Transnationalism for $0.75

Every Tuesday or Friday, I walk across town to intern at Senator Gillibrand's office. Some days, like today, I get enough sleep and breakfast so that I don't need coffee. But after a few hours of work, my head inevitably begins to spin (I usually get lightheaded when I have to tell people their homelessness cannot be resolved this month).

I go downstairs, wave at security, and try not to smash into the glass as I spin through the revolving doors. I walk past the overpriced cafe downstairs, where everyone in suits and greys and on blackberrys gets their croissants and their natural flaxseed smoothies and tins of toffee. And I walk over to the white old Italian man in the cart, who smiles every single week, without fail, as though serving coffee and old muffins is his calling.

I get the same thing every week, coffee with skim and a bit of sugar. I never want a brown paper bag, just a few napkins for my constantly runny nose. I hand him a dollar, he gives me a quarter and says, "Shookriyah gee."

I never respond in Hindi. I'm too scared he'd make fun of my accent.

Story of My Life

story of my life: I worked on a job application for 3 hours yesterday, only to have Fordham's consistently inconsistent internet connection prevent me from submitting it. After 20 minutes, I lost everything I had filled out, including essays. I woke up 5 hours later to go to work.

story of my life: I had to sit through a 4 hour defensive driving course in order to qualify as a driver on my Global Outreach trip. I learned that I shouldn't drink and drive, and that I cannot control the weather. And apparently, you should always stop at stop signs.

story of my life: I haven't been to the gym in 3 days, but ate so much free food yesterday that I could barely sleep.

story of my life: I have now added a pair of red boots to the collection of clothes that has mysteriously disappeared from my closet. By graduation I will be walking around in flip flops and a parka and my blue fedora.

story of my life: I had a presentation in my Economics of Energy class, and decided to dress to impress (there is more testosterone in that one class than in all of McMahon Hall). Of course, while I am presenting, I am constantly sneezing and blowing my nose, and ultimately attract only distant sympathizers handing me useless Claritin pills.

story of my life: The only job offers I have received for next year are those requiring a bank account and paying over $3000/month for a 2-hr day job. If all else fails, I may get famous by bringing a major scam to court.

story of my life: Everyone got together and decided this semester was the semester to have a boyfriend or get married. I decided I needed to learn how to play the guitar, cook pasta with olive oil and garlic, and buy pretty dresses. A semester has gone by, and I play an invisible air guitar, eat pasta with Ragu, and wear pants because it's easier.

story of my life: The guy at the coffee cart by my office gave me a huge smile when he handed me my regular order (small, with skim milk and a little sugar). He called me sweetie and told me to have a good day.
It's sunny out.

When You're Indian, Push Always Comes to Shove

This afternoon, my mother had asked me what I would do if the world were truly to end in 2012. Soul-searching is her thing, and an apocalypse is the ideal time to find your soul, before it gets swallowed up in a hopeless abyss. I told her I would want to go to Morocco and Algeria and not look for a job and get a tattoo. She told me she would want to pinch cute babies without worrying about what their mothers would say. Then we chuckled and discussed the fickle weather, the multiple earthquakes, the recent volcanic eruption, and indeed projected the end to come in 2012.

Little did I know, the end was to come today. Every brown person [every person with direct or distant ties to the Indian subcontinent] travelled to New Brunswick to watch Ustad Rahat Fateh Ali Khan in concert. As per usual, as soon we all approached the establishment, our 24th chromosome pair, which is unique to Indians and characterizes a constant, irrational fear of being left behind, began to act up. With a collective sense of fatalism, people pushed, shoved, yelled, and took all efforts to bypass social conduct in order to get into the theater first.

The man regulating the lines was a white man who plucked his eyebrows, with a high-pitched voice and a thick waist. The woman next to him had frazzled hair, frazzled eyes, and small hands. Most Indians had bought their tickets online, and held a ticket confirmation. There was one line for people to pick up their tickets, and one line for people who already had the physical tickets in their hands. It was a simple layout. Two lines. Two doorways. Two line controllers.

But there was one problem. Indians don't do lines. Indians don't do doorways. And Indians definitely don't do people who control the line. They would shout, and we would shout louder. Sometimes, I was sure I heard people just yell out indiscriminate noises just to contribute to the chaos. But, mostly, people were simply indignant about the injustice--"I bought my ticket on the Internet; why must I wait in this long line?!" It was obviously a racist scheme, a post-colonial attempt at keeping the Indians inferior. No. We couldn't stand for this. We needed to band together (except if that didn't work, then as long as the person in question could get in, that was enough) to combat this culturally imperialistic notion of the line.

Following the footsteps of our Great Father, we conducted a Satyagraha, resisting the power of the establishment. Our various efforts simply delayed the entire process, and the show even started one hour late. Some people just kept repeating the same question to the frustrated man with great eyebrows. Every ten minutes, as if inspired by a novel idea, the same group of people would ask him, "but I have my ticket confirmation, can I just go in?" or "It is so cold outside, can't I just wait in here?" Some people would try to bypass the man and wave to no one in particular, in the hopes that someone random would wave back; usually, an arbitrary brown person already past the gate would wave back, and the guest could step inside pretending to know him. Some people even tried to use their children. One lady walked up to the woman with the frazzled everything and explained that she had a baby, a stroller, and that it was cold and the line was long. Her baby cried on cue.

On April 14, 1912, when the Titanic was sinking, women and children were to be saved first, and thus took priority on the lifeboats. Unfortunately, our modern conception of a life-threatening emergency does not entail Indian classical music concerts in New Jersey. So, the baby in the stroller had to wait on line.


Once everyone was finally seated in the theater, and justice was served and Indians were liberated and racism was defeated, (and stereotypes of Indians becoming disoriented and foaming at the mouth when in large crowds were reinforced), the collective resistance against white domination and waiting in line ceded to the excitement about the concert. The announcer declared that this man had gained "international popularity" three times in a row, before she mentioned any of his other feats or musical talents. When he finally performed, we temporarily forgot our fears of being left behind and allowed his enchanting voice to take us away, far from our dusty seats, and to the myths of our own hearts.

The seductive trance was soon dispelled when the fight against social etiquette began to resurface. People began standing, walking, and talking about the singer's father, Bollywood, and Cricket. The lady immediately behind us complained about the loud music, and was offering everyone Kleenex to stuff in their ears. The same people who paid to attend the concert, and who, more importantly, fought tooth and nail to preserve their dignity and not wait on lines, were now trying to partially block out the music.

It was beautiful. Though we are sparsely located, lonely, and perpetually afraid, we were brought together by this one man's voice, the cry of the harmonium, the resonance of the tabla, and the call of the sax. Indians of the tri-state area came together to form a crowd, to displace lines, to frustrate the Establishment, and they came together to rejoice and to agonize, to celebrate and to grieve. And as I looked around me, above me, below me, and certainly to my parents and sister on either side of me, I saw nothing but a sea of short brown heads, all swaying in the same direction, with bits of Kleenex sticking out of everyone's ears. Brava.

i'm running away from home, but my parents will pay my credit card bill

The reasons why I love my parents, why I prefer them to any others, have become the reasons why I am running away from home tonight. Well, I am sitting in the dorms right now, waiting for my laundry to get done, but when I go home this Sunday, I am going to turn right back around and run towards Glen Rock. My parents want me to have fun and not worry about money. It infuriates me.

I was on the phone with my mother a few minutes ago, and we began to talk about summer plans. I mentioned one of my very close friends decided against a certain program that cost money to volunteer; my mother thought that should have never even been a consideration, for students are already giving their time, and should not have to also give their money. While I whole-heartedly agreed with her, and have always thought that paying money to volunteer was a luxury, I mentioned that I was doing the same thing for my Global Outreach trip. She said it was entirely different because I was going on the trip mainly for fun, adding that my father wanted to get me a better camera so I could take pictures, since my trip would be very "scenic." I told her, for the nth time, that this trip was not all fun and games, and that, while I was looking forward to gaining a new community of friends, that this wasn't simply a hippie road trip with my closest friends to celebrate graduation. She remained silent, and then asked why I don't do Habitat for Humanity in Paterson and then go to Spain for the rest of the month, to finally embrace my dream of spending time aimlessly in Europe. I paused, and told her that besides that issue, I was also extremely stressed about gathering funds for the trip.

She laughed.

I emphasized that I thought I would be able to gather much more money, but the only thing anyone was doing was to send letters for donations. I then hinted that I had no one to send letters to, alluding to the fact that my parents completely rejected the idea of my sending requests for donations to anyone. It is an Indian pride issue, which I have never really understood. We can't ask for money from anyone. Yes, Indians can count very well, and I am sure the numbers are crunching in everyone's minds, but we won't ever ask for money. My mother continued to giggle, acknowledging that I had sent out about 3 letters (2 of which I did in secret for fear of her tampering with the mail).

The funny thing is, my parents are extremely generous, compassionate, and very liberally donate their money to all sorts of charities and fundraisers. In this specific case, they are willing to fund my western rural poverty antics. However, I decided that this project would be my own; I wanted to take complete control of it. I didn't want my parents to just fund what they thought was a post-graduation, peripherally service-oriented trip focusing on cowboys and mountains. I wanted to be independent, raising enough money on my own to completely take charge of myself on this trip.

She continued to laugh. I knew what she was thinking--why start now?

My family has always been very communist about our money; there is no concept of ownership with our money. Mine (which is none) is my mother's is my father's is my sister's (which is surprisingly a small fortune.) This time, I wanted the trip to be funded by the capitalist version of myself.

I told my mother I had decided on many ventures to raise the funds, ventures that failed before they even came to fruition.

I thought about writing papers for people, guaranteeing A's for $50. But, I haven't been writing my own papers; I have barely read a thing since Spring Break, and should probably guarantee a passing grade for myself before raising everyone else's GPA for $50.

I thought I would vacuum people's apartments for $20. But, my own apartment remains completely filthy, and I decided that I should probably attack the monsters under our couch, first.

I thought I would tutor people in French, teach Bollywood workshops, thread people's eyebrows. And then I realized I am barely articulate in French, no one cares to pay to learn Bollywood dancing as long as they can pet the dog and screw the light bulb, and my own eyebrows need tending to.

I thought I would cook for people, and even bring them food to their rooms. I have not eaten a hot meal in 3 days. I am still wondering whether or not people would pay for me to pour milk in their cereal.

My mother continued to laugh. She told me I shouldn't worry; I would definitely make the $800 in 3 weeks. Between her chuckles, I could make out the words "resourceful" and "busy" and "youth." I appreciated the essence of what she was saying, but I was still mad that I was so crippled, that I had such generous and supportive parents. Then she told me to have a good night, and not forget my allergy medicine.

This Sunday, I am going to give my parents the silent treatment. That's what they get for paying for things and forcing me to have fun.

the anti-Globalization movement vis-à-vis Downward Dog

Yesterday, I threw away all previous notions and values about the spread of ideas and commerce, about the elevation of all peoples through a global network, about the destruction of arbitrary political borders for a universal acknowledgement of the human race. I went to a Yoga class at Bally's. I discovered the most detrimental effects of Globalization. And I decided that people can stay localized and segregated, as long as the ancient spiritual, even ascetic, discipline of early Hindus isn't reduced to a "embrace the present, but tighten those glutes!"

While I have always taken issue with Yoga, as an exotic franchise, I can never claim to know any more than the instructor. I know as little, or even less, about Hindu philosophy than the next unfortunately confused immigrant child. This Yoga teacher in particular, however, gave me some confidence in my religious illiteracy. She was around 50 years old, and thought she was 30; her hair was streaked with different colors and messily tied up in a knot at the top of her head. She had a look of forced relaxation on her face, which would tense up every time we did not properly execute Upward Dog.

She murmured into the mic, so that instead of counting down from 100 and "breathing in the present moment" and "breathing out regrets of the past and anxieties of the future," I kept looking around to see what I was supposed to do. I assume I have just become slightly deaf because I have been playing "Say Ahh" on repeat for the last 3 weeks; the tranquil instrumental she played confused my eardrums, which have habituated themselves to trashy, PG-13 lyrics.

When we started doing the poses, she told us it was the Year of the Tiger, so that we would start with the Tiger Pose. I stared into the mirror in disbelief, as she started tensing up her back like a large cat, ready to claw at the air. The Year of the Tiger is a Chinese categorization. While she was in the general area (Asia), India and China usually don't get mixed up. One of them has Slumdog Millionaire and Red Dots on Foreheads, and the other has Communism and Fried Pork Dumplings. Either way, we did not do a Tiger Pose, and moved on to the next move.

At one point, we held our arms together, as if in prayer, and raised them high above our heads while arching our backs. She described this to be "the way we pray to the Great Spirit." Again, I looked around, hoping someone would ask her to clarify. What Great Spirit? Who is "we?" Are you part of this community of believers who prays to this one Spirit? Are you conflating Cherokee (perception of Cherokee) with Indian? She then told us to recruit the muscle fibers in our abs to pray to the Great Spirit even deeper.

Finally, towards the end of the class, she explained the significance of the cow in Hinduism. We were all contorted in a position she claimed to be "the Happy Cow," though it looked more like we were all holding in our pee. She explained that Hindus don't necessarily worship the cow, but that they consider "the cow to be like a mother, for she gives milk and butter and cheese and ice cream." And her trance-like voice faded away, and everyone began to dream of a mint chocolate chip cow being milked by a shriveled Indian man with a long white beard, all the while chanting to the Great Spirit.

No matter how many Yoga classes you avoid, you can't hide from Globalization. Its effects are everywhere--Whole Foods, 99-cent stores, hybrid children. It's powerful, it's tyrannic, it's unstoppable. There are legitimate reasons people collect themselves to prevent the expansion of telecommunications and commerce that has enabled the diffusion of ideas and cultures and peoples. The phenomenon has essentially subverted any notion of culture, defined as per religion, locality, family, sexuality, etc..., and simultaneously deconstructs and reconstructs borders, as stereotypes are both dissected and propagated. Some argue for labor rights and for cultural relativism. However, I personally fear Globalization because it has turned history into a myth and people into spectacles. But more importantly, as a child of this phenomenon, I reject it using my own myths, my own notions of the truth, of culture, of myself. In fact, the Happy Cow may be the closest I get to finding my own history, which I have frequently romanticized when eating chutney sandwiches.

Regardless of how I feel about the commercialization of Yoga, or rather, the unfortunate conflation of distinct cultures and histories legitimized by an enchanting voice and streaky hair, Globalization happens. The Year of the Tiger will soon pass, and Yoga will continue to gain in popularity. Now all I have to do is pray that my thighs won't be so sore tomorrow.

tribute to Freddie Prinze, Jr.

I'm not a stalker. I just like to use the internet to its fullest capacity. It would be a waste of modern day technology if I didn't Google image "Freddie Prinze, Jr.," "Freddie Prinze, Sr.," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with Sarah Michelle Gellar," "Freddie Prinze, Jr. with new baby." It's perfectly legal to Google my interests, as long as I am not in China searching for "Freddie Prinze, Jr. in Tiananmen Square."

I have been told I have an obsessive personality. I get addicted to some good things, like bananas and working out and 24, and I get addicted to bad things, like chasing things I've lost and yogurt-covered pretzels and Facebook. Sometimes, I see myself becoming consumed with something, with someone, and know enough to stop myself, but I let myself be completely devoured by my own passion for the object of my obsession, be it Nutella crepes or 1990s mediocre teen romantic stars.

There was a period of time when I completely forgot about him. It was between 2000 and 2010, the end of the 90s until now, when I am about to embark on a new journey into the real, grown-up world when she isn't really all that and people aren't just head over heels.

I just started watching 24 this season, and my passion for Freddie has been rejeuvenated. He's the sole force of goodness in my life, the only solace I have after a hard weekend of enduring senioritis and seasonal allergies. Cole Ortiz starts and ends my week.

I don't really need a diagnosis, and I have finally accepted the fact that there is no solution. Who says an obsession is an obsession? I call it love.

Freddie, if you are listening, if you are out there, if you have access to this blog, then know that I am here if you need a summer catch.