if all else fails, there's always Dunkin

Patrick's 21st birthday marked his entry into the legal world of substance abuse, as well as the end of ogling at the free wine served at Law School events. Always in want (in need) of an excuse to party, we decided to celebrate with extravagance, style, and glamor, especially since his birthday also happened to fall on the First Weekend of the Spring Semester, the Last First Weekend of our college career, and the one year anniversary of Obama's presidency. We were going to go to the Boom Boom Room, an exclusive lounge that proudly boasted the high cost of its drinks, which supposedly made people "forget that recession even exists." Since we were all well aware of recession's presence in our lives (the extra $0.25 on the Subway fare forced us to curtail Pinkberry consumption), we decided to refrain from buying anything at Boom Boom Room. We were going to go there and sit on a comfy couch, where we could watch people spend money, and simply feel elite.

Though I had called in advance to confirm with an arbitrary British man that reservations were not required, Patrick and I found ourselves waiting in the harsh cold, watching tall Swedish women and men with jewelry walk in. The British man on the phone had been right--reservations were not required; Boom Boom Room operated by invitation only. We then invited ourselves to the bar across the block, so we could pee.

By that point we had met up with some of our other friends, who had only ventured into the meatpacking district because we had promised them a Red Carpet night. Everyone was cold, hungry, and underage. People dispersed--some went to a generic Irish pub, others went back to Fordham, and Patrick, Bianca, and I went to a lounge called "Honey." There were about 5 people inside. We sat down, looked at the menu, were once again cognizant of the financial crisis, and walked out.

We were on the verge of surrendering, completely disheartened and embittered by the gloating wind and the high end, celebrity life that seemed so out of reach. We walked to the end of the block, tired, cold, and ready to hail a cab back to Fordham. We passed by a Dunkin Donuts, and we all intuitively slowed down. I was staring at the empty room, glowing pink and orange, eliciting the fragrance of artificial sweetness and happiness and home. "I mean, they will probably give us free munchkins because it is so late. They are going to throw out stuff before they close, anyways." This Dunkin was 24/7.

The man behind the counter was brown, from some place on the Indian subcontinent. Partly due to evolution, to a biological development, and partly due to observing my aunt in Indian markets, I was immediately consumed by a desire to fight for cheaper hash browns. I glanced over at Bianca, who seemed to have acquired the same aggressive instinct. She told him she was from Delhi; I told him I had only $1 (I had just withdrawn $60). As expected, he immediately fought back, showing us the computer in which he had to punch in the prices, telling us he was limited by Corporate, and simply refusing to listen to reason. It came out to $2.81 for 2 orders, but he "threw in" a few extra fritters, so that the three of us would be satisfied.

Some random white guy walked in and decided to carry out a prolonged conversation with us, though we were to hungry to respond. While Bianca and Patrick humored him, I started talking to the Dunkin Donuts man. As with all Dunkin Donuts men, he was in a state of shock upon discovering I was Indian. He argued with me, telling me I was only half. When I managed to convince him I was Indian, that I was Gujarati, that I was barely conversational in Hindi, the instinct to fight faded from his face. He went to the back and brought out three muffins for us, each warm and toasted.

He asked me if we would sit and eat. I immediately obliged, and we all sat down to feast upon Dunkin. He came over to us and began speaking in Hindi; I understood everything he would say, but Bianca was the only one able to respond. Patrick continued eating his muffins.

The man was from Bangladesh; his entire family was still in Bangladesh. He was so proud of us for going to college; his job didn't pay enough. It was cold in America, and he was alone. He was surprised that we didn't live with our parents. He didn't understand why I couldn't respond fluently in Hindi. He laughed at us. We responded, between mouthfuls, with unsure smiles. He spoke as if he hadn't spoken in months. Soon the table was scattered with muffin wrappers and hash brown containers, and drunk people started coming in to satisfy their munchies. "Wait, wait, please wait. I will be back." He ran off to take people's orders, and then came back to us with three hot chocolates.

He stared at Patrick, who quickly got over his disbelief and shock to start drinking the hot drink. He asked us, in Hindi, from where we picked up "this one." We laughed and explained that it was his 21st birthday, that he is a close friend of ours, that he isn't a random boy from the street. I had the fleeting inclination to assert that his being white doesn't, and shouldn't, necessarily mean that he is nothing more than a stranger; but when I looked over at Patrick, at the way in which he seemed to be nothing more than a hungry deaf-mute, I knew that I was connected to the Dunkin Donuts man in a way I could never be connected to Patrick.

As we considered leaving for home, he told us to wait once again. He came back with hot sticky buns. "I work Friday, Saturday, Sunday. You visit me Sunday nights." We agreed. We finally got our invitation. It wasn't the Boom Boom Room, but it was something much sweeter. We bid him farewell, and held onto each other as we stepped out into the black night. The streets had emptied, the winds had softened, and there was a noisy silence that followed us to McMahon Hall.

Our room was littered with clothes and shoes, as we had been unsure how to dress to impress the celebrities at the lounge, and started off the night by violently ravaging our closets in search for something we knew we didn't own. Exhausted and crashing from a sugar high, we collapsed onto our beds, amid short dresses and sparkly vests and cheap make up, and immediately fell asleep, as the celebration officially came to a close.

we're just numbers

I may soon be deported. Well, maybe not soon, because I am not yet done with my senior thesis, but definitely by midterms next semester. Hopefully, the State Department will ship me off via Jet Airways, because they have a wide range of movies and complimentary drinks.

Since I have rarely been carded after turning 21 (though still retain the face of a pre-teen), I have not been constantly looking at my license. It expired the last day of 2009, and I did not notice till the beginning of this week. Scared of local government agencies, I asked my mother to come with me to the DMV in Oakland, and we headed over there before she went to work. Everyone in Oakland was friendly. They smiled as they called me over. They smiled as they took my documents. And they smiled as they rejected me.

Apparently the name on my passport ("Rucha Desai") differs from the name on my expired license ("Rucha A. Desai"); my Social Security card wasn't much help, because it not only read "Rucha Abhay Desai," but also declared me as an immigrant, not valid for employment. They needed all the documents to read the same thing. And they wouldn't base a name change off of a passport; they wanted my naturalization papers.

My old passport claims my name to be "Rucha Abhay Desai." I figured that 3 years ago, when I was applying for my new passport, which excludes my middle name, I was in that phase of trying to find myself, define myself, discover myself, or some other psycho-therapeutic process described in an old volume of O. I guess I wasn't sure with what name I identified myself, and needed to explore the depths of my soul on a government document.


The U.S. government is not so sympathetic to soul-searching. I went back the second day, without my naturalization papers, but with my old passport, in hopes that they would see reason, or at least understand the mid-teen crisis that led to my name change. They rejected me once again, this time without smiles. It was my naturalization papers or nothing.

Funny thing is, it is nothing. My sister was born in the United States. My parents have naturalization certificates. I still have my green card, and a Social Security card that portrays me as an illegal immigrant.

Apparently, when my parents applied for naturalization, I was too young to "elect" citizenship, (yet old enough to rediscover myself) and so they presented various other documents to prove their relation to me in order to get me naturalized. Thus, I don't have these papers. I'm just piggy backing off of their citizenship.

When I was waiting to update my Social Security card, at the Social Security Office in Glen Rock, I found myself among old women, Italian American mobsters, and families. Everyone had a number. No one had a name. The woman talking to her daughter in Russian was a only a few digits different from the man talking to his friend about the Yankees game. The security guard flipping through the Sears catalogue was as anonymous to the U.S. Government as I was. My endeavors to re-identify myself, re-discover myself, surrendered to 8 powerful digits arbitrarily assigned to me years ago. I wasn't human. I was 123-45-678, and even that was compromised by a discrepancy between names.

In order to finish some paperwork and life-altering chores at the DMV, I will not return to Fordham till Tuesday night. The only problem is, I seem to have misplaced my student ID.

discounts or good grades? what the asian really wants

New Jersey just legalized the use of medical marijuana. Malaysia overturned a ban on the use of "Allah" in non-Islamic settings. President Obama has ordered a surge of troops into Afghanistan for next month. Controversial decisions are being made everyday, decisions affecting the hundreds of thousands of lives. My parents are currently torn between making my sister watch Avatar for free or allowing her to study for midterms.

Last Sunday, my sister got another lecture, which evolved into a full-on WWF match culminating in everyone giving everyone the silent treatment for two days. My parents yelled at her about studying, and she yelled back about how she does study and they just don't notice. Then, my mother got emotional because she is a working mom and couldn't always be there to notice us studying. And then, since my father couldn't hear everything my sister was saying and thought she was ignoring them, he banned her from watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians. Reality TV always manages to make its way into family discussions.

After a few episodes of Family Guy and some vanilla ice cream inevitably shattered the angry silence of the household, we returned to our normal routines. I wrote my senior thesis and stalked people I didn't care about on Facebook. My sister went to school and wore cute outfits. My father looked for lost documents and ate dark chocolate. My mother studied for her SAP certification and yelled at me to wear socks.

Every Tuesday, the mundane, the ordinary, the expected surrender to the exciting, the new, the mysterious. Optimum awards my parents with two free movie tickets every week, with all other tickets at half-price. My parents have gone to see their free film in blizzards, hailstorms, and even went during the Nor'Easter. If one or both of them cannot go, they make sure that someone can. It is a societal loss to pass up on a free movie, and my parents have made it a moral responsibility to ensure that someone in the world takes advantage of the Optimum deal.

Unfortunately, my parents will not be seeing any movie tomorrow. Though my sister had already politely declined to watch Avatar tomorrow, on account of her history exam, my father bought tickets in advance, as the free seats on Tuesdays tend to fill up with the other wild, fiscally conservative movie-goers. When my sister saw the tickets on the dining table, she ran into the family room, where my mom and I were commenting on Jessica Alba's hot bod in Blue Crush, and where my father was sending out emails.

"Guys, I told you not to buy Avatar tickets!" She sounded exasperated. My father looked dumbfounded. She sighed, and explained that she had too much work. My parents exchanged blank looks. It was incomprehensible that anyone would want to give up this social good, whose main function was to spread happiness and goodwill among the community.

"Why can't you just finish your work early?" My sister was so confused she was almost in tears. She just didn't know what they expected from her. Instead of being pleased that their daughter actually listened to their tirade on Sunday, and was sacrificing free fun for homework, my parents were disappointed in her distorted priorities.

However, once my sister tried to defend herself, (and clarify whatever incomprehension and confusion caused) my parents understood the dilemma. It was the ultimate Asian question: what came first, grades or discounts?

My father's blood pressure rose slightly, and my mother curled into a tighter ball under her yellow blanket, as each tried to figure out how to reconcile the founding principles. My sister rolled her eyes and got back to making her history study guide. She made her decision, chose her own path to Asian salvation, leaving behind the prospect of watching Avatar for free.

I think my parents are going to ground her tomorrow. It's for her own good, of course.

butt face, i love you

There was a moment last night when I was in the kitchen bent over, and my friend Patrick was scrubbing my butt with seltzer, while my other friend Dani was holding ice to it. I had sat on gum, the sticky white residue smeared all over the seat of my black jeans. I was freaking out, and my always faithful friends tried to pacify me. As the gum dried, I picked at it throughout the rest of the night.

It's funny how close you become to people in times of need, desperation, heat. While the two who were helping to erase the remnants of Orbit product are two of my closest friends already, it is not until I faced the threat of ruining perfectly good, albeit already bleach-stained, black jeans when I truly realized the extent of our intimacy. Transcending personal boundaries, dispelling human dignity, and neglecting all norms of society, my friends and I treaded upon the threshold of nature, briefly touching the crude aspects of humanity. We were held back by nothing, except the new ice maker.

I guess we're BFFs or BFFLs or something, all because of some uncouth stranger who disposes of their gum in public places instead of the garbage can.

by the way, it is 2010

I was trying to figure out the bill at Yummy Sushi when the clock struck 12. Happy New Year, we're $10 short and the edamame wasn't actually complimentary.

Every New Year's Eve, I look forward to the countdown, the anticipation of ringing in the new year with family and friends and sparkly confetti. I like that for one minute the entire world (or at least those in your time zone) counts in unison, waiting for a new year to bring about new happiness, new goals, new-ness.

This year, while at Yummy Sushi, an arbitrary Japanese restaurant in the West Village, I sporadically checked my phone for the time. I am usually compulsive about watching the time on Dec. 31st, but no one in the restaurant seemed to care about the symbolic night; the waiters were busy handing out little bowls of wasabi and the diners were busy not eating it. The last time I had checked, it was 11:53. There was still plenty of time before midnight. Our bill came, and we began fumbling for dollar bills and trying to figure out why it cost so much.

Bianca poked my right shoulder. "Rucha, it's midnight." I waved her away, now trying to calculate some tip. "Rucha, it's the New Year. Look, everyone is screaming and kissing on the street."

I looked out the window. The streets were littered with streamers and couples. I looked at my cell phone. I had about 3 new text messages, and my sister was calling me, as we had promised each other we would do right at midnight. I was partly upset because I wanted to be the first one to call (it was a contest in my head), partly upset because I had no confetti to throw, and partly upset because we still hadn't paid tip. But most of all, I was upset because I missed it. It was 12:01, and the New Year had just eluded me.

There was no anticipation, no hoping, no squeezing anyone's hand. We waited for nothing, no one, before the moment had crept past us. Nothing was special, nothing was different. It just was. It happened. It was a night like any other. It was 2010. I was with the same beautiful friends I was with throughout 2009. I still hate cream puffs and boiled eggs; I still love spinach and lychee juice. My sister still wins Best Dressed. I still love family vacations. My hair is still unsure if it wants to be curly or straight. And besides fulfilling my few New Year's resolutions, I want nothing more than that feeling of waiting for nothing--not midnight, not 2010, not anything new. I am here. We have arrived. It's 2010, and everything already looks sparkly.