left a threatening audio message driven by vitriol and anger, absolutely convinced that I would do something so uncharacteristic of me.
I tried to get her to come out to talk to me, but she wouldn’t budge. What can you do when you try to rationalize with irrational?
The only other way I could think of communicating with her was via a third-party, my hugest advocate in life, my dad.
My poor dad was the recipient of verbal vitriol as well. My heart sunk when I came back into the house after calling him outside in almost tears. I could hear Cruella yelling into her phone—calling me everything from evil to a brat to conniving to mean—these were words that were not describing me, but the bitch that was her. And yet, I felt defeated.
Miraculously, things did cool down. My dad having dealt with his share of bipolar, schizophrenic, mentally-ill people in his life, was able to get her to calm down and “reconsider” kicking me out. She didn’t apologize, but she was willing to “tolerate” me until I was able to move out…
Seriously, what just happened.
For the next six weeks, I did not come across her in physical form at all. Needless to say, the whole situation was freaky, and the definition of walking on eggshells.
Oddly enough, but not surprisingly, she made her appearance again slowly weeks after the debacle had passed, acting as if nothing had happened of course. I still thought she was a psychotic bitch, but with the impending crisis of corona and my new post-doc plans still delayed, I didn’t want unnecessary drama to spark too early…
I didn’t have to worry about that though, because Cruella’s mind was churning. The coronavirus hysteria was definitely freaking out the bipolar bitch…
She began to worry, and her voices probably started talking to her again. The incessant text messages bothering me about one thing or another would not stop.
Also, what is a BATHROOM waste basket if not for things like, um, sanitary pads and I dunno, things you would use in the bathroom 🤔
The reason this message ticked me off? Because I was doing everything in my power to be a good tenant, to NOT cause drama, and most of all, to not have to deal with her psychosis. The way she assumed I don’t like to clean when ha, I’m a stickler when it comes to cleanliness and organization? I was sick and tired of her berating me and having to “put up with it”.
I had had enough, and I tried to respond to her in a professional manner which also expressed my annoyance with her:
The clap back 👏
Despite the professionalism, you can’t expect that from someone who has already exhibited signs of CRAZY. She responded with an audio message calling me all sorts of names (not worth typing out…) and a “30 day notice” to leave.
I gladly accepted. I was absolutely done with her. Couldn’t have happened at a better time.
I didn’t respond to her last comment. The immaturity threshold was beyond off the charts at this point. As much as my blood was boiling, tears were streaming, and emotional trauma stirring. I tried to let it go…I’d be with family soon enough.
It’s true when they say that trying, challenging times bring out the best and the worst in people. Unfortunately, I was a victim of the latter. These situations have made me quite wary of people in general, but at least I have mastered the art of walking on eggshells 🤔? In a way, I’m motivated now more than ever to, going forward, secure long-term financial stability to ensure I can live alone and not have to worry about clashing personalities.
Through all of this, the most important lessons I’ve learned are to be unapologetic for who I am, and that if anyone questions my integrity, you better believe my fighting side will come out.
And yours should to, because no one has the right to judge—or even worse— make false accusations about you.
I don’t have time for impatient, mean, judgemental, crazy bishes ✌🏽
If you ask me if a little over 24 hours is enough to spend in Dubai, I’d say, plenty. Especially if you’re traveling with a dad who reached his point of exhaustion before even making it to our final destination (India) and a sister sensitive to overwhelming crowds after being sleep-deprived for 14 hours…
Dubai, tryna be all impressive 😹
When it comes to artificial landscapes and hellacious weather, I’d be the first one to find a fast excuse to hightail on out of spending more time than necessary in the place of question. But given that a cousin we hadn’t seen in 13 years was living in “Brown People Vegas” with her husband and two grade-school twin kids, that was our rationale for making a Dubai Detour.
I once overheard some Europeans raving about visiting Vegas, Arizona, and Southwest USA in general because of the desert landscape—something nonexistent in the fresh countries of Europe. But if you ask me, I’d rather spend time in the artic, rainforest, or ocean before choosing the desert. I can never wrap my head around the idea of wanting to spend time being hot. I don’t care about sand dunes, if my skin is at risk of being fried, I’ll pass.
My cousin did ask us beforehand if we had any ideas of what
we’d like to do in Dubai within our short period of time visiting. She brought
up a desert safari in which we could crash into sand dunes and dine in the
desert, but my dad, knowing he was going to feel exhausted AF even before we
departed the US, shot that idea down. If India wasn’t on our agenda, I would
have been on-board with the idea, but I was hoping that she would toss in some
more ideas that were, erhmmm, less physically taxing?
We never came to a real consensus on our “itinerary”, and so
we left things up to chance when we arrived in Dubai. At least we arrived at a
decent time, around noon local time, and not at 2am, which would unfortunately
be our arrival time in India in a few short days…
My cousin’s husband, S, picked us up from the airport, outfitted in a polo shirt and cargo shorts. It was December 28th, and lo and behold, it was at least 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside 🙄. This was cold weather for Dubai, meaning that I knew I would never be able to live here and be happy!
Tried to appreciate the blue, but all I could notice was the brown tinge on almost all of these buildings 😹
S helped us load our suitcases into his car, and gave us a little “tour” on our way to the flat. The shops were lined up similar to what I’ve seen in India, but the roads were more clean, quiet, and less crowded…at least during the day. Despite all this, everything seemed to have a “tinge of brown” surrounding it. I guess that’s something you can’t escape if the city you’ve built is literally atop a desert.
So far, I wasn’t impressed. I wasn’t convinced as to why Dubai has been considered THE vacation/party/travel destination of late. What was I NOT seeing?
We soon arrived at a complex of flats where my cousin’s family lived. It reminded me of what I would see in India, except less dusty (much to my surprise). We settled in pretty quickly, and honestly, it was hard to keep my eyes open because jet-lag was hitting me hard. Good thing we didn’t plan on doing the desert safari after all…
When my cousin M arrived, my sis and I lept up and gave her a hug to make up for 13 years of lost contact 🥰. We met her kids soon after that, and after freshening up, we thought it would help our body clocks to get some steps in around the city.
I will admit, the sunset views are top-notch!
Our stop was The Dubai Mall, where my cousin said we could see a fountain show as well as go to the top of the Burj Khalifa. The mall was large no doubt, but besides some unique shops I haven’t seen in the States (oh, and the Borders that seemed to be revived from the dead lol), I wasn’t blown away.
I thought this flying (or diving?) men art piece was pretty cool…
In fact, I was exhausted by the crowds and wishing I could rest my eyes and lie down on a soft pillow…my sister was also mentally and physically checked out. She was not having it with the overzealous tourists swarming everywhere…especially at the top of level of da Burj.
Burj Khalifa
We pretty much had our own reality checks once we got to the top: it would take a substantial load of (nonexistent) energy for us to enjoy ourselves enough to be Instagram-pic level happy 😆. As much as I wanted to take in the moment and appreciate the views, I also had to be mindful of my body. My sister was on the verge of tears because of the emotional exhaustion she was feeling, and I had to be empathetic.
As much as travel is thrilling and exciting, it is depleting and tiring. That’s the truth that most people tend to brush under the rug when they return from a long vacation and are asked about how their trip was.
But I like to keep it real, and to be honest, despite the lovely views of the city from above, I was feeling like c-r-a-p.
I can now look at this picture and at least appreciate and respect the work it took to build something like this, but when I was peering through the glass at 7pm Dubai time after 14 hours of economy-class plane travel? 🤢🤢🤢
Fortunately, our cousin was very understanding of our emotional situations and we drove back home after descending from the Burj. We picked up some food court Lebanese food and shared family-style. At least the night ended well 🤷.
————————————————— 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ——————————————————-
The next day, we contemplated if we would have enough time to check out Abu Dhabi. It would have been a little over an hour in the car, and my mind toyed with the idea of how cool it would have been to check off two cities in the UAE, but there were other people to consider in my travel company ( a dad who just woke up from his first night of normal sleep in days, and my sister who was just starting to recover from her sleep deprivation)…
We played it safe, and visited another attraction that just astounded me—Dubai Miracle Garden.
Don’t get me wrong. The displays were beautiful, artistic, and a feast for the eyes, but I just could not get over the fact that—
Hold up, we’re in the middle of a freaking desert. This ain’t natural!
Dubai Miracle Garden
Hence the name miracle garden, I get that, but how is this sustainable? It just seemed to be the opposite of eco-friendly to me, and I couldn’t shake off this thought as we continued throughout the park.
Emirates, always be pluggin’ 🤣
I also couldn’t shake off the stench of fertilizer (lol), but I was distracted enough at some points to admire some pretty displays:
A gorgeous umbrella display 💕
Gorgeous hues of flowers—really appreciated this for some reason. Maybe because it was a nice source of shade 😂
Eventually, the heat got to us and we moved on. I must have been pretty beat because after grabbing a scoop of Biscoff ice cream as we left the park, I fell into a sweet nap, along with the kids! #NoShame
It felt like a long drive to our next destination, but when I woke up we were in Al Seef, which I soon fell in love with because it had that desert charm I was expecting to see throughout Dubai…at least it was located in one place here!
Hello Al Seef 👋
At the end of the day, it was just another shopping and dining area, but I felt like once I was inside, it gave off the vibe of stepping into a world of an older time. Window-shopping was a pleasant experience…
Hi Dubai, you finally showin’ me your cute side?
My inner nerd loved this display at a perfume store 😀
Dinner was a casual affair: a stop at a sub-par Italian place that served up piadinas, and a place I wouldn’t recommend visiting—especially if your stay in Dubai was as short as ours.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
I do wish we spent another day or two, when our energy levels picked up, with my cousin and her family. Leaving for India at 9pm soon after our first full day in Dubai seemed like a hasty move, but the fact that we were even able to make room for Dubai was a remarkable feat for us 😂
Would I ever choose to live in Dubai? Nah.
Would I ever come back to vacation in Dubai? Most likely no, unless someone else paid for it!
But at the top of the Burj, my Dad shared his thoughts on how Dubai is probably the prime entertainment and recreation destination for many South Asians and Middle Easterners…probably the farthest one would venture “out west” in a lifetime!
So at least it’s there for someone—it’s just not my cup of tea 🤷
Have you ever visited Dubai? What was your experience like?
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 😉
When LA Ink first aired in 2007, I was in high school. It ended up being a show I found while discreetly channel surfing and landing on TLC. I used to watch TV upstairs in my parents’ room, with my thumb hovering over the ‘recall’ button just in case I had to switch back to kid-friendly Nickelodeon or Disney Channel if my mom came charging up the stairs without warning 😂.
Oh, good times.
But LA Ink wasn’t a “bad show”. I’ve always been interested in the biography/memoir/documentary genre, and this reality show based on the lives of tattoo artists in LA was right up my alley. It followed famous tattoo artist (and vegan badass 😍) Kat Von D, owner of LA Ink, and her team as they designed and inked the denizens of So Cal and beyond…
With dinner on my lap, it made for good entertainment.
What intrigued me the most was how “normal” many of her clients were. Sure, there were the stereotypical biker guys and tattoo buffs, but most of the people featured on the show were people with everyday lives—hoping to mark their skin with art commemorating a loved one or memory. For some of them, it was their first tattoo!
Since then, I pondered over the idea of getting a tattoo myself, but I was never one to be carried away by random pretty art—I wanted my tattoo to have meaning.
For a while, I was thinking maybe an ankle tattoo with the initials of my friends—because I couldn’t think of anything better 😂 but as I got older, my personal experiences eventually shaped a “better” tattoo idea. Eventually, I came up with a simple, yet elegant design in my head that encapsulated my heritage with my personal story: a blooming lotus.
Freshly inked in late January—no regrets 🖤
My best friend is a graphic designer, and as soon as I told her, mid-2019 or so, that this was my tattoo and I was set on getting it eventually, she drew up a sketch that I could use as a reference for my future tattoo artist.
When she posted it on her Insta, I was all 😍. Check out her work, by the way!
I was growing more confident with the idea of getting this tattoo, and thought it would be so badass 😂 to have it placed on my forearm 😎. As for the size, I wasn’t sure how big to go, although looking back now, I think I would have been fine with bigger size (but I don’t regret my current tattoo at all!).
Because I am a daddy’s girl (I literally call him everyday to chat), I ran my thought process by him to see how he’d react. When I first told him, there were a few seconds of silence before he said, “okay…”. He’s not the kind of person to force anyone to do/not do something, but I could tell he wasn’t really for or against it…I hate it when he has that stance 😂. For him, he just wasn’t used to the concept…even though tattoos have been a part of Indian culture for centuries 🤔.
I thought it over for a few more months, and I guess it was something I truly wanted, because I caught myself gazing at my forearm a number of times imaging something there…
But I wasn’t going to settle on any ol’ artist. At first, I stumbled upon Captured Tattoo in Tustin, CA, which was close to home and run by a former staff artist at LA Ink. I wasn’t too quick to jump into the seat though, as I wasn’t fully convinced that that was my shop.
I am convinced that big brother is monitoring me through social media (LOL) because as I was scrolling through my feed one day, Johnny Dagger’s profile popped up:
Johnny’s work—I highly recommend having him tattoo you!
My eyes were at attention immediately. I loved how simple and sharp his designs looked, and I was even more elated that he was in West Hollywood taking appointments at the beginning of the year.
So began my 2020…with a fresh tattoo…
My appointment with Johnny was on a Saturday afternoon in late January. I didn’t feel like driving ALL the way up from the OC, so I opted to take the train to Union Station and then take a Lyft from there to WeHo. The guy who dropped me off asked me what the building was when we arrived and I was like, “Oh, a tattoo shop”, after which he wished I stay safe 😂.
But Johnny’s studio is in a nice part of WeHo that I used to pass through a couple times when I lived in LA. I remember having dinner with my sis and her BF once at a nearby vegan restaurant, and since we were parked on hilly Sunset Blvd, we were gifted with some gorgeous sunset views after dinner!
But, I digress…my appointment was around 2pm, and after meeting Johnny, I showed him my friend’s design for my blooming lotus tattoo. He made some suggestions to make the design “tattoo-friendly” and then he got to work prepping his space. This consultation/prep time took about an hour in total.
I wasn’t too nervous going in—I was hyped up by my friends since I was messaging them before it was time to get inked! Things got real when my forearm was shaved, disinfected, and placed with a pattern of the design. I was all-in at this point and ready to go…and honestly?
I can only describe the feeling as “getting a blood draw but WAY less intense“. I mean, it really wasn’t painful at all! Of course, I tried to find anecdotes online about others’ tattoo experiences, and everyone had a differing opinion, so ultimately I just had to try it for myself.
And obviously, no regrets had by me:
It looks so much sharper in B&W
After he was done, Johnny applied some water-proof adhesive over the tattoo to protect it from the elements (lol). Aftercare was pretty simple: I could apply lotion on it if the area was itchy, otherwise just have it protected from sunlight and I could peel it off in 4 days!
This tattoo cost me $200, which is a very fair price given the size, quality, and the fact that Johnny uses vegan ink (Panthera, I believe is the brand name).
I was a little bummed that the weather wasn’t warm enough for me to flaunt my new ink right away, but that at least guaranteed some protection. After 4 days, I was ready to peel—but not before I noticed weeping!
Tattoo weeping: a normal part of the healing process
I’m glad I read about this phenomeon before, otherwise I probably would have freaked out lol. It’s basically the new, fresh tattoo leaking plasma, no biggie 😂.
Right after I peeled off the adhesive, I regretted that I did not have lotion on hand because the area started to ITCH.
I started to see splotchy red spots right away!
I did not dare to touch the area, even though I felt like clawing off my skin. It’s an absolute test when it comes to resisting an itch!
Fortunately, the urgency of the itchiness dies down after a couple minutes (or I was distracted enough at work that I forgot about it). When I got home, I put some fragrance-free lotion on it right way, and since then, the tattoo has made itself cozy on my inner-forearm 🖤.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
You can say I’ve been bitten by the bug, because I’d love to get another tattoo (or multiple…) in the future, if there is meaning, I like the artist, and the timing is right. After my appointment, I spoke with my Dad and sent him pics as well, after which he semi-joked about not getting anymore tattoos…well, not too sure about that 😏.
I don’t want to credit my tattoo with giving me self-confidence, but it has definitely boosted it. I love having my arm exposed and casually going about my day, with people stopping to remind me that I even have a tattoo when they give a compliment.
Not too mention, I feel like a freakin’ badass not to be messed with 😎!
I feel like every woman should get a tattoo—what better way to feel empowered and on top of your world?
How do you feel about tattoos? Would you get one? Do you have one, or two, or multiple?
