The Palin Connection

All this talk about Governor Palin and her feminine mystique has gotten me thinking about being guilty by association. It has also gotten me thinking about how people expect you to represent a whole sub-set of population.

For instance, when I was growing up in this country, in small suburbs, I was often one of two or three Indian girls in the school. So when things like Homecoming or Sadie Hawkins would come around well-meaning neighbors would ask point blank if I was going with one of the two Indian boys in the school. Another incident that comes to mind is when people to this day think that just because I am Indian I can represent all things Indian or know all things Indian. That is an awesome burden. For instance, in an academic institution of all places, a professor pointed to me in a classroom and said “oh you must know Vandana Shiva.” Does he mean personally? Because I do try my best to have written correspondence with all 1 billion people in India and know them intimately. Or does he mean because I am Indian I should know all Indian authors and activists? Once again, this is an incredible burden and responsibility to place on someone.

This brings me back to Ms. Palin. I think as a woman it is a complete disservice to feminism and all of our sisters and mothers who have come before us to vote for Ms. Palin because of our anatomical similarities. If as a woman you vote for Ms Palin because you are impressed with her qualifications, her interests, her ability to combine motherhood and career or what ever else, then that is a true choice.

What bothers me most, of course, is the media and the political pundits. The inane questions they ask are insulting to all of us. Why are women automatically being asked if they will vote for the McCain-Palin ticket now that a woman is on the ballot? When the race was between Hillary and Obama, Black women were repeatedly insulted by being asked who you will vote for this election. The underlying point of course is, will they be able to separate race from gender? But how come these first-rate journalists did not think to ask White men the same question? Will they vote for Obama or Clinton? Will they vote based on gender or race?

Press and Pundits-please get this right. One vote, one voice. There is no way that can equal the women of America or the African-Americans of America, or the Latinos of America. It only equals one POWERFUL voice.

September 4, 1907: The Bellingham Riots

As I reflect about my own immigrant experiences and the challenges that come with integrating into an unknown world, I am humbled by those who have walked before me. Their struggles and the battles they have courageously fought have allowed me to be here. I am really grateful for their sacrifices, especially now in a time when the state of our union is uncertain.

This post is in honor of the 200 hundred some men who were brutally assaulted on September 4th, 1907 in Bellingham, WA by the Asian Exclusion League. They wanted to exclude the Sikh men, who were wrongly identified as Hindus, from the lumber mill jobs in the local areas. While the authorities watched, the Sikh men were beaten, robbed and humiliated. They were then taken into custody for “protection,” while the racist mob went unchecked and free. This is just one story of my people and the struggles they faced to make a home in America–a country that they truly believed was the promise land. Their struggle is not in vain even though 100 years later we are still fighting similar battles with racism and questions of who is justified to be in the United States of America.

“What is it exactly that the V.P does every day?”

I know technically my blog is about immigration, transitions etc. But this issue is too important not to speak up. I knew when McCain made the slip about defending Czechoslovakia three times he was getting desperate. But to pick Sarah Palin is beyond desperate. It is conceding the race before it is over in a way.

Sarah Palin is green and I don’t mean in a good way. She was the mayor of a small town before assuming the role of governor, the part she has only played for two years now.
If McCain, who is older than sin, does not finish his first term, then we are looking at President Palin to get us out of Iraq, keep us out of Iran, rejuvenate our economy and bring morale back to America.

I write this piece for those of you who are independents, undecided voters, or for those who are still waiting to hear the speeches to make up your minds. At this point in our history and in our country it comes down to this–who gets it. As Obama said it last night “Now, I don’t believe that Senator McCain doesn’t care what’s going on in the lives of Americans; I just think he doesn’t know.” I can’t agree more. And Sarah Palin doesn’t get it either.

“[A]s for that V.P. talk all the time, I’ll tell you, I still can’t answer that question until somebody answers for me what is it exactly that the V.P. does every day?”

These are serious times and we need serious people. I suppose in a way this is about transitions. Transitioning back to the promise that is America

The Paper Cut

Yesterday, I went to the corner bakery with my son to pick up some bread for our pasta dinner. We were having friends over and I was in a rush. Thankfully, the bakery, just about to close, had some French bread left for my Italian dinner. My 4 month old son who has yet to figure out how to roll over or how to fall asleep on his own and I were presented with the most interesting question at the bakery.

One of the guys that works there, whom we have gotten to know since the place opened, noticed how much my son has grown in the last couple of months. And as I am about to acknowledge that and ask how much for the bread one of his co-workers turns to me and asks, “so is he reading whole encyclopedias and doing math problems yet?” Huh?

What is that supposed to mean? Why did he ask us that question? Is it because we are Indian and stereotypically we are supposed to be “smart”? Maybe it was just a really innocent question. But sometimes you get these feelings in your gut that says something is amiss. Would he have asked this question to a White or Black parent? Maybe he would have asked an Asian parent?

Ultimately, this comment is not like a politician calling someone a macaca or a hate crime based on sexuality or religion. But the comment we received is what I would call a paper cut. These are small seemingly innocuous comments that people make based on misinformation, assumptions, and essentializations about other people that are not like them.

The consequence is small paper cut like tears to that person’s being. It is not an overt attack like being called some racist epithet, where one can grieve and rage in concrete ways. It is the kind of hurt that is un-diagnosable, too small for a band-aid and sometimes is not visible to the naked eye. But you know it is there. And over the course of the day, or one’s lifetime, you amass so many of those small paper cuts that eventually you do start to visibly bleed.

And then, there is no band-aid big enough to stop the hurt.

India Eyes Wide Open-Part Dho

In June 2001, I boarded a Lufthansa flight to New Delhi. That was the year I graduated from the University of Maryland after completing my undergraduate degree. Four years of un-chaperoned exposure to the real world had accelerated my growth. Seventeen sheltered years at home left me unprepared for the wild and turbulent ride that was my college years.

With encouragement from my parents to go visit family and from my own desire to re-locate myself in the places that have produced meaning in my life, I packed my suitcase and went for a month long trip in essence to find myself all over again. While the family I would visit would be an integral part to understanding me, I felt that I had to reconnect to the land through another medium. I took a journal and an old camera.

The journal was useful and non-controversial. I recorded my thoughts on what I saw, felt and heard. Sometimes, even today I visit those old chai stained pages and think back to the naivet� and the sophistication of my musings. The Nikon I had with me, however, was useful but it definitely stirred up emotions in me and those around me. I have never thought about the camera the same way again.

While part of the trip was to rediscover and rejuvenate relationships from the past, I also desired to see those relationships and the land of my ancestors through a myriad of lenses, speaking literally and figuratively. One of the most important parts of that trip was getting to know Cousin D all over again. We were childhood buddies and now my trip gave us the opportunity to develop a real friendship, which we did.

Knowing that I have always wanted to see the hill stations of the Himalayan ranges, D organized a trip. I, D, and a friend of his piled into his car and listened to my tape of Travis. I listened and they suffered. Initially the roads were the usual city roads with scooters and buses elbowing their way past. Then we were on traditional highways and eventually as we neared the mountains we began the hair-pin bends at ridiculously high elevations. And along the way we began talking about the pictures I was taking of India, or what I considered India.

D’s friend asked me “What do you see through that lens that is so special?” I thought he was being cheeky and blew him off. At that time the weight of the question did not sink in. Maybe he was being cheeky. I don’t know. But I do know that the camera has a unique power to alter the dynamics of any situation instantaneously. I don’t speak for all photographers when I say this but on that trip the camera put a lot of distance between me and my homeland. A camera can intrigue the people around you and some may even want to pose but I also found that many found it intrusive. And that was not the intention of the trip.

Before I offend the professional and recreational photographers out there, I just want to clarify that I love pictures and capturing moments as well. But in that moment when I desired closeness and also the ability to later evoke those feelings, I noticed that the camera was sometimes an un-welcomed guest. The thing about the camera is that it is really a question of representation. And sometimes I wonder if it can do it accurately. The coral reefs can captivate someone’s imagination through a picture but it can take someone’s breath away in real life. But not all of us will get to experience it in real life so a picture can be powerful. But what happens when a picture presents a young Afghan girl on National Geographic. Her turquoise eyes liquid and unreadable. Who is she? What is her name? And does she even want to be the poster child for the state of Afghanistan?

What I really wanted was an intimacy with that part of the Earth that I first walked with my bare feet on as a child. But I felt like I took it away by putting a camera in front of my face. Maybe I was scared by the visceral way in which the senses are activated. Maybe I was not ready for the intimacy. But thinking back the truth is I just wanted to be able to remember when I got back to the States.

I did leave with renewed relationships with cousins and new kurtis but I also left with a broken heart. I felt like I was leaving a childhood friend who I played with innocently for years without knowing anything about her but love and then years later I ruined the simplicity and joy of that relationship by maybe wanting more than I can have. I just did not realize that I have always and will have an intimacy with India because she is my mother-land.

Desi Spotting

My husband and I are planning our anniversary vacation. Each year we pick some fun, exciting place to explore and celebrate us. This year we have baby in tow, so we are looking to do something a little bit low-key. We try new things on each of our trips. Some things have included snorkeling, bird watching hiking, visiting the architectural wonders, taking in breath-taking views and always faithfully eating and sleeping like we have never done either activity before. However, one past time that is an old time favorite and goes way back to our childhood days is a game where we “Desi Spot”

Of course, the game is not officially called that or played in an explicit way but the idea is that where ever we go, we feel this intense desire to notice Desi’s around us and try to make eye contact with them. Most often they look away. Sometimes, we even try to guess what part of the subcontinent they might be from. I have often wondered why we partake in this activity. Is it something similar to counting the different license plates when you take a road trip?

To me I feel the need to do this because I need to connect with my community. It feels pretty neat to experience globalization in such a real way. I don’t seek to connect on some deep level, just an acknowledgment that we are country men and women. To see us out in Costa Rica, France or even in Utah is quite exciting. In fact, we met a Sri Lankan who owned a creperie in the heart of Paris.

So why do most Desi’s look away from each other? Everybody knows that each has seen the other, so why not just smile and nod to your fellow brother or sister? Why pretend?

“Is This Love?”

Susan Sarandon said she would leave America if McCain became the next president. This made me sad. Not just because I love her sappy acting but also because it made me think of also those who fight to come to America. I am thinking of refugees from countries like Somalia and Sudan. I am thinking of those who jump the border from Mexico, almost dying and risking never seeing their families. And I am also thinking of those young men and women in countries like India and China who study 16-20 hours a day so they can pass state exams, which will guarantee them a seat in a good college and eventually bring them to the U.S.

Are their struggles in vain, when someone like Susan Sarandon can so carelessly say she will just move to Canada or Italy. Poof and she is gone. I have been reading the papers and the blogs and people seem upset that she and other stars have said things like this before and never kept their promise. To me what is more upsetting is that amidst this manufactured war between Republicans and Democrats in the name of elections and politics, we have given the American people an exit strategy but not the war in Iraq.

“So Where are You Going?”

One of toughest questions I have had to answer in my life is “where are you from?” This question still haunts me because it is deceptive. It is not just about geography but really it is about asking “who are you?” Places are not just a part of us,we are just as much a part of them. They are also vehicles for constructing social tradition and personal identities.

I have moved over eleven times. This habit started with our move to the United States. This includes our family’s stint in Singapore in the early 80’s. For instance, I have gone to 3 different high schools. One of the things I have found out over the years is that we need friends, especially early on in our developmental years when we are defining ourselves. For better or for worse, they are our mirrors. So just when I was about to get a grip on me, we would pick up and move. This would often create a turbulent storm in my heart. Though I have constantly felt uprooted in my life, I have been lucky enough never to fear attachment. I know some of my fellow nomadic friends have a hard time putting down roots and forming bonds with people and places but for me I crave that.

I love that I have lived in one town for four years now. This is the longest I have lived in one house. It is truly an amazing feeling to really get to know your neighbors. I cherish walking down the same streets and knowing that there are certain people I can run into at certain times. And the barista at my local coffee joint, knows my coffee drink–a huge drip with one inch of room for cream.

However, it would be dishonest of me if I did not acknowledge all that I have gained from moving multiple times. Being exposed to a diversity of people means being exposed to a diversity of thoughts. In my family, the process of moving brought us together and reinforced our family ties. And through it all I have discovered a core strength that emerged because of those trying times. I suppose in the end it is about what we value overall.

So what is a girl like me to do when I am at a party or meeting someone for the first time and they ask me “where are you from?” Do I say I am originally from India and more recently from D.C? But that discounts and devalues all those other places that have shaped and molded the person I am today. Moreover, it dismisses all of those wonderful people I have encountered in those places that have greatly influenced my life. At the same time do people have the time to listen to the long list of places I have stopped at over time? It is like asking someone “how are you?” Most people just want to hear “fine.” I guess what I saying is I would rather someone ask me “where are you going?” I just might have an answer for that!

The “D” Word

Diversity. I hope I have not turned you off? Stay a while, I promise it won’t be so bad.

I have noticed that this is one of the least popular words in the English language. Some of the words that come to my mind when I think about diversity are difference, variety, wealth, maybe even possibility. But in today’s culture, diversity has come to earn a bad rap, inducing palpitations, high blood pressure and even frigidity in some.

A recent experience in an academic institution has given me a lot of perspective on what my place, as a foreign born Indian-American, is in the diversity debate. Ultimately, the most important lesson I have learned from those several months of emotionally charged and intellectually demanding dialogues is that the issue of diversity is really a matter of the heart. And matters of the heart must be tended to delicately and compassionately.

I have positioned myself as a minority in this country based on my many experiences here. In my heart, I belong with people of color. However, our struggles are not the same. I had to learn this from trusted friends. When I was in middle or high school, I was one of few students of color. Minority meant something else. But when I got to graduate school the landscape changed. In a way I was not a minority. I was privileged in a way I had not known before.

My family is considered middle-class and all of us have gone to college. Some of my friends in my department are the first to go to grad school in their families. I have been given a lot in my life and I am grateful but I have also taken it for granted. So my dear friends have been mirrors, reflecting back what I have not been able to see very clearly; class alters the diversity discussion fundamentally.

While all of us held hands and demanded that diversity be more than an afterthought in our departments, I have learned as a privileged immigrant I play a different role in diversity discussions than my friends who are Black, Samoan, Native American and Mexican. While foreign scholars add a unique richness to our academic institutions, it is not enough to count immigrants from countries like China and India and claim that the diversity goal has been accomplished. I see so many academic departments bring in foreign nationals in as a way to address the diversity issue. But what about those scholars in our own backyard?

Yes, regardless of certain privileges, I am still a minority in this country and I face my own struggles. I am frisked at the airports, I have been spit on after 9/11 and I have been called a Gandhi B**** after a piano concert. Immigrants also face a different type of racism–the legal status kind. So in a time when the strategy du jour is divide an conquer how can we of diverse minority statuses come together, honor our differences, and work toward a common dream of creating a world where our children can truly be different and also be okay?

Memories: An Immigrant’s Crystal Ball

It might be trite to say but it is true that memories are the glue that holds our past together. Maybe even super glue. Without them the past is just fragments of moments lived and lost. It is funny to me when people say “let’s make memories.” How does one live everyday and not make memories? I don’t think a special time or day needs to be carved out to create them. Maybe I am being cynical.

Memories are really fascinating to me from a personal and academic perspective. I will leave the latter for my PhD thesis I never plan on finishing. As a society we choose to memorialize events and people in history through collective projects like monuments, the History Channel or biographies. It is often people in power that choose what gets remembered and what is forgotten. As Bob Marley sang in Get Up, Stand Up! “alf the story has never been told”

But what about individually? What do we as individuals choose to remember about our lives? For me as an immigrant some memories are inevitably lost because I left when I was young and a transatlantic flight makes us all forget things young or old. But active remembering in immigrant families is a daily ritual like stretching the muscles would be for a long distance runner.

However, what is interesting is the nature of that active remembering changes. It did at least in my family. My family and I used to sit around the dinner table occasionally and talk about “how far we have come.” While my parents were navigating the meaning of their experiences as foreigners in a land unknown to them, I was not only being challenged by the experience of moving but also the experiences of being a teenager in a new place. We did not know much about our new home, but we remembered a lot about the home we left behind in India. However, as time passed, our memories shifted to remembering our experiences as new immigrants rather than our experiences in India. And today, we hardly talk about India.

It is when we are with a group of Indians that we recollect memories of India and, in the process, edit each other’s stories of immigration. It is also far more comfortable for us to talk about India when we are with Tamilians, as language brings an intimacy. We talk about the Mysore Pak(sweet) we could get at the corner store in our neighborhood or the times when we were cheated by auto rickshaw drivers. When women gather around the kitchen we often wish we had more opportunities to wear our silk saris and our gold jewelry. This is certainly not unique to Indian immigrant communities. All of us do this in varying contexts. But for immigrant communities the need to remember maybe stronger because memories are a locus for identity formation in new environs.

Who I am today is a consequence of those places I have paused, stayed and lived at for a while. In those places deep meanings are inscribed and it is up to me to remember fiercely so that I can fully grasp the person I am today and understand where I am headed. Whether I like it or not, I am the product of those long gone days.