Ponderings of 2017 and Wishes for You

2018 is only a few short weeks away, folks.

Let that sink in.  Really, let that sink in. 

I don’t know about anyone else but this is very hard for me to digest for some reason.  It’s not as if I bumped my head, slipped into a comatose state, and just now waking up to find that a year has leapt forward without me any wiser.  I’ve lived every day of 2017, I’m 100% certain.  I mean, have I really ‘lived’ it?  Probably not and that’s why I haven’t noticed it go by so seamlessly. 

I remember stepping into 2017 thinking it couldn’t be any worse than the torture that was '16.  I believe a lot of us thought this way.  Foolish us *snort*.  We collectively tempted fate and in the process were so very, very wrong.  We were quickly reminded to never, ever fuck with or lay a challenge down for Mistress Fate because she has always been up to prove that we silly mortals shall bow to her will eventually and subsequently be crushed under the heel of her stiletto’s without her blinking twice.  Hence she showed us her might, every single blasted day of this bloody year.

Coming out of 2017, I honestly feel like meat that’s been chucked into the food processor, blended thoroughly, taken out only to be thrown off a cliff, run over by stampeding bulls and finally flattened by a dozer after which rabid mongrels are nibbling on my carcass.  Yea, that’s not even an exaggeration.  Funny (not the haha kind) enough, I think there are lots of people who possibly feel the exact same way. 

After a year that was dominated by politics, particularly by the orange-hued baboon that was elected into the most powerful position in the world as the President of the United States of America, there has been nothing but instability.  Our society here is more divided than ever (or we are just truly understanding this thanks to social media).  Every day there is some new and disturbing news that dominates our conversations, relationships, lives.  Families have been torn apart, alliances ripped at the seam, and friendships destroyed, even marriages devastated and wrecked.  No bond has been spared in some way and subsequently new tribes have been formed.  Those you couldn’t imagine ever knowing, now are those who know you best.  Your closest buddies at one time are but mere strangers.  Holidays have become, more than ever, dreaded events that end up in tears, anger, throw-downs.  I’ve heard it all via Facebook particularly.  Twitter has become a medium of executing presidential decisions and media has been labeled ‘fake news’ if they do not fall in-line blindly with the Nazi’s in the White House.

We are watching strong allies turning their backs on us and rightfully so for in the meantime enemies have been lauded and courted, well respected individuals insulted, groups of different people disenfranchised, and sexual harassment the new normal.  People of color, women…hell any minority at all, are living with a constant sense of discomfort that any day something could/will happen to them and there will be no recourse available, they will find no justice or protection.  The very meaning of ‘equal rights’ has taken a sharp turn and nutjobs from supremacist/extremist groups have the ear of the POTUS.  Children are not safe and to abuse one seems no longer like such a big deal by those who follow the elephant as a political symbol.  People are scared of leaving their house because a concert could become a blood bath and certain human beings are not allowed to use a bathroom facility without restrictions. 

And while last year we were at the glorious cusp of having, for the first time ever, a woman finally leading this great nation, instead she was discredited and in stepped a man who consumes 4000 calories a day while mocking others for being unattractive and overweight.  Of course his caloric intake doesn’t define him as good or bad for a job but you know what does discredit this joke of a thing?  Him brazenly admitting that grabbing a woman by her pussy is A-Okay or him reminding us that the KKK folks have some ‘good folks’ in their midst or that transgender people should not be allowed to fight for their own country because you know, transgender.  Let’s not even speak about his thoughts regarding Muslims or his apparent and blatant misogyny…but the list goes on and on and ON.

So…yea where is the ray of sunshine and hope?  Where is the glimmer of radiance amongst all the darkness?  To be honest, there wasn’t much, not on the world stage and not even on a personal level for me.  Watching another year of unemployment come and go without that status change has depressed me (what else can I feel about it?) and just the general lack of hope has effected everything and everyone around me.  This year was nothing but a struggle, plain and simple.  I actually do hope that someone out there who is reading this has had it a lot better, somehow, and made 2017 one for their own personal wins.  I just can’t claim the same.

With 2018 breathing down our necks, I’m still anxious and my naturally pessimistic self does not believe things will vastly improve because…well that orange pumpkin asshat will still be in office and for those of you who is thinking ‘impeachment’, just stop.  His side will never entertain that (even if they want it so bad they can taste it themselves) at all right now because they do not want the Senate to flip in 2018 back to Democratic control and if anything happens to the ginormous joke in the oval office, his supporters will turn on the Repubs like a pack of wild dogs.  The red party will continue to bite their tongues and support him at least until November of 2018, after that it’ll be a huge toss-up but if they have anything on him then?  It’ll be more like 2019, IMHO, that something like impeachment may become reality.  I for one will be working hard to make that happen and if not him, then flip the majority to lean Democratic.  We need to gain back balance and as it is, everything is terribly lopsided.  Until that thing is booted from DC nothing will be better, absolutely nothing (trust me, I’m not being excessively negative about this, it’s a fact) as division continues, anger and ugliness remains to spew and the worst of humanity will be in full view for the world to behold and the violence…I shiver to think.

Now that I’ve done my best to depress every single person who has thus read this entry to this point, let me at least say something positive…

Umm…so I’ve scanned my brain through the last year to see if there was anything positive I could reference but you know what?  Nope.  And just to be toats honest, I think next year will equally be a complete clusterfuck.  That being said, instead of making a bunch of nonsense up in hopes of sounding ‘glass half full’, I’d rather convey some wishes I have for you, all my family, friends, readers, anyone, which should make reading the rest of this blog a bit more uplifting.  Heck, just writing what I have above depressed the shit out of me so yea, lemme try this... 

Happiness – Certainly a catch all and so basic yet missing in so many people’s lives.  Yea, this one.  Simple but nonetheless needs to be said. 

Success – However it’s defined to you.  The ‘to you’ is the important part the prior sentence because no two individual’s definition is the same, right?  Whatever it is that brings you pride, smiles, the feels, that’s the success I want for you so whether it’s getting that degree you’ve been working so diligently to obtain or creating the perfect cupcake recipe or even shooting and scoring a ball of paper into a trashcan, I hope that success is all yours and you can have a moment of preening from it.

Love – Indeed most will read this and immediately equate it to the romantic fluttery hearts sort.  Nah, that’s not what I’m speaking of at all.  I just want for you the feeling of love, the warm that accompanies it, the calm that often walks hand-in-hand with it to come and jump you around some corner.  That’s the love I want to find you, it can be with family, friends, lover, parakeet, whatever…may it beat you into a lovely pulp.

Introspection – This is actually one of the hardest things to do because god knows I’ve gone through years of learning and employing this trait.  It wasn’t always successful and dicey at times but ultimately now I’m quick at being introspective.  It’s helped me grow/evolve (definitely my 2017 word of the year) and face those things about myself which I know I need to change and indeed work hard at changing.  I’m still struggling with it, FYI.  But this I do hope for you also.  Don’t get to the end of your life realizing that you could have fixed something about yourself that you had the power to repair yet didn’t because you were in the dark about yourself while others saw it as clear as day.  While this is an odd wish, I think all of us should eventually get it.

Patience – Oh wow, if you spend more than 5 seconds online, you know this is super in backorder.  In fact, from what I’ve witnessed, it’s damn near extinct.  I’m not sure where it went, not sure who stole it from the lot of us but it’s completely MIA.  May you find yours and for the love of all that’s right in the world, use it.  Don’t just put it in a box and forget about it.  In a world where there is no shortage of opinions, we need to be patience with young and old alike while not trying to punch either in the face. 

Peace – I can say ‘world peace’ but I suppose that’s a given although I am equally aware that the likeliness of that happening is akin to the orange menace telling the truth…IT’S NOT HAPPENING.  Instead I wish you peace in your own life (if not whatever surrounds you) and most importantly what’s in your own mind.  May you find that quiet within even while everything around you is chaotic.  May those doubts, anger, sadness, stress, negatives quieten and find rest while you tap into your positive, to your joy which leads you to a simply better place mentally. 

Tolerance – I believe this is the single most important thing that I can wish for you.  While the other things are, of course kinda key, this one though will help on so many levels.  If you, and everyone, can learn to exercise tolerance then just imagine the world we could be living in?  Oh I know this sounds so kumbaya but at the end of the day, who doesn’t want this?  Here are a few things to think about to help you out:
1.  Be tolerant of those who do not share your opinion for they have the right to theirs as you have the right to yours. 
2.  Be tolerant of those who do not look like you.  Each of you are individuals anyhow and not meant to look alike and if you did, how boring would this world be?
3.  Be tolerant of differences in lifestyle choices for as you have chosen to live your life and shouldn’t be questioned regarding your decisions, neither should anyone else's as long as no harm is coming to anyone. 
4.  Be tolerant of ideologies that does not match yours for we forget that most often experiences are the very things that lead us to believe what we do and shape us as who we are.  If you've never walked a day in someone else's life, then well...you know, just do your own thing and let them do theirs. 
5.  Be tolerant that someone else’s POV could possibly be right, even as yours is right (to you).   And while I shouldn’t have to say this but also try to see where you could, just maybe, be wrong.  

Look, there’s a lot more I can wish so you can go ahead and fill in the blanks.  If I went to list them all out this would be a bloody book, not a blog and as it is, this is way longer than I intended (as all of my blogs tend to be…hmmm…).  Just know that at the end of the day, I want good to come to you, that’s all.  I’m not too nice to want this, I’m just human.  I want this.  I am greedy for all the things above so I’m just putting out there what I want back.  And if somewhere along the way you get any of these things than I have found the first thing that I listed, happiness. 

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate. 
Happy Chanukah to those who celebrate.
Happy Holidays to every single one of my readers whether you’re celebrating something or not.

I pray that 2018 be way less an epic mess than 2017.            

A Muslim During Christmas

The holidays are here and I feel the excitement building within me as good cheer and spirit begins to fill my being.  Whoa…that was one cheesy line but nonetheless true and inevitably this happens every year, regardless of how I try to tell myself to calm the hell down.  It happens without fail as soon as the leaves start to turn colors.  First, it’s all about Halloween.  Then of course Thanksgiving, although the Indian Music and Dance Competition that my family has been hosting for the last 34 years competes against it (pun intended), so I can never totally enjoy it to the extent I would like but then…my utmost favorite holiday, Christmas. 

Right at this moment, particularly if you’re a new blog reader of mine, you’re cocking your head to one side, scrunching up your brows and even possibly scratching your head as you think, “wait, but isn’t she Muslim?!”  I’ll spare you the scrolling and confirm that indeed I am very much a Muslim.   So how is it that not only do I get hyped about Christmas but that I also actually put up a tree in my home (which is presently standing all twinkly and beautiful in my formal living room as we speak)?  I shall explain why and the philosophy behind the decision.  Consider this a twofer.

In honor of my big bro, his fav cartoon character.

It probably wasn’t until I was 10 that the first tree went up in our home.  Before that, regardless of how I pestered (which I did a lot) my parents to let me decorate a tree, they steadfast refused without much explanation beyond they were parents and didn’t have to tell me reasons.  I grudgingly accepted while muttering under my breath and stomping away.  That memorable day though, as we came home from our last day of school before winter break, it had started to snow and I was busy catching flakes on my tongue, leaping and twirling while my older bro rolled his eyes and slugged along, his face set into a scowl.  I was positive that my brother actually didn’t know how to smile unless he was with his friends but witnessing at home when they weren’t around?  It just didn’t happen.  Let’s just say that my brother was and still to some extent is an introvert. 

When we came abreast to the house, a smallish white rancher with a big yard and long driveway, the curtains of the windows were open wide and there it was, clear as day.  Emitting a shriek, I took off at a dead run as my brother gave chase.  We burst through the door and screeched to a stop as we beheld it: scrawny, plastic, but oh so glorious…our first Christmas tree ever.  There were boxes of ornaments spread around the base and coffee table, begging to be hung.  And my parents were also there, although I had wondered if someone hadn’t come in to knock them out, take their places and do this for us.  Or Santa clearly had felt I had been a very good girl, was what I had settled on as the most obvious explanation.

After the first gasp of delight, I jumped up and down, as children are want to do, clapping my hands and screaming excitedly in total delight.  My brother even was gaping at the thing with a smile on his face although he was acting super cool about the whole thing.  And before I could leap at the ornaments, my parents first wanted ‘to talk’.  That was never a good thing, even at that age I knew this. 

So we sat so that the parentals could explained that what we were looking at wasn’t a Christmas tree.  Never being the kind known to bite her tongue, and always having a bit of a smart mouth, I quickly pointed out that it sure looked like one.  My mom gave me side eyes without really having to give it to me that promptly shut me up completely.  She’s still able to do that, just FYI. 

To summarize that conversation:  They hadn’t allowed us to have a tree all those years simply because they wanted for us to understand that we were Muslim’s, first and foremost.  They didn’t want to start to confuse us and while they had spent most of their time helping us assimilate to the USA (as well as themselves) when we immigrated, they had not wanted for us to think for a second that it would ever be okay to lose ourselves, our cultures, our traditions and definitely not our religion (oh, wait that’s what R.E.M. meant!).  So while outside of the home we were every bit American as any kid who had been born here, inside the home we were every bit Bangladeshi, eating, drinking, talking, living it all.  I remember wondering what any of that had to do with the undecorated tree standing a few feet from us and at that point I assure you those words did not resonate as strongly as they do now, when I think back on them. 

My parents were brilliant.

They had gotten us to a point in our own evolution where they knew we could intellectually handle understanding what the tree meant, the symbolism, which to us was something pretty and festive, as opposed to the religious significance and ties (even though I don’t believe to this day they even know that it’s actually a pagan tradition, not Christian).  They never wanted us to feel left out, to grow up missing these things and say we had not really culturally experienced life in the states or rather wasn’t allowed to participate even though we were dragged here without being asked.     I feel as if they hadn’t want to begrudge those things that every kid who lived anywhere had the right to participate in if they were a part of the community.

I wonder how tough that decision had been for them in reality and what sort of risk they had calculated giving into what seemed like such a small concession.  The enormity of it now settles around me and I truly do admire them for having had those difficult discussions with us and compromising despite it probably being unnatural to them.

Now, as an adult with a house of my own, I continue to put up a tree.  It stands in a place where if one was to be driving past, the twinkling lights were visible.  It is also next to where I have a scripture from the Quran, a tapestry that my mother had brought back for me when she had completed the Hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca).  I make sure that in the pictures I take of the tree, the wall hanging is also visible.  I do this for a purpose.  A few years ago, when Ramadan was falling around the time of Christmas, I demurred from putting up the tree in respect, my decision, no one else’s.

And when on occasion a fellow Muslim begins to criticize my questionable choice in participating in the tradition, I simply smile, nod and go about my business.  I understand why they think the way they do, I can’t quite blame them for they are speaking from a religious standpoint, but for me, justifying myself to everyone has been something I’ve given up doing a long time ago.  The joy of putting up a tree, decorating it, gazing at the lights brings me pure childish happiness and peace.  Pulling out the ornaments from the last 20-some-years inevitably brings a rush of memories that I’m glad to have had and even though the space under the tree remains empty (we do not exchange gifts), I have no regrets. 

If for this reason, because of a 7-foot tall tree decorated in my home labels me as a bad Muslim to others, then so be it for I believe Allah knows my intentions best and only He can judge me anyway.  I will never tell someone they should do what I do, I will never tell them not to either.  I believe that everyone has reasons behind their actions and it is not my place to judge them for it, as long as it’s not hurting anyone else.  Kinda simple, eh?

Now you know the meaning behind my tree.  I hope you enjoyed this blog and have a great holiday!

Peace! 

Truth About Unemployment and the Grieving Process

I find that I’m a bit confused as to what to do with myself these days.  This unemployment has lasted way too long and while I’ve diligently at sending resumes out every single blessed day, the struggle has been a soul-destroying one.  You think I’m being dramatic?  Actually, and for a change, I am not. 

I do believe that being laid off is akin to any sort of major loss one goes through.  You also move through the 7 stages of grief that is akin to the death of someone close.  I know those words are ruffling a few feathers out there even as you read them.  Of course I understand that losing a loved one is so very final while unemployment does not need to be (often it isn’t unless you’re just straight up lazy or have the worst luck ever).  Naturally a life is far more precious than something as almost trivial as a job, I know this and I am not attempting to be a jerk by comparing the two in that sense but rather my aim is to establish a close parallel.  Stop calling me an insensitive jackass in your head.  Just indulge me and read on, okay?  I swear you’ll come out of this read not hating me.

For those who do not remember where this started, 2 years and some change months ago I was called into HR and basically given my walking papers with the label of “layoff” attached to it, including a small compensation package.  Sounds really so much nicer than being fired though – “layoff”, right?  Feels no different, rather almost a bit more insulting because in order to get fired you had to participate in the eventuality in some way but with a layoff you have zero responsibility and often zero clue. 

It was exactly at 3pm.  Why does everything funky have to happen around 3 pm (or am doesn’t seem to matter much)?  And that day this news hit me like a full on Mack truck totally out of control and coming at me 150 mph.  The appropriate description of what it left behind would be ‘flattened”.  I’ve written another blog about what precisely that day had been like for me so I’m not going to be redundant and rewrite the whole thing but if you require appropriate reference to the event then you can find the direct link -> here.

I thought the bounce back surely wouldn’t be so difficult.  I was wrong.  Oh, so wrong.  The fact that I was grieving wasn’t completely evident immediately.  People got fired/laid off all the time, big deal?  I was tough as nails and unemployment wouldn’t fell me.  Again, so wrong and so arrogant a mindset, almost as if I were better than others in dealing with something that was relatively common. 

In retrospect I can say that I turned out to be as delicate and as human as just about anyone else in the world.  Go figure.  And in the interim realized that those prior referenced 7 stages of grief aptly reflected the emotions I was suffering.  In researching the grief stages I found that, naturally, different organizations defined them also differently or had some of these categories mushed together and added a few new ones.  Generally speaking the one I’m referencing is simplistic and best describes my journey. 

Stage 1 – Shock

I never saw it coming.  I honestly didn’t.  One minute I was happily employed secure in the knowledge that I was doing a kickass job and the next second I sat in that HR office with my mouth dropped open just inviting flies to enter.  In fact, so great was my shock that the HR dudette gazed at me for a second and said in a slightly bemused voice, “you had no clue, did you?”

No lady, no I didn’t. 

That first second left me truly breathless.  And I remained thus for longer than I probably am willing to admit.

Stage 2 – Denial

During those first moments in the office as I was being axed with assurances of how quickly I would get right back into the saddle, my brain was screaming its disbelief and more importantly – denial.  My brain simply shut down as I went through the process of gathering together personal items and being ‘escorted’ out of the offices like a damn thief to jail clutching my purse, a vase and weirdly enough a collapsible mouse that I treasured.  Once home, I sat on the sofa and refusing to let my brain turn itself back on.  I didn’t want to think.  Thinking would be a bad, bad thing or so I told myself.  The following weeks I kept the news to myself for the most part.  Sure, closest family members had been told in shocked whispers (not by me, rather amongst themselves; I believe I sounded like a zombie when I finally told my mom) but the vast majority of friends/acquaintances had no clue.  As word got around, I started to receive sympathetic texts which were promptly ignored and if I did bother to answer them the response was, ‘no worries, I’m good’.  This became a standard response.  I wasn’t good at all. 

That very first Monday after the layoff I got up for ‘work’, accomplished the rituals of my morning, went down stairs to gather keys to head out and stopped dead.  I had nowhere to go.  The tears wanted to flow but I refused.  Surely I wasn’t without employment, not I.  And not from a place I had loved so much.  If I denied it, it didn’t happen, right? 

Stage 3 – Anger

My mother’s side of the family was/is famous for their quick tempers and flaring anger.  Having been witness to it far too many times, and not liking the fall-out one bit, from an early age I had trained myself to not give into any initial feelings of anger nor react in anger.  This conditioning had thus saved me many a horrid moment to live through and very few regrets.  I’m not saying I’ve mastered the art, not by a long shot.  I often give into annoyance, irritation, aggravation, fury…but they are few and far in-between events.   

And while this probably is a good skill to hone generally speaking, the downside was/is also that often you fail to identify the emotion totally.  For days/weeks/months after the total cut, there was a bizarre barely contained energy within me that went ignored but it was channeled and revealed in other ways such as aggressively chopping onions, snapping at folks over the smallest comments, positive or negative, and the ever present perm-scowl that seemed to have taken residence upon my lips.  Oh, then there was also a constant shimmer of tears - so lovely. 

When friends would dare to ask me directly whether I was angry or not, I would adamantly deny it, rather lauding the company that had so heartlessly let me go, all the while knowing that they had done dirty to me.  While everyone praised me for being so ‘mature’ I seethed inside.  I wanted to break something.  I wanted to scream out the venom like a howler monkey.  I didn’t.  Instead I chose to internalize all that rage while terrorizing those who were concerned for me.  I was also definitely not doing anything good for my mental health either.  Nonetheless the fear was that I would give into all the emotions boiling inside of me and I would just come apart at the seams, never being able to get it back together ever again.  I couldn’t afford to do that.

Eventually though, the dam broke in the worst way possible one fine day, the experience completely dramatic and movie-like, I admit.  I was taking one of the long drives that helped me clear my brain when some douchebag cut me off on the interstate.  I swerved sharply, almost going into a medium but luckily enough, and thanks to mad cat-like driving skills, I came back straight without any incident other than a rise in internal body temperature.  The asshole in the offending car drove off without a thought to the havoc his move had almost caused but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.  I took off after him, hitting ridiculously high speeds in an area that was sure to reward me with a fine or a court date for the effort, no matter how justified I thought I was.  Should I have slowed the hell down?  Of course.  No one has any business to drive like that anywhere other than a race track but the smoke that was coming out of both ears wouldn’t allow rational thought.  A red haze had dropped directly in front of my eyes, which were narrowed and glared solely at the Beamer (of course) as my car ate the distance between the two vehicles.  The speedometer was steadily climbing.  I weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac until I almost reached the offender and then without warning the car was gone, having taken the exit that I hadn’t noted in my fury.  And that was it.  The moment.

Anger, fury…all poured out of me.  I pulled over in a truck stop and screamed it all out, leaving my throat to ache and be hoarse for days.  What about that event had broken me so?  I guess it was that once again I had been subjected to a thoughtless action that (in this case) could have ruined my life.  The other person had walked away unscathed, uncaring of the fall-out.  It so mirrored, I suppose, what had happened with the job but thanks to my denial I hadn’t allowed myself to really be angry.  Yes, I embraced the betrayal at that moment and after that, since then, I’ve let this emotion color my words a bit more, just not viciously. 

Anger = check.

Step 4 – Bargaining

I don’t think I had much to bargain with because during life crisis situations of the past, when I promised this, that and the other in exchange for what my heart so desired, even if I got it I failed to see through my portion of the agreement.  I mean I knew I wasn’t going to give up some major essential thing in my life just so I could get accepted into a program that I really, really wanted to attend.  I failed all on my own plenty of times, I didn’t need to add to it by just purely setting myself up like that.  Still I did go through this to some degree during the last 2 years, however, I just made sure whatever I promised, it would be something I could do or a promise I could keep.  Thus far nothing has worked out which is fine because I really, really don’t want to cut back on coffee. 

Stage 5 – Depression

Probably the longest lasting stage, definitely the hardest to deal with by far as well.  One doesn’t always identify depression right away.  It can manifest in so many ways and for those like me who are stubborn to the core, even accepting that you could be suffering from it is a fairly tough thing to do.  Mine showed in various forms from becoming quiet and never speaking about what was happening inside my brain but needing to escape the house hence long, long drives in any direction for hours to clear my head.  It never worked, the head never cleared.  Rather it was all shut out (yet again) as the eyes took in everything, the brain functioned on autopilot but feelings were all ignored, reality was rejected. 

Depression was, and still is, inevitable.  I do not disregard it any longer though.  I figured it out, that it existed within while I tried terribly hard to fight it although I also succumb to it nevertheless.  The ugly truth is that It weighs you down, your limbs become heavy, your mind sluggish and everything, I mean absolutely everything, that you look at is blurred around the edges. Well-meaning words of encouragement and comfort mean less than zero, the fallout often a retreat even further into that dark box that somehow lends more comfort because you can control what is in that dark space.  Light reveals way too much of your failure and you become paralyzed to know how to move forward, how to actually succeed because all you know is your own perceived failures.

This is depression for me to this day while for others it is different.  In fact, there is no standard way of behaving, no pattern to follow which makes it so much harder to even deal with it.  It’s an intensely lonely place of your own making that you walk through and while some seek comfort in similarity with another human being who could be moving through the same head space, some have no wish to think, much less talk. 

Yes, depression still very much lingers with me to-date even as I go through all the other emotions as well.  I think this is the one that has impacted me the hardest and will be my companion for the foreseeable future until that day I walk into a new job that gives me back my identify and purpose of waking up.  Not a fun fact, but a fact nonetheless.

Stage 6 – Testing

This one confused my delicate little cranium when I first read it.  Testing what?  Life?  The waters?  A hot cup of soup?  Coffee temperature?  Well of course none of that made sense so I had to look at the definition associated with it carefully.  “Seeking realistic solutions”.  Hmmm…okay I get it.

I certainly did a lot of this.  I ran the gamut of possibilities which included *bleh* going back to what I was doing.  Now here’s a thing, I hated what I used to do, not for the job itself, rather because there was little to no appreciation for the profession nor the person who is often an integral part of a team that most likely couldn’t function without this particular skill set, well at least not with ease.   To go back to that would have ultimately meant taking a gigantic step back in time.  For one who doesn’t dwell in history other than learning from it, I had and have no wish to do such a thing.  I will however consider it when things are just that bad, I’m not totally stupid either.

For the record, I did eventually find a path that I’m currently on.  Hoping that it would lead me to quick employment, I’ve been yet again mistaken as well as a healthy dose of frustration that’s accompanied even this new adventure because I have not been able to snag anything.  *sigh* I’m grappling, not well, not always, but grappling.

Stage 7 – Finding a Way Forward

This is where I am currently, well this and depression.  I’ve found one but I have yet to get there totally.

Here are some final thoughts: You know, folks, I’m standing on a bizarre precipice which is a sort of in-between holding a breath and expelling said breath.  That may make little to no sense but for those who get it, will get it.  Inevitably I have withdrawn from a lot of the things I would have done, did do, yet some part of my brain tells me that I don’t have the right to indulge in the little happiness of life when I am not a contributing member of society. 

You know what it is?  A strong sense of guilt.  I shouldn’t be like this.  I have no right.  I had everything given to me, the tools, to be successful.  I have education.  I have experience.  I have connections and a rep, so…so why me?  Why did this happen to me when I did what I had to do and did it damn well to boot?  I know I’m not a bad person, nor did I deserve it nor that I was targeted for any specific reason (that I know).  I know this, even intellectualize it but convincing my heart is a totally different story.  Real talk is that this unemployment has defined me as the very person I am somehow in my head and it’s not a good person at all.  I have no anchor, no purpose, no reason for being.  I cannot make eye contact when talking about the state of things, I am ashamed, I feel worse than useless.  I can’t stop thinking this way even if you try to yell at me to stop it (incidentally, totally the wrong approach to be honest).  It’s not true, of course but I can’t stop the demons that whispers this to me at the oddest most unwelcome moments.  And no matter how much I try to muffle those voices, gag them and shove them into the darkest recesses of the minds closet, they are so wily, finding ways of escaping only to taunt me.  Now they too are a part of my every day, like sending out resumes and waking up with a stone upon my heart, trying to find reason to draw courage and just take a step, any sort of step ahead.

Well there you go, that’s my explanation that I had promised to give you as to losing someone close vs losing a job and the accompanying grief.  Again, I submit that they are not the same thing by virtue of nature that one involves another life and one a job, but yet in the world we live in today, isn’t our job our lives?  Sure it shouldn’t be but I do not live in Utopia.  The emotions can be comparable, I believe, maybe to a lesser extent on some level and greater in another.  I’ve suffered some deep losses in my life so I am no stranger to it at all but this is my personal struggle that I feel, every single blessed agony filled day. 

What I suggest though to you, my dearest reader, are a few ‘do’s and don’ts’ if you happen to know someone who is moving through extended unemployment like I am and wish to help.  Do be sensitive to their plight.  It is real.  Don’t treat it as if it is not a big deal and they’ll get something tomorrow, everyone does!  No, they don’t.  If they could, they would have.  Don’t spew facts at them, they know them.  Don’t also start to throw random ideas about what they could be doing instead.  That so doesn’t help at all because anything you could have thought about, they probably already considered.  If there is something unique that you would like to propose, then do see if they are open to hear it, don’t just go blabbering and do make sure it’s relevant to what they want to do and not to what you think they should be doing.  Do talk to them if they are open to it about how it’s okay to mourn the loss of their job/career.  Do let them know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and do try to draw them back into life if they should wish as well.  Don’t auto-assume that ignoring it is better, it’s not but don’t constantly linger on it because they will feel the pity.  Don’t go on and on about your own adventures into a 3-week or 3-month unemployment because that also doesn’t do anything other than them feeling even crappier about themselves.  Do give them space when required but more importantly do understand that they are worth something, whether they believe it or not. 

Lost Memory of the Best Chai Ever

You know what I realized?  Blogging has become difficult for me simply because I don’t know what to discuss.  I mean, I know what I can write about such topics as social injustices of the world or even politics (which lately has a close tie in with injustices) or even something that’s pissing me off (typically speaking that’s always connected to the Orange-Menace aka the US POTUS *barf*) but I start to type it all out and then somewhere along the way I think of the thousands of blogs being published that probably are the exact same and I quite abruptly lose my mojo.  What’s the point in saying the same thing nearly everyone else is and probably doing it better than myself?  Instead of that happening, I’ve just avoided the whole blog thing only logging back on occasion to gaze wistfully at it thinking, “but I have so much potential”.  Then I had a sort of breakthrough.  Let me explain how that happened. 

Three days ago dawned bright and cold.  On FB I spied a private message sent to me by my girl “A” bemoaning her foray into chai making and how precisely abysmal it was.  Asking her how something so simple could have gone that wrong, she listed the ingredients that had been used.  My innards cringed.  Even as she swore she wasn’t ‘basic’ and wailing out her everlasting love of chai, my head didn’t stop spinning as to how anyone (namely the chick who posted the recipe) could take something so damn easy and complicate the hell out of it.  Almost horrified, I tapped out a quick message saying I would definitely give her an easy recipe on how to accomplish said brew without a mess of additional ingredients and it would be authentic to boot.  Her enthusiasm was palpable as we jumped onto the phone and started to chat/catch-up. 

After the good deed for the day was done, I recalled a story connected with chai and repeated it to her.  Upon completion I heard no snores, which I took as a good thing and quickly realized that instead she had actually enjoyed this memory.  It was then when I thought, “I should really write this shiz down in my blog”.  In the past it had always been these random memories that I enjoyed the most in sharing.  Why not then this one? 

Chai (the literal meaning of the word is ‘tea’ so when you say Chai tea, your ass is just being redundant so stop it, right now.  What these marketing wizards should encourage you to say is ‘masala chai’ which is the mcnasty crap that Oprah has pimped out on you…FYI it’s not even slightly legit) is a way of life for a lot of South Asians.  We begin and end (including all minutes in-between) the day with the strong, milky, sweet brew.  It’s thick and when made right coats your tongue in a sublime manner that transports you to some Zen place and all you need is a small cup (and no therapy) to be totally satisfied although rarely is that enough because with chai we SA’s are insatiable.  I’ve had some great cups of chai in my life but none of it has ever compared to the brew I had in India that night so long ago.

At about the age of 17, I went to visit my dad’s eldest sister and her family in Berhampur, India with my mom.  We had to take a 7-hour break neck bus ride which we caught at the crack of dawn in Calcutta proper near the train station.  The bus didn’t have AC and it was about 1000 degrees outside. During this monumental drive it was brought home to me that Indians really did take their love for bovines quite seriously and the whole concept of ‘break for cows’ was no joke, not humans, just cows.  And the drivers were uber patient about it too, waiting without honking as the lowing creatures (often in gaggles, sometimes singular) would amble in front of traffic or take a seat on the hot asphalt as if that were their homes and we were indeed the ones trespassing.  There would be a little boy who would hop off the bus every now and then and shoo a particularly stubborn brown hulking mass off the street and off we would go until the next jarring breaks would be applied.  It was all quite eventful and I was fairly sure we would die in a twisted crash with the cow coming out untouched.  The ride was thus endless in my estimation.

Berhampur, with the Ganga (Ganges) running through it, hugs the coast of the Bay of Bengal.  It’s a surprisingly bustling little town, my aunt (along with her husband, 5 daughters and 2 sons) lived in a sprawling old flat that had belonged in my father’s family for as long as he could remember.  Their home had a bunch of rooms that created a big ‘U’ shape while in the middle was the open court yard.  There too was located the separate outdoor kitchen, the outhouse and the bathing house.  There was also a water pump that I used liberally but that’s another story for another time. 

My cousins and I would climb the steep stairs to my aunt’s tailor shop (located on the 2nd floor) to sit in the narrow balcony and talk about old folklore or to giggle and share insight into one another’s lives since we had never met before and had a lot of quality gossiping to do.  Sometimes, we would keep climbing and head to the roof to sprawl out on a large wicker mat in order to snatch only slightly cool breezes in the evenings, particularly when the load shedding would begin.    Usually these moments were with the female cousins but one night the two male cousins demanded that we forgo our trek up to the roof and instead accompany them.

It was close to 10 pm when we set off, the party also including Phoopi (dad’s sister) and Ammu (my mom).  Slowly we meandered the lit streets of the quiet town, weaving through narrow side alleys which seemed perfectly okay to do though I was somewhat aware that it had the potential of being a foolish move considering that muggings weren’t exactly unheard of even when involving such a large party.  I figured the muggers were tired and at home themselves.  But I was young and excited so of course invincible hence I threw caution to the wind and didn’t utter a word of warning.  My brothers (aka cousins) wouldn’t reveal where we were headed, not that I cared.  I was having far too much fun just taking it all in including the smells of the town.  The tantalizing aromas of a 1000 dinners gently chased after us as we played a game of “identify the food”.  The weak lights overhead guided our way.

Funny how so many memories of the past are blurry at best, dim shadows or hazy pictures.  The mind can create so many fillers to replace reality so that the picture is more fulsome.  But my mind works slightly different.  I take mental snapshots, not on purpose, and it most often accurate lasting a lifetime.  These were one of those snapshots that I recall with such clarity that I can almost feel the night heat on my skin. 

Not a picture I took

but you get the idea as to what the steps look like

It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination and I was brought up short.   There in front of us only about 100 feet away was the Ganga.  I had never seen it before so was completely unprepared as to how impactful it would be, a total ‘stop breathing’ sort of experience.  The water of the Ganga was a muted sound of rushing by and gentle lapping.  All around there were hawkers out selling delicious edibles from small carts that boasted kerosene lights or candles to illuminate the way.  I smelled roasted channa, samosa’s flakey and fried golden brown, phuchka waiting to be filled with the spicy contents and filled with tamarind sauce.  We moved forward as a group as I gawked, taking it all in.  Several steps led down to the bank but my cousins suggested we stay near the top.  I asked them why and one explained patiently it was because otherwise the alligators would come by and snatch us into the water.  At first I thought they were joking, trying to freak me out but there was no laughter.  Okay then.

There were others there besides us as well.  Big groups, smaller ones, couples making the most of the darkness to surreptitiously hold hands while mooning at each other.  Across the river, far away, I could see the telltale signs of life in the form of tiny spots of light.  Someone was playing music from a radio somewhere, a group further down kept bursting into song and laughter. 

Settling down my eyes were drawn to the water that snaked its way realizing that generations of Hindu’s came right here to worship, cleanse themselves, or spread the ashes of their loved ones.  Later I would learn that those who committed suicide or came to some unscrupulous end would be basically be dropped into the Ganga, so it wouldn’t be totally weird to have a dead body wash onto shore.  I can say I’m glad I didn’t know this at that moment although the alligators worried me enough.  My cousins, interesting enough since they are Muslim’s as my mother and I were, began sharing stories of the Mahabharata (an epic narrative of the Kurukṣetra War and the fates of the Kaurava and the Pāṇḍava princes). 

I was completely enthralled, barely noticing as one of the family members motioned to someone behind me.  Feeling a presence beside me, I looked up and there stood a boy, probably no more than 7-years-old.  Without any sort of exaggeration, I can say that I will never forget this kid although the finite details of his face escapes me so many decades later.  He was bare-chested sporting dirty orange colored shorts, or what I thought was orangish in hue, and thong leather sandals encompassing dirt covered feet.  A red, green and white linen towel was slung around his neck limply. 

The closest I could find to the cup that we had used.

In the crook of his arm hung a large beat up metal tea kettle half the size of his body causing me to wonder how he managed to stay upright without tipping over to the right.  The other hand was extended straight down his side holding easily a stack of possibly 25 small tea cups sans handles, sort of like the tea cups you probably ran into the Chinese restaurants here in the USA.  They were made of clay though, without any finish, fitting into the palm of one’s hand for ease of holding.  These cups were nestled under his chin so that they were perfectly balanced.  The young urchins smile was wide, gamine as he approached us.  He was instructed to sit with us to provide tea until the kettle ran dry and he agreed readily once he was assured that he would be paid handsomely for his attention.  Each cup cost a whopping 1 rupees.

The first sip of that brew was nothing I’d ever tasted before.  Again, coming from a family of tea drinkers and having indulged in many a pretty fantastic cups before, this was indeed special.  To this day I confess I have yet to taste the likes of it.  I knew it wasn’t masala chai since there was no taste of cardamom, clove or cinnamon, in fact nothing more than water, thickened milk, strong well steeped tea and sugar.  As simple as that.  After the first sip I was hooked and three sips later I was done staring down at the dregs of tiny granules of what I assumed was the clay which didn’t skeaze me out since I figured it just added to the overall taste.  Yes, dirt could be the missing ingredient.  Who knew!

Looking around I was about to put the cup down carefully when one of my other cousins simply tossed hers onto the stairs a short distance away.  With horror I watched it shatter into pieces.  Why would anyone do that?  Did these people have no sense of recycling at all, I had wondered in astonishment. 

My cousin accurately interpreted my outraged thoughts explaining that it was what everyone did indicating with a motion of her hand to the evidence all around us.  I hadn’t noticed.  She patiently went on to tell me that those cups cost the little boy barely anything and that the alternative option wasn’t actually hygienic since he probably didn’t have access to an abundance of clean water.  Plus, she went on, there were several people that benefited from this destruction such as the sweepers that were employed to come and clean up the mess and the cup maker who was incentivized to keep plying their trade.  In essence it was a win-win for everyone.

This made sense seeing as how the vast population of the people, at that time, was made up of citizens who were well below the poverty level.  In a country like India, every day folks didn’t give a rat’s ass about recycling as much as they cared about where their next meal would come from and how.  I couldn’t fault them any of this and was able to join in the flinging of the cups but maybe with not the total aplomb that the rest did.  Even my mother seemed hesitant.  At one point I asked the boy who brewed the tea.  His mother, he replied a bit proudly.

That little boy sat with us late into the night until I noted him dozing while still on his haunches.  How he managed to do this was impressive to say the least.  I elbowed my mother gently, tipping my head towards him and her eyes softened.  The tea had long since ran out, between all of us we had dispatched the cups along with the brew.  When we roused him, embarrassed he had stood up and insisted on getting us more but we refused and my mother handed him a generous amount of monetary compensation.  At first he said he would have to get change but when my mother indicated that it was all for him, he stood motionless staring wide-eyed down at his hand where the 100-rupee note was clasped.  Effusively he thanked us, picked up the empty kettle and raced off. 

When I asked Ammu later why he looked like he had been on the verge of tears at the amount she had handed him, after all he had sat with us for so long giving up finding other potential customers, she told me as she wrapped her arm around my shoulder and we headed home, “it would have taken him many more hours than the few he spent with us to earn the same amount of money and even though it was nothing for us, for him it was a lot.  It can mean that possibly he won’t have to be worried for the next few days as to where he’ll make money and probably do half as much work.”  My heart tightened and as we walked slowly back towards the awaiting beds, I thanked God for all the luxuries I took for granted, hoped that the kid would grow up and out of the present circumstances of his life (although I knew that would be difficult) and knew I would forever remember the taste of that tea. 

The only thing I regretted later would be that I never saved one of those little cups. 

Misunderstanding of Counterparts and the Need to Listen

One thing ultimately awesome about being an immigrant with roots in another country, I am exposed to a vast amounts of languages/traditions/cultures and not much is truly a mystery I’m not willing to uncover.   I say this because it’s a bit surprising to me when people here, in the USA, tell me that in some cases they’ve never even ventured from their states, much less to another country and one main reason is the intimidation factor.  I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again, this truly astonishes me.  The way I look at it is that there’s a huge world out there and it’s dying to be discovered along with people that we should be meeting.  We should have incredible stories of others from different parts of the world that we regale our friends at home with and prove that we are indeed exposed.

Anyhow, I digress.  This blog entry isn’t another about traveling because that would just be redundant.  Have I told you about how obsessed I am with the idea of traveling, lately?  I did?  Yea, I did, okay so back to what I was trying to say but I keep wandering off course…so cultures, exposure, yada yada yada.  The wonderful fallout from this is that a person makes friends with folks all around the globe and learn quickly that there are commonalities to be found all over the place. 

Sure anyone can argue that with the advent of the internet we are connecting with a more varied amount of humans.  What I would say back to them, with a wise look upon my face, is that while they are right, it can be argued that we also still gravely lack the ability to really understand one another despite the chatter/connection.  During these long discourses with someone living clear across the world, we are more interested in telling them about our lives (maybe in order to impress) than to really listen and learn.  And in the process we have in mind an image we’ve been lovingly spoon fed by various outside outlets even as the person on the other side of the computer tries to reiterate what life is truly like for them.  But we humans for the most part are visual creatures and without real life representation (at minimum a picture), it is difficult to accurately interpret things as they should be as opposed to as how we think they are thanks to our own mental pictures.  And because there’s a lack of openness in sharing knowledge as well to some extent, we easily misunderstand or believe in stereotypes which are just that, stereotypes.

Now, the motha-land for me is Bangladesh, but also India.  Keep that in mind as I move forward with this blog.  There was a time when I worked at a company which had little actual work to offer me and thus I was bored for most of the day.  There was also the fact that I didn’t particularly like most of the obnoxious colleagues and my escape was an Indian chat site.  I had heard about these a lot and trying to avoid the Yahoo alternative options which were rife with jerks and outright perverts, I just wanted conversation, even educate myself as to the real life mentality of those who lived across several land masses from me.  I made a lot of close and dear friends during those years as an active chatter.  It’s funny how a nameless, faceless person can know more about you and understand you better than the very people who you see and interact with on a daily basis. 

One of these friends, who lives in India, hit me up a few days ago after quite a long hiatus.  Some friendships are meant to stand the test of time, distance, “IA” (as I will reference moving forward) and I have precisely this, a friendship which is understandings of each other’s busy lives and that we can’t always be a priority.  We had long since known that our friendship meant something and with that acceptance and understanding was born tolerance of the silence which would oft stretch out for months between us.  But when the connection was once again reestablished, it came back stronger than ever.  There’s a lovely familiarity in the words typed by someone who is dear.

In this instance, IA, after catching me up on the ongoing of his world, informed me that I had been brought up as a topic of discussion with his friends.  I admit I was confounded not to mention curious.  He explained that he had gone out to treat his friends to Iftar (the fast break meal) and had mentioned the American Bangladeshi friend (namely me) who also observed the fast, showing them pics of the homemade food spreads from long ago.  IA told me that they, his friends, were quiet amazed that we, namely this rando Muslim raised American chick, would observe it (Ramadan) in this traditional fashion.  IA quipped that they had basically believed/assumed that we, their foreign counterparts, basically went to KFC to grab a bucket of Sanders original recipe to snack down on.

There was a moment of outrage on my part that oozed into a sort of weird confusion.  Did the brownies back there really think so little of us over here that we had no concept of any traditions/customs?  I wondered if they also figured we were, every single last one of us, heathens who didn’t practice/follow any sort of organized religion (I already knew for a fact that most over there thought that we over here have no moral compass of which to speak).  I get that “we” can be a bit of a mystery to those over “there” and very much misrepresented thanks to media but to this extent truly blew my mind.

I continued my convo with IA who was equally as mystified (as well as amused) since he has known me forever and due to this exposure, also had an insider firsthand account of what life and reality in this part of the world was/is truly like.  Through the years and via IA I’ve also learned much about a country that may contain my decedents but is unknown to me since I’ve never spent significant amounts of time there.

But today, I’m here not ust to recount this particular conversation in an effort to prove I’m super international but rather to speak to my friends who do not live in the states, more specifically those who are in the land of the browns, my ancestral homeland. 

Look, y’all…you’ve been fed a lot of glitter.  It’s been sprinkled upon you at every opportunity by Hollywood until you believe the hype.  You have a certain image of what non-Desi’s are but even in regards to what we brown American’s are, your perception is wayyyyyyyyyy off.  While you live in a world where you eat, breathe and drink your culture, we have to create it, nurture it, foster it, love it and pass it down from generation to generation in hopes that it will stick.  And if it doesn’t?  It’s gone.

Here’s a bit of truth for you:  Our parents here work extra hard at keeping alive the traditions and values that are embraced there so easily, found so readily, taught so widely.  Over here the environments need to be recreated, over and over again.  And in the meantime here, we are also equally taught to love what isn’t familiar to us, namely the environment that is fostered outside the doors of our homes.  But let me assure you, our houses are filled with the smells of ethnic foods that would be familiar to you, the sounds of languages that aren’t commonly found outside are found within the 4 walls of our homesteads and we have closets of clothes that accurately reflect our heritage simply waiting for the occasion to wear them with pride, which we do.  And all this happens even while we are smack dab in the middle of a world that keeps asking, “what is that…what did you say…why do you…”.  We are looked upon as mysteries and are always busy defending our actions or explaining them, which sometimes can be worse than defending.  At least at bare minimum there is a point in defending, some sort of misunderstanding but to have to constantly explain the smallest and most inconsequential actions is irritating.    You have no idea how much patience it takes to not snap back at times, “you are so not the center of the universe and there are other things that people do on a daily basis that does not have to be explained to you, nonstop.”  But that’s not terribly inclusive…

We “foreigners” (ironically it seems this word can apply to us whether we are born here or lived here our whole lives or there since we live here K) leave the house to switch off one side of an inherent personality only to turn another on.  We assimilate, this is demanded of us.  We acquire accents, mannerisms, habits that are all a part of this culture only to go home and revert back to the other.  We are one thing with one community, a totally different thing with another.  And we have to screech through the rafters that we can belong in both without being a copout of the other, damn it. Yes, in our cars we listen to radio stations that have a varied amounts of music that are local but switch to a CD or plug in our MP3’s and have Bhangra or the most recent popular Bollywood song blast from the speakers.  We have the ability to switch languages without pause (sometimes stumbling over the right words in either of the languages).  We may look for the perfect black dress, but we also hunt for the perfect sari.  We make lasagna at home as well as Biriyani.

Similarly, and as shocking as this may be, we celebrate our religions just like you do there.  If you go to mandir (temple), so do those here.  If you’re headed to the mosque to do a few rakats of namaz (prayer), well same here.  If you’re cooking up a storm to celebrate some particular holiday, we are also, except that we are driving an interesting distance to get the same ingredients that is readily available outside your doors.

Oh, and as for our own level of ‘Desi’ (as in how Indian we are)?  If you think we are less than yourself, let me point out some of the obvious here.  We fight incredibly hard to straddle two (sometimes more) cultures simultaneously and this shiz is not easy.  We have multiple masks we need to seamlessly switch out and if we decide to embrace our cultures, we do so without excuse.  And it’s effin’ exhausting, people, trust me.  I mean who likes to leave their homes in an outfit that you (in India/Bdesh/Pakiland) would wear to the corner store and no one would stare at you while here every eye in the place checks you out thoroughly not because you’re particularly stunning but because you’re…odd, unfamiliar.  Yea, that’s the struggle. 

And yet you think we aren’t Desi enough?  All that I wrote above isn’t enough?  Okay, well enough defending myself and my foreign brethren.  Let me point out this because having more than enough family/friends who reside ‘back home’ (I mean in all honesty home for me is Baltimore, Maryland so…) I know too that we aren’t the only westernized people out there.  In fact, to me, Desi’s tend to be far more keen on embracing the western world way of doing things than we do here. 

For us, in our everyday lives we have to be western to survive, after all we LIVE here, but what’s your excuse in doing the same?  You watch the same movies, follow the same news, pick up the same popular verbiage, dress the same, imitate mannerisms but why, I wonder?  Particularly if you’re so gosh darn proud of who you are, your heritage, your culture, your blah blah blah?  Is there some psychology behind this contradiction?  You’re doing the same thing but criticizing others for doing it?  Is it some bizarre sense that if one doesn’t morph, then one is left behind, or is uncool, or just won’t be accepted by the rest of the world when you westernize yourself?  But in a country where everyone is just like yourself why is there this need at all?  I’m not mocking, I’m legitimately wondering.  And if you yourself prefer to live a westernized life, why sneer at us for embracing only that which we know while you are appropriating something that is indeed ‘foreign’, not yours at all and doesn’t need to be for you to survive?  Think about this hypocrisy for a minute.

What’s the moral of this blog?  It’s kinda simple.  Don’t assume.  Anything.  Give those who you do not know the benefit of the doubt.  And please, take the time to open discourse with your opposite so that you are able to educate yourself instead of living in a dark cave of misinformation.  Understand that you may not know them, their intentions, their struggles which is okay. 

Oh, and just to be utterly fair let me say that this frustration of ignorance isn’t aimed solely at those who live in Desi-land but also to those who are “here”.  We are just about as bad in making asinine assumptions about the other.  We will make snap judgements as soon as we hear an accent and think, “oh they’re FOBS [insert eye roll of superiority]” (fresh off the boat), or uneducated, or in fact not as cool as we are or whatever it is that we dumbasses think.  To me this is almost, if not more so, bullshitty and infuriates me to no end, causing me to gnash my teeth like no one’s business (I’ll probably need a lot of dental work eventually).  Truthfully, some of my most intelligent and ‘in the know’ friends are in fact from the land of my forefathers.  And if I have to be brutally honest?  We American Desi’s are the worst at these uninformed judgements.  We think we are so damn smart that there is no way in hell that our counterparts could beat us in the department of damn near any topic and thus we do not have to give them due credit.  Screw you, you know-it-all.  Shut up and listen sometimes, you never know what you may learn, ass.   

So yea, let’s all try to keep open minds, shall we?  Is this too much to ask for, cupcake?  it’s way easier to find common ground this way than making a pack of bullshit assumptions that turn out to be precisely that, bullshit.

Anyhoo, lovelies, my lecture for today is finito.  Enjoy your day, regardless of your landmass.