XXXVI. The Pretty Ugly -

I woke up at 3 AM in a daze and looked behind me- where the sole window in my dorm room is - only to find snow blanketing the ground.

My first thought was - it’s pretty… reminiscent of my childhood in New York when me waking up to snow would foreshadow a beautiful Northeastern brisk winter day. My mom would bake something warm and tasty and I could cuddle in the warmth and safety of my home, my happiness, and the peace of mind that the snow provided because it acted as a barrier between the outside world and my home- my abode.

Immediately after this mid-sleep thought, I cringed, dropped the elbow I was leaning my head on, and sank back under my cover where I continued to cringe and contract into a horrid sleep - the kind of sleep I have had every night for the past 3.5 years at my pretty ugly Ivy League college.

The snow is pretty ugly…

It’s a texture that is hard as a rock, but at the same time, is soft enough to stick onto your footwear - mocking you as you track it’s white dandruff-looking molecules wherever you go.

The most tragic part is that even though it is not snowing and you don’t have to use your umbrella, lest people think that you are socially awkward/an out-caste/ the counterpart to old ladies who use an umbrella on the most pleasant of summer days…

… the lingering snow whirls around, uninhibited, involuntary, inferior only to the wind.

As a result, wet rain-like drops are all around you.

It might as well be snowing. At least then I can use my umbrella without society singling us curly-haired persons out in a uniformly standardized disgust

I walk without a hat…

….because I never wear hats and  I just went up to my room again to fetch an umbrella in the case of rain, and I forgot my ID again, and I do not want to sign in and go up yet again.

So here I am, with my curly hair that reacts to all dampness by curling further.

I have just straightened the shortened bang-like pieces of hair on the front of my head and pinned them up just so - close to perfection or at least the perfection that enables me to walk out of my room knowing fully well that people will see me and not minding that people will see me.

The Pretty Ugly -

Apparently my hair is “interesting” and is of a “texture” in which me cutting it would not be conducive to anything but accentuating the texture.

Two different people had told me the above.

Exasperated by the fact that I have to remain politically correct, even though I have about a hundred come-back-ammo in my possession that I could easily let slide out from my brain to my vocal cords to the sound waves that hit their ears, I call my mother.

“They’re just jealous.”

Why on earth would I want to have the same hair as most: straight, fringe-like, fine pieces of a poor excuse for hair - it’s as if you’re perpetually  keratin-deficient.

Why would I want strands of white hair during my early twenties or have hair on places other than my head?

The Pretty Ugly -

Your twenties and college life are supposedly the primacy of a human’s life.

I beg to differ. The skin on my hands are perpetually cracked and bruised due to the constant typing and writing in air-conditioned study areas and no amount of cream will let them heal.

The Pretty Ugly -

Nowhere do I feel prettier than when I am away from the here and now - away from the nauseating falseness of everyone, away from their close-mindedness, away from the place where snow is no longer magical, away from this place where effort is equivalent to failure -

Oh but the Victorian-looking buildings are gorgeous - the winding collegiate campus is effervescent!

The pretty ugly -

Life cannot be so bifurcated, right?

Things can be pretty without being ugly and vice versa, hai na?

Some hours have passed and the book I have been reading provided me an answer to the question above:

“Feroz - husband and oppressor; lover and tormentor; victim and victimizer. No man had ever made her happier or more miserable… Feroz had held the keys to her happiness, but those keys had unlocked the gates of hell.”

                                                                                           -Thrity Umrigar

I don’t think this is the answer that I wanted -

XXXV. Please Leave Your Name and Number -

I am so frustrated that I want to scream into the phone so that people who are on the receiving side, will observe the phone on their side tremble as I continue to succeed in producing my very own sore throat.

It is sometime between 9 AM and 5 PM on some day that is not Saturday or Sunday.

No one is picking up the phone and I’m pretty sure Mr. Peter Bob John won’t understand my name even if I did spell it out on his answering machine.

Maybe Mr. PBJ (Peter Bob John) is eating lunch- some  PBJ (peanut butter & jelly). I keep calling - way past lunch time and, what I can only imagine to be a surly, multiple-degree holding university officer that Mr PBJ, is still is not picking up. OK, maybe the PBJ he ate made him have to use the bathroom. No - still not picking up…

What was that just now - a pop-up?

But I was just trying to watch The Kardashians online!

A virus. My laptop has a virus. What happened to my antivirus software? It’s been “disabled” this whole time…. googling antivrus website. And there- in the lower right hand corner in size 8 font - “Contact Us.”

Scrolling… just an e-mail text-box.

Leave an e-mail! There is no phone number? How is that possible…

Just left Best Buy with one hundred less dollars and one less virus.

____________________________________________________________________

AMTRAK: Time to change my tickets. Yes, they have a phone number. Menu options: I can deal with that. There’s no “0” option for operator or to speak to someone. Great, I have to listen to he menu again. Ok. Say my ticket code- but how does the computer know what I’m saying? That’s not for me to know.

“G - 6  - B -  R -  0  -  0   - C  - F”    That wasn’t too bad…

“Thank you. So that’s "P  - 6  - D - 0 - 0 - C - F”. Right?“

No.

"I’m sorry. Let’s try again. Please tell me you’re eight-ticket code.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get that. Let’s try again.”

____________________________________________________________________

Application time: I hope this goes through ok. I cannot be this cynical and technology isn’t so fallible. Application submitted. Great, I even have a receipt!

Decisions will be e-mailed.

E-mailed? Don’t they mean that I will get a code that I would then input into the university’s system?

“You may download your decision that is attached in this e-mail.”

Here’s to staying positive in a binary world -

XXXIV. When The Air is Heavy -

and you cannot deny what is obviously a palpable weight.

No- I’m not referring to the “knowledge” that I write about in post XVIII.

I’m referring to knowledge that is not in terms of intellect or academia.

I suppose I’m referring to a more raw form of knowing.

A form of knowing that is just short of being considered common sense and also a form of knowing that is, as I said before but for the sake of consistency and making a more parallel argument,  a form of knowing that also falls - beyond that which is gained by paying those teachers that I love to hate so much.

That form of knowing - Like when you walk by a person you do not know, perhaps make eye contact with, and feel as though you can somehow connect with that person.

It is the form of knowing that can be verbalized in conversational speech as “you know” or more aptly “yaknow”.

It is that form of knowing; when you act a certain way with someone despite not knowing them well enough to act in any particular way. You act in this manner not because this person reminds of you someone. Instead, you act in this manner  because this person fits your own set of requirements for who this person could be and how said person could relate to you.

As if a future relationship with this person would in fact materialize.

I suppose this kind of knowing can also be defined as intuition, on-the-surface negative connotations aside.

I am thinking about intuition as those times when you start to have mock conversations in your head with that same person with whom you had felt a connection but never actually communicated with, outside physical behavior and subtle non-telling eye contracting and expanding . You’re imagining their facial expressions, anticipating what they’re going to say and when they’re going to say it.

You suddenly snap out of it - after the non-existent conversation, your own self-monologue- has reached the end-point that you had purposefully planned for to be reached.

I know I had said to deplete any connotations related to the word ‘intuition’, but doesn’t intuition - the form of knowing that has been discussed thus far, translate into 'human intuition’?
If this is the case, doesn’t this mean that the person with whom you had a connection also feel that him/her feels a connection with you?

The connection aspect in my case, is neither positive nor negative. If the other person were to also feel a connection, I am unsure if they see this connection as positive or negative.

It’s better to expect the worst case - the person thinks you’re a freak.

I don’t take kindly to such sentiments - overanalysis hits in.

If we are all responsive to our collective human nature - why can’t we just communicate with each other?

Leave it - see what happens - if you see this person again, it’s a sign, it’s meant to be.

You see a person again - on the F train - on lexington avenue - on campus -

I guess the mystery lives on - or the routine lifestyle that enables us to see said person over and over again just means that the person is not worth knowing. Only those people that you see and meet once ad immediately communicate with, are those people worth knowing.

What happens to the connection that was felt then?

Right - Mystery. Isn’t a mystery fundamentally that which is unknown until one proactively seeks out the facts.

Therefore, a mystery = ignorance - right? Isn’t the value of human life to be able to leave knowing as much as you can about the world?

Regardless - I think I feel better not having some random person talk to me solely to define the connection or validate our intuition.

I think -

XXXIII A. Cliches - Still Pesky in the New Year -

I don’t want to air grievances, but….

__________________________________________________________________

I’m hoping I can go to sleep and wake up to the new year, as though I were witnessing 2012 for the very first time.  

__________________________________________________________________

I want to wake up and bring in the new year without a headache.

I want to go to sleep  -fall asleep, rather, (I don’t want sleeping to be a chore), and wake up to 2012 without wrinkles on my forehead.

When I wake up, I’ll make sure to meditate internally-soulfully;  so that I can reach a centered balance, be happy, indulge in my own happiness, and tune out everyone else and their downer New Years-reserved-predilection.

Here’s to   Living on a Prayer - Living in Prayer -

XXXIII. Cliches - Those Pesky Permanent Stains that Can’t Come Out -

You wear your heart on your sleeve.

No- I’m pretty sure our hearts are not capable of being confuzzled and therefore the expression of confusion that our face may at some time conform to, is not in anyway related to the muscle that just happens to be the size of one of our clenched fists; namely, the cardiovascular muscle, otherwise known as the ‘heart’.

In my own case, it was not until I was seventeen that I truly could emote sentiments. It was not until I was seventeen that my dance training had become an inseparable part of me and storytelling through expression and movement was no longer just a meticulously developed skill under the gaze of one of the most amazing dancers I have ever met.

Suddenly I had no control and yet I had total control-

The muscles of my face, moved in such a manner that they could be isolated and yet were also cohesively communicative.

If I’m angry- you’ll see it.

If I’m defiant- you’ll see it.

If I’m timid- you’ll see it.

If I’m happy (rarely) - well, I cannot stop smiling and you will no doubt, be somewhat surprised, to see it.

There are others like me. We’re what I like to call - type haav bhaav.

Us, type haav bhaav - type expression-full - realize that we have the ability to discipline our future children with the quick flash of our eyelids- ENTER: searing-laser-like pupils emerge. We have the ability to produce an air of skepticism by simultaneously lifting and arching our right eyebrow and pursing our lips. We have the ability to invoke fear and as a result, potential enemies.

We are able to mock relentlessly and utilize said facial expressions to communicate what we are not permitted to verbalize: Oh, you think you fancy huh? – Why do you feel a need to hold hands in order to prove that you’re in a relationship? I waited too long to cross the street without holding someone’s hand. Holla –

It may seem like our facial haav bhaav fails us -

like that time when the dude you happen to have sat next to - he happen to have sat next to me - we happened to sit next to each other - almost everyday in the library last year, had headphones on and was apparently watching something funny because he kept muffling his own laughter.

I first expressed disgust at the fact that he deigned to laugh in the otherwise serious environment that the “24 hour study center” connoted in its location (in the basement), and darkly tinted windows.

Something about his laughter, however, was infectious and I soon found myself expressing a foolish countenance - as if I too, were about to laugh.

I think he took notice.

I quickly stared down at my notes and didn’t understand why it was so hard to think of saddening thoughts since I was studying for an organic chemistry exam and was sitting in a library all day, not to mention the fact that I was at Penn, which still is horrible in itself.

I was horrified after I heard myself let out a giggle that could have been mistaken for the rustling of papers or someone passing by- but at that moment- he looked at me and I no doubt wore the expression of someone who just laughed… lips slightly agape and the ends turned up ever so slightly, causing the cathater-like cheeks I had inherited to consequently balloon-up and thereby causing my eyes to squint that as a result obstructed my vision (as if my biological reaction to my own laughter is the equivalent of Indian femininity- shy of one’s own open laughter in the presence of others) and thus causing the dimple on my chin to emerge, all the more apparent and well-contrasted in the dim lights offered by the library’s basement.

He seemed to be towering over me, though we were both sitting, and he looked aghast - as if I had dared to be so brazen as to not control my laughter. Funnier still was that he was Indian too - so not the point -

I quickly looked down at my notes again. I forgot what happened afterward, but the scene could have easily been extracted from a Hindi film (I even remember draping a shawl around my neck and wearing silver dangly earrings to conjure an Indian-chicness that day) = clearly my expressions told an entire narrative, without the need for any verbalization.

Most times though, our expressions save us.

We are also impaths.

We are able to dissect the surface language of an e-mail and understand the diction and the carelessly underlying snippy tone that the e-mail sender decided to include. We are able to read a statement and actually hear the person saying it in our ears.

For this reason we tend to confront, perhaps more than we should.

We can point out those employees who hate their livelihood and then take it out on you. We can detect rudeness and apathy.

Our greatest asset is to stir fear.

A couple of weeks ago some illogical/creepy dude walked into a Starbucks on campus. I was watching the girl’s belongings on the table next to me, as per her request before taking off.

There was this guy who walked around the cafe and happened to stop at the table next to mine. He picked up the girl’s drink and started drinking from her straw.

He must be a boyfriend and probably recognized her belongings. The scenario that I just satisfied myself with, surely explains why he took a sip of her drink.

No - the dude was harassing everyone who was in finals mode - apathetic to the nuisance of a guy who came near them and touched their belongings - dirty candy wrappers and the such.

The guy came near me then - I was hunched over my laptop, tears welling in my eyes because I just wanted to go home and I could not anywhere in my highly endowed university, find a place to study in peace.

Aware of his presence, I looked at my kara, remembered that I was a Sikh kudi - Punjabi for “dudette”- and the dude had nothing on me, and so I looked up and flashed a threatening look right into his eyes as his hand hovered over my untouched Skinny Vanilla Latte.

He backed away and looked scared. Succ-ess -

So maybe I do walk through campus looking as though I’m about to punch someone and maybe I do smile shyly if I see a handsome larka - Hindi for “dude”- pass by - (it’s the Indian female reflex.)

I’m the haav bhav type - that storytelling dancer -

I’m that person sitting across from you in the lecture hall and who glared at you when you clapped for the ego-centric academic professor that only succeeded in further disgracing the teaching profession -

XXXII. I Am Her -

who lives, knowing for a fact that “blood is thicker than water” -

        and not just because I am that pre-med - that ambitious and panic-stricken senior who keeps wondering what would happen should she not get admitted into any post-bacc;

       bitterly scowling at the idea of people having mid-life crises and the following epiphany: They too want to be a physician;

       bitterly scowling at the idea of the aforementioned being more appealing candidates for post-bacc than herself;

       than myself.

              Myself… me, who had my grandmother stitch me a white coat with “Dr. Oberoi” threaded on the upper right pocket, for Halloween in 1995.

I am her-

who would do anything for her family,

      who doesn’t need to surround herself with obligation/online chatting/party in da club “friends” -

I am her-

who grew up learning how to live in reality and to resist any disguised reality-

and so I am her-

who found college to be the lowest of the low.

               Why?

because college is a non-existential mirage. College is reality - in its own respect, or lack thereof.

I am her -

who lives, knowing for a fact that “blood is thicker than water” -

I am her -

who was done wrong by the Ivy League and yet is hungry for that Ivy Degree that will make its way in May -

I am her-

who studied and studied and studied - “the right way”….the wrong way" -

           “You’re not strategizing!”

           “You don’t need to master the material!”

I am her -

who is not to be blamed.

           Why?

because I was done wrong.

I was done wrong.

I am not to blame… I studied and studied and studied.

I am her-

who lives, knowing that “blood is thicker than water” -

I am her -

who couldn’t care less about everyone else and so I walk through that library with a scowl. Yes, I know it’s there. It is not deliberate, but I am aware of it.

        I am aware of the tension on my forehead, the constant cracking of the knuckles, and the unnatural working of the muscles that are working on the corners of my eye to make them squint in such a way so as to communicate:

        “Dare challenge me- go for it - you’ll just lose.”

I am her -

who will make it to the top.

I will make myself a part of the elite. I will make it and create a legacy.

Still, I will never congratulate nepotism - I will never rejoice at someone’s sibling getting into Penn: The concept of meritocracy is clearly lost within the Ivy;

       and yet I study and study and study - and suddenly it’s let meritocracy reign! What a hypocritical academic institution I decided to attend… I digress.

I am her-

who lives, knowing that “blood is thicker than water”

    and to jingle bell with everything else-

XXXI. One of Those Days -

My Windows Vista Clock reads 11:00 PM.

In one hour, it will be tomorrow -

It will not be a day like today was.

That is to say, today was one of those horrid days and there is no chance that I will embrace the vulnerability to enable tomorrow be as today has been.

Remember - it is still today….

You wake up late - midday- and you are woken up by someone other than yourself. As a result, you already feel as though you have lost control over the day ahead of you.

Suddenly you don’t know what to wear. For some reason your hair looked an infinite amount of times better before you went to sleep and right after you woke up, than it does when you’re getting ready and are about to leave.

In an attempt to conjure up a new, pretty-looking you, an hour passes and you still are standing in front of the mirror, all the while reflecting on whether or not you are shallow to be worrying about how you look, only to be going to the library.

I won’t say what happened later during my day - there was nothing dreadful, nothing good - just a day of nothingness.

If I were to provide details, it would be as though I was venting and personalizing a situation that applies to more than my self - there is a larger context than my own day.

After all, “one of those days” is the epitome of ambiguity and specificity - we know what “one of those days” specifically connotes and refers to, but who experiences it and how they experience it, is ambiguous.

In short, my narrative is a a part of a collection of narratives.

My day was analogous to the bathroom doors on third, fourth, and fifth floors of Van Pelt library…

My day, in one image, was the bathroom door that says “Vacant.”

This is a paradox because usually these one-bathroom per person type bathrooms are  always “occupied” and so the following scenario ensues:

Once someone in that bathroom turns the lock to the left so that the bathroom now says “Vacant”,  the person waiting outside the bathroom staring intently at the door so as not to miss the sliding of the little sign go from “occupied to “vacant”, aka the caffeine-induced bladder-possessing student, (who has abandoned his/her belongings under the supervision of a fellow headphone-wearing student who is probably busy straining there eyes on their monitor screen thereby causing them to close their eyes periodically and thus causing them to be oblivious to the state of your belongings), becomes a very happy camper.

Breakdown: “Vacant” bathroom + Student waiting to use the bathroom  —> Student = Happy Camper.

Suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper today. This day - the equivalent to a vacant bathroom door.

Here’s to tomorrow:    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yop62wQH498

Little Annie, I never understood you better than I do right now -

XXX. Brought Up on Blessings -

Apparently I am one of the few people who have furthered the supernatural tradition.

That is to say, it is no coincidence that I have been born into the astrological time frame of May 21 - June 21, associated with the horoscope of Gemini.

I have come to realize that there is, without a doubt, something that is biologically embedded in me that makes me the Gemini who I am.

According to the Penguin published (aka legit status), Super Horoscope Gemini 2009 book, the Gemini, regardless of age, generally has a “youthful appearance.”

Considering the fact that me being a senior in college blows everyone’s mind back home, my Gemini status is already verified.

Or maybe it’s just the genes from my mother’s side. Let’s put it this way, my almost eighty year old grandmother looks like she’s in her mid-sixties and my mother was declined from entering a casino with my father because they thought she was eighteen… my brother was eighteen at the time.

Besides this anecdotal antithesis for those fellow cynics, I truly am that Gemini who, “adapts costuming to suit the occasion.”

I have no shame in staring at myself in the mirror until I feel pretty enough to continue on with my day without worrying about the off-chance that I seem someone, professor or otherwise, who I would not want to see me not looking well-dressed.

Similarly, the art of dancing is wholesome - the aesthetic of the dance includes the costume and so when dancing, I feel that I have to dress the part. If I am dancing hip-hop, the grunge look would be preferential.

When dancing in a way that would make me uncomfortable outside of my room or not in front of the dark depth that a stage offers, I should probably look akin to a Barbie doll, aka accentuating the female beauty the dance movement has already successfully emphasized.

The costume I have put on to suit an occasion, however, does not necessarily mean that the costume is self-enhancing or is in anyway positive.

Question: Why would I intentionally suit myself to an occasion, (only exterior-wise because God help me, I will never change for anyone), if it cannot be considered positive?

Answer: I am a Gemini, that’s why.

Upon leaving my last dance practice of the term, I realized how it was as though a switch went off and I again regained my New-Yorker level of comfortable isolation once I left practice.

In other words, my costume to suit the occasion of practice was taken off once I stepped outside.

That is to say, I usually do not move my hips or dance with sensuality despite the integrity of the dance calling for it, during practice- only during practice.

I take on this costume during practice.

I know that in this situation, my lifestyle (permitting it was a tangible entity that could speak), would say: do not move in this manner at this moment in time, please and thank you.

Of course I know it is only right if I do move in this manner, otherwise the dance is not done justice and I don’t look as if I am the artistic person that I truly am; I was in a chorus- (yes I can sing, but you didn’t know that), I played piano, violin, and alto saxophone.

Still, I take this costume - it is an involuntary response - it is me being Gemini.

It is me validating the astrologers that Indian parents so love.

I can certainly move my body without seeming stiff and uncomfortable- but only when I am alone.

As though I have never moved my hips in my life. If I remember correctly, I’m the one who is half-Spanish, but I digress -

and as prudish as I may be, I am well-read beyond belief in the ways of flirting and the likes.

I have never read, and will never read a romance novel but the imagery and phallic symbolism intricately worked into the diction, tone and sentence structure of the Russian and American classics as well as good contemporary literature, have made me well-read in the concept of sensuality, thank you very much.

But I am Gemini, and so I put on this costume in the situation that I must move sensually in front of eyes - eyes that are not seen when I am on stage.

Since when did knowledge of  the connection that exists between our physical corporeal form as humans and our matters of the heart, become so vulgar to the point of laughable non-sanctity?

I wouldn’t mind having a private dance party in my room and dancing to the likes of something like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5DCNxoUG_38, but I would never in front of anyone else but myself, dance semi-provocatively in any way that may make seem as if I am dancing for someone other than me.

I know that you know,that I know that you catch my drift.

This internal biological switch does not only apply to my dancing here. Growing up my teacher would beg me to not do injustice to her dance, because I was not invoking the necessary effeminacy to successfully lure my abstract prince charming. She would beg me to have masti, a conscious playfulness or loquaciousness, in my eyes and body.

How could I?

How could I enact an adolescent girl’s dream entity of her future-husband, (which by the way, is still the same even at age twenty-one) when the mere mention of a non-related male made by me in my house was something taboo, (and rightfully so - my future child will learn to associate “dating” with a mental image of a scene from a horror movie) -

Also, it is not in my disciplined way of life to so openly allow others to observe my perception of what love is.

How could I embrace my feminine wiles on the same tiled floor where I felt I had connected to the divine?

I had personally thanked God for giving me my culture and allowing me to inherit a dance form so sacred, pure, and skilled. I had molded by body to the form of deities out of respect and praise, to the likes of : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Olg3JdIvA2A&feature=related

My dance teacher would hug me and smile once I had made my way past the backstage area post-performance. Where was all of the intensity and self-displacement within the narrative of the dance during practice?

She undoubtedly knew - she knows who I am.

I can only dance for myself and for the one who I rely on, who I question,and who I praise and admire.

I may put on a costume to suit a situation, but in doing so, I am preserving myself, my peace of mind, my legacy.

By not dancing the way I should have today, I know that I will most definitely displace myself in the character of innocent seductress -  on the stage and with my self-discipline in tact.

I won’t be seeing eyes looking back at me and in turn, I will not be dancing for someone else.

No, on the stage, I ’ll be dancing for myself and the costume that was worn during practice, will be thrown amongst the blush, earrings, and sequined tops that are scattered backstage.

“Writing and public speaking, are arts that you… Gemini can rely on consistently”.

Thank God for that -

XXIX. The bane of my intellectual existence - The Teacher -

The profession of teacher, even at the chocolate milk induced age of seven, struck me as an unnecessary, frustratingly ritualistic, and socially encouraged power-trip.

I know I called you “mom” in second grade, (this childhood mishap only occurred once, mind you), but, you’re not my mother! 

While in high school, my stance against the profession of teacher did not waver. However, I no longer condemned my teachers for unauthorized parental surrogacy. Instead, I disagreed with my teachers in the classroom on a fundamentally ideological level. I challenged their concept of correct writing technique and met their gaze with the resilience of a Harvard-obsessed youth.

Still, I have never been more against teaching as a profession until the first day of my college career.

By now, one realizes that teachers or professors, are human and can be seen outside walking- they’re walking, not strutting as they usually do so that their briefcase swings to the point of unnatural arm extension, and they are silent, not spouting the usual opinionated speech and  future exam questions in their primal form.

While the semantics of hierarchy is something I encourage, I still fail to see how the label “professor”, connoting the teaching of students who are older (age-wise), is directly correlated to occupying a higher rung on the pedagogy ladder.

If you have a PhD and someone else does not, I completely understand the warranted desire for acknowledgment of said sleep-deprived years. However, a good majority of my high school teachers also had doctorates from some of the same academic institutions that my college professors had earned their PhDs from, and so my previous statement stands.

You all, my professors, are teachers.

Teachers are solely the gatekeepers of the grade.

I do not find myself absorbing the content that the teacher who is being paid, so graciously offers. Furthermore,  the teacher is but a subjective medium for communicating facts that is learned outside of the lecture hall anyway.

In short, there is no absorption or extraction, no academic give-and-take, that still remains to be seen as an inherent characteristic of the teaching profession.

Today I overheard a conversation between a graduate student, a professor-in-the-making, and an undergraduate freshman.

The vulnerability of the freshman made me retract in an all too familiar horror. This quasi-professor was stating the identical criticism, word-for-word, that no less than eight of my professors have told me. Didn’t the people who taught you this rehearsed monologue in graduate schools of education tell you about the long-known inefficacy of rote memorization?

Miss grad student, in her overly exerted accentuated speech, stated: “Yes, the problem is not the content; it is not your ideas… it’s your inability to articulate your ideas. You have to be concise and….”

For the most part she is trying to tell you to write using simple sentence structure reminiscent of the students enrolled in E.S.L. (English as a Second Language) classes that were available in elementary school.

When did education become a means for encouraging standardization of academia? - reading the “proactive” way and writing for a bunch of people who, inspired by the recent devaluation of the dollar, are on a mission to bring about the immediate demise of the English language - one of my true loves.

What gives you the authority to hamper the life of another via grading, according to something as irrational as your emotions at a given time?

Sorry Oprah, but the teaching profession is a mockery of the concept of pedagogy and has as much integrity as does the healthy sounding Wheat Thins that has 5 g of fat/ an unsatisfying serving size -

XXVIII. The Burden of Knowing -

I am still unsure of my position on whether or not it is better to reside with a mindset of peaceful ignorance - unaware of the ugliness that runs rampant on a universal scale, or whether or not it is better to be knowledgeable and aware- willing to be open and to unflinchingly observe the ugliness that no doubt exists.

I lean towards the latter position because it is a challenge…

It was a challenge to watch that graphic film for my political science class - I knew it happened. I always knew what it was, but I never wanted to see it. Yet, I watched it happen multiple times, albeit in the form of acting on a film set.

Mentally exhausted and my eyes witness to the capabilities of human fallacy, I decided to leave my room and walk down one flight of stairs in order to escape.

I had to escape from the movie, and, ironically, find refuge, in reality.

————————————————————————

“What’s wrong?”

    I’m traumatized. That film I am watching for my class is tragic…

“You’re really pale.”

————————————————————————

You’re a defective container of knowledge. Your lid does not fully close and you are forever filling up with facts, news stories, literature, metaphors, poetry and spoken word, facial expressions and bodily movements that invoke an immeasurable amount of unspoken truths…

It feels wonderful to feel as though your body is supersaturated and yet you feel light as ever. No weight is put on.

The more knowledge you acquire, the more you can gravitate towards anywhere and nowhere, discussing this, or perhaps, just being shy of discussing that - you realize that you have to politically correct and furthermore, that you want to be politically correct because you want structure.

Isn’t it a burden though? Knowing…

Isn’t it a burden when you have to sit mum and watch as those who are close-minded but confident in the belief that they are surrounded by people who either know less or will not confront them, regurgitate “factoids” reported in yesterday’s gossip column from an extremely ideological-ridden paper?

Memorization + Vocal Cords Being Utilized = Regurgitation  ≠  (DOES NOT EQUAL) KNOWLEDGE

It is such a burden to have to sit amongst people who I cannot carry a conversation with.

It is such a burden to have sit there, the only woman (yes, I’m 21, I’m not that girl anymore - who would cry about her hair not looking like everyone else’s) - it such a burden to sit there amongst these males who are my kin no less, and hear complete and utter nonsensical narrow-minded garbage.

I know more than you do.

Yes, yes I do.

A liberal arts education is far more expansive than anything else. You have to learn to be open-minded and not shut down ideas as they flow.

Colleges are ranked for a reason and it’s time you face the music.

There are not only five professions in this world: businessman, physician, lawyer, engineer, and OTHER.

No, absolutely not! How can you not acknowledge all the specializations that exist?

How can you not understand that without historians, scholars in English from every period of time, medical illustrators, and anthropological ethnographers who study a subset of an impoverished people from a place that could be the equivalent of what we describe as hell, our whole world would consist of only our family, our enemies, our friends, and the 10 mile radius that surrounds our place of dwelling?

I know more than you do…

but I hate that I know so much more to the extent that I know not to correct you.

I know so much more that I understand not to confront because I don’t want controversy to arise - I don’t want internal familial conflict.

And so here I stand - or rather sit, because I am a woman who is wearing a dress and it is politically correct that I sit.

I sit, without speaking, hopefully looking pretty, and yet I see myself reflected in their eyes as still being the youngest and only girl.

…maybe my reflection will finally age when I look down at my hands only to find them adorned with mehndi.

Yes - that’s me.

It is such a burden to have to contain my overflowing knowledge bank and yet to utilize it so that conflict is prevented because the narrow-minded will become defensive and not accept anything less than themselves being right and furthermore, me being wrong.

I know more than you do.

Don’t narrow your eyes at me random uncle sir!

I am not making up stuff. I’m a senior and I am applying to post-bacc before applying to medical school. I’m sure you have a smart phone with internet (unlike me), so google “post-baccalaureate”, because it does exist.

I promise I am not making it up uncle.

Please uncle, google it, because then you won’t make a fool out of yourself,

and then some of the burden of knowing can be lessened -

XXVII. Ode to Home -

You are the place that I grow anxious in - anxious to leave -

                 to leave, only temporarily, so that I can explore -

                 to leave and return

So that you can lull me into a sleep so perfect. So perfect…

                 … a slumber of dreams as if the ghost of the canopy that was taken off the frame of  the bed that I currently reside in, still regards me as the princess who left home before coming back.

The princess who was ravenous for whatever the Queen had made -

                  the princess who gathered herself, in body and in thought, as she ran into the Queens’ open arms that were always soft,

                  and whose essence is still my only definition of what ‘maternal’ is;

                  the princess who received her dose of culture and identity by listening to all that the King knows -

                  the princess who when she leaves home finds strand upon strand of her mane falling…

                         as the stress keeps rising -

                   the princess whose birth story always begins with, “you had a head full of hair - all black”.

I will come back home and you will restore me once more,

                  to again lull me into the dreams that have taken me away from home.

I will return to the origin of my intellect; the place where dialogue provokes thought,

                  and yes, at home, thought is uninhibited,

                  still, at home, purity remains indefinitely,

                  because all that one thinks here, is pure - why?

                  because at home I learned that life can only be lived purely-

At home I stare at my reflection in the framed photo of my ten-month year old self and I realize,

                  that the fluorescent-lit mirrors in the suite I now live in is defective - why?

                  because it reflects everything but the person looking into it.

I will come back home and you will restore me once more,

                  to again lull me into the dreams that have taken me away from home.

I love you home.

XXVI. Unnoticed & Until Yesterday, Unarticulated - ਸ਼ੁਭ ਕਰ੍ਮਨ ਸੇ ਕਭੁਂ ਨ ਟਰੂਂ ||

Do you know that thing that keeps you going?

I suppose “that thing that keeps you going” is a mantra of sorts.

If you answered affirmatively to the question asked:

So you know the thing that keeps you going. It has not gone unnoticed - you have noticed it.

However, having noticed that which keeps you going, does not necessarily mean that this mantra, specifically tailored to your person, has been, or can be articulated.

If you answered “No” to the question asked:

… you may feel that you have been, or that you currently are, at a stalemate - stuck in  the depths of each second that passes by. In processing the question and answering “no”, you realize that you are without that thing, that mantra, that can get you past this stalemate and keep you going.

In this case, your mantra, or thing that keeps you going, has gone unnoticed.

You can be sure that it’s there though. Even the most minor of obstacles, untied shoelaces for example, causes us to subconsciously harp on our mantra so that we can move forward; So that we can crouch down, tie our laces, stand once more, and go on with our day.

_____________________________________________________________________

I had answered “No” to this question in the past.

At that moment I compelled myself to remember how I had moved forward prior to this static position I had then taken to.

I then noticed that thing that keeps me going. I could not articulate it, (not until yesterday), but I had taken notice of that thing that had kept me going and continues to keep me going- that mantra specific to myself.

In an attempt at articulation, I could only think of being myself - but this is not really my mantra.

Upon taking notice, I was again propelled into the happenings of life. The happenings of life are those non - repetitive moments of spontaneity that may or may not adhere to the connotation of wonder and fortuitous experience that “spontaneity” invokes.

I took notice of that something that keeps me going and I still attempted to articulate my mantra. In my attempt, I again arrived at the all too cliche- being yourself, being Reshmi, being silky - until yesterday.

As a Sikh, I always knew that I was a descendant of a martial race. That is to say, Sikhism has an expansive warrior culture.

With that said, yesterday I was listening to a familiar Sikh spiritual self-monologue/battle cry, if you will, on YouTube (aka my method of calming my caffeine-induced nerves when I first sit down and decide to complete an inconceivable amount of work.)

Whilst listening to this “battle cry”, (with the external appearance of being engaged with the books on epidemiology and the Arab-Israeli conflict that were heaped in front of me), I realized that I was only engaged with what was emanating from my headphones.

While sitting in the library, eyes strained from looking at the computer for too long, I started to sing the lyrics in my head and without immediately realizing it, I had articulated ‘that thing that keeps me going’ - my mantra.

More accurately, that thing that keeps me going, was articulated centuries before this day and in the midst of a battle, not a library with an adjoined cafe.

I realized that thing that keeps me going:

ਸ਼ੁਭ ਕਰ੍ਮਨ ਸੇ ਕਭੁਂ ਨ ਟਰੂਂ ||           

Translation: May I never refrain from doing that which is righteous.

This is what keeps me going - knowing that I have to continue doing what is right. Knowing that I cannot deliberately do something that is wrong.

If I drop the environmentally-unfriendly mount of paper towels on the floor that I had used to dry my hands, and then used on the handle of the paper towel dispenser in order to dry/clean-off the wet handle that had someone else’s germs so that I can get more paper towel to dry my again-washed hands, since I had to touch the unclean handle in the first place to get any paper towels at all-

I will pick up the paper towels that I dropped, (with another paper towel), and throw all of them in the garbage. =  Lots of paper towels.

Yes, unfortunately I am part of that 10% of people who after reading, “This sign about how paper towels kills trees results in 90% less paper towels used”, that is plastered on the library’s paper towel dispensers, do not actually use less paper towel.

I am sorry.

I think it is only right that I pick up the paper towels I dropped on the floor, and throw them in the garbage.

By doing what is right, obviously I’m still not near perfect or can even be considered righteous, but I live day to day doing what I can to not deliberately do something that can be considered wrong.

Being myself, not necessarily defined as right  or wrong, is most definitely not my mantra.

I know that I am not being myself but am instead doing what is right when I don’t scream at the person who edited an article I wrote. I could have reported her to a higher board member, (this publication is way too exclusive for its own good). I could have reported her for sprinkling her nonsensical and “fluffy” comments that only serve her self-fulfilling need to feel as though she is proactively editing.

You think a lengthy introduction = no focus do you? First of all, the rehearsed tone of your language is nauseating - Have you ever head of quantity not quality, Miss Shallow?

See- I’m not an embodiment of all that is good, but I still do not do wrong.

Me typing out the statements before the statement directly above this one, the part where I called my editor shallow, is not doing wrong.

Absolutely not - Practicing free speech is not doing wrong and here is some proof for you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lY0wEXkoNs&feature=channel_video_title

I know that I am doing right by not giving into the bureaucratic commands of this Ivy Institution. I am doing right by refusing to reduce my learning to skimming and forming strategies, just for “the grade.”

Those who travel the short-cut routes are kidding themselves by thinking that they have a life, so to speak. (So many people have said this in my four years at Penn - including the college advisers who have to realize that their work office is no place for animals- ahem - dogs.)

Here’s a thought: pulling all-nighters after “having a life”, is actually reducing your life-span.

And if you equate drinking with having life, well, let’s just say your liver and purge-covered esophagus, permitting they are entities capable of thought and forming an opinion, would hate you.

What kind of life is that in which you deliberately perpetuate your ignorance by skimming?

May I never refrain from doing what is righteous.

I’ll say it again: I am not saying that I embody only goodness - I don’t.

I am confrontational when I have to be, I use massive amounts of paper towels, I have lied plenty of times and continue to do so, and I don’t love everyone.

I don’t like everyone.

I cannot even tolerate some people - ok, more than some people.

Still I keep going knowing that I cannot intentionally do wrong and that if I do what is wrong, I won’t be able to keep going forward effectively. If I don’t try to do what is right, I ’ll be stuck.

And when you’re stuck, things seem repetitive and the happenings of life pass you by.

May I never refrain from doing what is righteous = The Thing That Keeps Me Going…

                               … now noticed and articulated -

What is the thing that keeps you going?

Holler at your homefry -

XXV. - I want to be mobile and go....

from here (UPenn):

To ___________   -  elsewhere.

I do not want to travel, per se - I do not want to forever be in transport without paying mind to the enclaves of life and the various passerby that I would be traveling adjacent to.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I want to explore.

Living in America, one could say, (meaning, not me necessarily), that we’re fortunate. All you have to do is look at the English language of America; There is no “formal” participle, as there is in other languages to reflect implicit hierarchy, because we’re all the on the same level - we’re all equal.

Growing up I always told my parents that I would have rather have grown up somewhere else in the world. Somewhere where people are less self-obsessed and are more global - more aware of other people and places. A place where the inhabitants are collectively aware of the ways of the tangible world, and in tune with the non-tangible world.

Do you ever feel bored?

I know it is terrible to admit boredom, mostly because there is no reason for anyone to ever feel bored.

I am not bored.

Bored is not the word to articulate what I want to tell you.

Do you ever feel like you want something exciting to happen? You don’t want anything terrible to happen - you don’t want that kind of excitement. Maybe it’s the routine of life for the past few consecutive weeks/ months that you just want to change?

(I don’t think I’ve ever had a routine that hasn’t changed in over a year. In fact, I’m sure I haven’t.)

You want a mora in the afsana that is your life.

That is to say, you want the narrative of your life to have a twist.

My parents demanded a reason for my desire to leave my birthplace.

My response: First of all, Manhattan, NY is my birthplace…

My parents: “Here we go…”

                   New York is different from the rest of the country. You know that… it is not this diverse anywhere else. Our public school system is not bad - 7th grade was the equivalent of junior year in high school! We had a formal application process! School uniforms are non-existent here - remember the protests? More importantly, there is no high school football team and cheerleading is banned in most NYC schools. Thank God…

My parents: “We know. But, the United States is the best place in the world. There is no corruption running rampant. Everything is available for everyone. You can say that you want to live elsewhere because life has been so, not easy, but comfortable here. You don’t know how it is elsewhere.”

                 Exactly - I don’t know. I want to see what else is out there. Also, I don’t care for the rawness here. (Refer to the participle statement above.) I want sophistication.

Suddenly I felt silly…

As I continued to try and justify my point of view to my parents, I told them I want to be able to pass down to my children a solidified culture.

My parents admiringly responded in a level-headed and what I thought to be an intelligent manner. (If I were them I would have flipped.) They told me that I did have a culture and that I was even more fortunate, in that sense, since I had two different cultures that I could call my own and furthermore, two cultures that I have actually experienced.

Dad’s side: Growing up we celebrated every Sikh holiday by going to Gurudwara (Sikh temple), we would see Ravan’s ten heads catch fire on Dashera, and on Raksha Bandhan I would tie threads and in my head said a little prayer, (without anyone knowing), for the well-being of all my brothers.

Mom’s side: Every Christmas we would put up and decorate a real tree. We would go to Rockefeller Center and Lord & Taylor on 5th Avenue, and take in all the window works of art. We would light a candle, put holy water on our heads, and say a silent prayer in St. Patrick’s cathedral. My brother and I would get to look into our stockings on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning we all were content and happy to be in each others’ company.

I’m sure I was tearing up in the backseat. How could my overly-stressed, away from home, displaced, wired on caffeine, pre-med, college-self, forget all of this?

I still stand by the fact that I would live no where else in the U.S. but New York City.

I still stand by the fact that I want to explore -

maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for and that will be the much awaited twist in my personal narrative -

XXIV. Senioritis - Student Recommended, Alumni Approved -

Full-fledged senior since May, I was completely prepared to study hard this semester.

College thus far has only been all kinds of intense intellectual madness.

My collective college experience has been a completely different one from the rest of my peers. As a result, I was sure that I would not experience senioritis just as all of my self-diagnosing alumni friends had.

I knew that I was more than ready for this year to come and go.

I did not have my 18-year old made “College (more like "Harvard”) Wall", but I did have ONE Google-imaged print-out, tacked to my wall aka the goal: the one school where I know I want to continue my studies after undergrad.

You know this scenario. There is that one school that you go from being enamored with to completely obsessing over- that school that you and, (for this particular program at least), 1000 other people are applying to. Thanks to the mystique of prestige, all of us have 0 - 1% chance of getting admitted into said program, said school, and our goal.

Also, this would be the first semester I have truly desired to take every course I was now enrolled in, regardless of the workload or the professors’ ugly reviews.

Yo, yo, yo -

I would take the hits…so to speak.

That is to say, I would read the voluminous course packs word-for-word - no backing out.

For I am the almighty senior.

I have endured the wrath of switching majors, fulfilling requirements, and having to constantly hear,as well as tolerate, people mixing up my hard-knock-life/anxiety-attack-ridden/at-last-deserved Ivy League status with that of a state school….since December 15, 2008 - the first and last day I would celebrate me having anything to do with Penn.

Actual conversation:

“My friend’s daughter went there. She hated it. She said there are only mountains there. It’s really far from NYC.”

           There are no mountains there…. I visited last week, and it’s not that far.

“Pittsburgh is pretty far out. It’s near the beginning of the Midwest.”

          But it’s in Philadelphia.

“OH! You’re not going to Penn State. You’re going to UPenn!”

At least this person knew the difference…

This has to have disturbed you as well, my fellow UPenn-ers.

(If by some chance the mix-up or the lack of knowledge about Upenn didn’t affect you, peace-loving person that you are, well jolly good for you…. I’ll make sure not to say the word “hate” around you either.)

I took this hit and I would continue to take the hits.

I would take the knock-the-wind out of you blows to my stomach that the syllabi relentlessly threw at me.

I wouldn’t mind remedying the eyesore caused by those carelessly scanned documents uploaded onto BlackBoard either.

Oh yes, I, we all - took the hits.

But alas - how could I forget that I don’t even take well to some stranger, (who is not a child), staring at me for over 15 seconds… are you criticizing me with that stare? What are you looking at homie?

How could I possibly take to physical blows being inflicted on me?

No freaken way -

And with this defiant epiphany, I knew that I had come down with senioritis.

Every waking second, I think about the upcoming month of May.

In May, I’ll be wearing a boho-chic Free People dress and pearl studs. My shoulders wil be effortlessly draped with straightened hair, some of which will be under the cap that is perched on my head. I’ll have a gown draped over one arm and glance over my shoulder in an attempt to see my mom whose voice I hear in the background saying, “Put on your gown! We’re taking pictures now…”

As a result, my syllabi is not nearly as neon as it should be.

I haven’t been ritualistically highlighting after completing, because I haven’t been punctually completing the readings; the same readings that I was so ready to get beaten up by.

No wonder senioritis is student-recommended and alumni-approved.This daydreaming is addictive as it displaces you into a joyous prophetic microcosm…

It’s a good thing all of my unfinished work cancels out this euphoria by giving me ever more prevalent and stress-induced headaches.         :)

                       Was that sarcasm just now?

Take that remark for what you will -

XXIII. This is Just Another Phase of Life -

My father told me this while we were in the car. I had become nostalgic while we were driving along the route that is still so familiar to me - it was the route that the NYC bus I had taken to get from my high school to home.

I thought about what my dad had said.

                    “This is just another phase of life - ”

“Phases” seemed to me to be temporary and non-cumulative chunks of time.

My dad can’t be right though it would benefit us all if he were.

I always thought life was cumulative.

(* NOTE: In my attempt at articulating the next part, I used the phrase, chunks of time, a total of 6 times, + 1 additional chunk.)

To think that life is made up of chunks of time that can be isolated would be somewhat of a boon…so long as we still have memory of all the chunks of time that have passed.That is to say, if a certain chunk of time was not similar to Mr. Roger’s alternate universe- (carefree, disciplined, preppy, and all around swell)- then, to be able to isolate this not-so-swell chunk of time and make a distinct separation between it and a better chunk of time, would be very very nice/kind of creepy. Furthermore, to not have to forget what happened in any chunk of time even after isolating  said chunks, so that you would not have a gaping hole of nothingness, would be even better/it would eliminate the creepy factor.  

Attempt at simplification of the above:

(ISOLATING CHUNKS OF TIME, thereby reducing the cumulative meshing of bad and good eperiences + (NO LOSS OF MEMORY) = :) aka a happy camper.

I suppose my dad is right though -

High School was one phase of my life as I am sure it was or is (if you’re still in high school), for you.

It was indeed a distinct chunk of time that I can isolate now in my memory. At the same time, it still remains as part of my cumulative experience of life thus far.

My weird, odd, and mythical-like high school that one had to apply to in a college-like process, made me physically exhausted and intellectually stretched.

Since the high school chunk of time, however, I have learned to critically analyze, question, resist, without being willing to compromise (which is not the best trait to inherit but there you go), I can say that I actually know the Spanish language, and I could say that I learned Latin (can’t lie and say I know it like I do Spanish)….not to mention that Phys. Ed. resulted in me having a toned body that could match any non-Olympic level, but still pretty good, female gymnast.

My dad could be wrong though…

It doesn’t seem like college is a phase.

No - this Ivy produces a villian-esque monologue that reverberates in the ears of all who walk upon it’s campus and goes along the lines of:

                  “I am now an inseparable part of you. I will forever be on your resume and be hanging on your future house or office wall in the form of a diploma - muahhahhaha.”

Today I went to my college adviser to figure out what classes to take next semester. It was unlike my other trips to the College Office. I circled “Sr” aka *senior status*, on my walk-in appointment slip.

Going into the adviser’s office today, I wasn’t crying- crying was a familiar sight over the past three years. No, I was not crying. In fact, I think I was smiling.

I wasn’t deciding whether or not to drop a class/classes, nor was I contemplating upon possible schedules for the upcoming years, nor was I brainstorming ideas for how to prevent possible slippage of my G.P.A.

No - The adviser and I only discussed how I just needed one more class to graduate and that I could take as little as one more class in whatever discipline I so desired; the class/classes did not even have to be graded.

My dad is right after all….

Suddenly, after the completion of next semester, it seems that college would qualify as a “phase” of life.

Seniors- we still have to complete this semester without adversely damaging our G.P.A.s beyond repair…. This may just be own mental note-to-self in which case you can disregard this - unless of course it applies to you.

Here’s to the post-graduation phases = More School (elsewhere) + Marriage (hopefully yo… I already planned the shopping trip schedule/food/cake) + Maternal Time (permitting the marriage part happens) + other happy happy joy joy moments.

Holler at your homefry -

XXII. The Tale of How Halloween Lost its Innocence -

Halloween is an American tradition. Some of you Political Science majors who either disagree with bipartisanship or are international students, may argue that even juxtaposing the word ‘innocence’ with an American icon such as “Halloween”, poses an obvious oxymoron.

To you all I say - Ahwww Fooey!

Warning!: Rant ahead. Proceed with caution…

Yes, my parents let me savor the taste of pure sugar molded into small orange,yellow, and white-striped triangles, also known as “candy corn.” It is not that my parents just “let me have candy” as you, ignorant person, have so nonchalantly said as a subtle attack against American identity. And yet you deign to study at an American university!
                                                     - Said by an Int'nl Student -

- End of Rant -

I am not a patriotic person - far from it, I would foremost consider myself a New Yorker and then the hybrid Indian-Puerto Rican/Spaniard before I would label myself an “American.”

However, Halloween was a large part of my childhood and I frown at the idea of something I have so long associated with innocence being tainted by a false pretext under which people can dress only to expose, and ingest enough alcohol so that they get a hangover causing them to be immobile and as a result be more conducive studying?

That’s a stretch but, …. let cynicism reign!

Halloween for a majority of us “kids in America” encompassed the weeks preceding Halloween to be used to decide what we would dress up as.

We would choose a pumpkin to bring home as decor and know in advance which houses in particular we should make sure to trick-or-treat at.

Yes, “trick-or-treat” was used in the verb form of speech.

There was the house in which the parents of one of my older brother’s friend, mom in nightgown and dad in a matching pajama set. Year after year, without fail, they would distribute money to us kids.

There was the house that gave “King Size” candy bars - Yes, those were the days in which our metabolisms could support such calorie-saturated products.

We all remember that fateful time, 2001-2003, when the scare of anthrax being put into Halloween candy was rampant and as a result my mom volunteered to use our house as a makeshift Halloween party for my three friends and I - there was pizza, an early 1990’s audio - cassette of Halloween songs, and the lights were off to add to the ambiance - less than a minute later, the lights were on.

That was Halloween.

After the anthrax scare I was too old to part-take in the cult-like act of trick or treating and suddenly was thrust by life into the role of candy-giver.

Giving out candy was the designated job of the adult on Halloween - when you become a parent, your job now includes buying your child a costume and escorting his/her/them on their trick-or-treating outing.

That was the designated job until I came to college where I witnessed the tale of how Halloween lost it’s innocence…

The End.

Holler at your homefry -

XXI.  To be “an uprooted tree that couldn’t take to new soil” (Tolan, p. 120) -

This quotation in its actual context refers to a Bulgarian Jewish women who after living for 18 years in Israel, felt displaced, restless, and unresponsive, just as she felt this new land, Israel, to be unresponsive to her.

Away for college for the past three years I too have felt displaced. Yes, we’re there to study. On a primal, raw human level however, we want to feel comfortable in our surroundings - an organic relationship between you and the ambiance is necessary for everyday to not seem like you’re away from home.

Still, when I’m in Philadelphia, it feels like I’m in Philadelphia. Sometimes I find the scenario of me speaking to someone in Philadelphia, as if I’m speaking to the land itself, and the person doesn’t respond to me. Nothing. Maybe he/she didn’t hear. So I increase the volume and speak louder. No response.

Have I been ignored?

No. He/she now suddenly makes eye contact and ever so subtly smiles.

Why don’t you talk? Why don’t you respond? What is wrong with you people?

This is not a place where I can live.

It’s not like we’re home-bodies. We’re not. I’m not. I don’t want to stay in my home.

As a twenty-one year old who is about to graduate from college I do want to pursue even more higher education and begin a career I love. Don’t we all? Us soon-to-be college graduates want to take our knowledge base, now degree-legitimized, and travel. 

I’m just saying that I want the place and I to mutually converse.

How do I know that I won’t react to any new place with this same restlessness and longing to leave?

I know. I know because I went to a country half way around the world for two weeks last year and I felt like I was living effortlessly - not analyzing and judging every two seconds. (I’ve felt this way in NY sometimes as well.)

I don’t want to feel like this all the time though. Stress is necessary and analysis is even more necessary - so long as there are pockets of time when you can be truly at ease and content with where you are, not only in terms of place but also in the larger scheme of things…

When I was there, I realized that there are amazing people and places that actually exist. My cynicism was controlled and my mind was at ease. My hair was product-less but silky. I only had to wash my face with the city’s rationed water and soap and my skin would be as clear and smooth as it was when I was ten.

About to take off in the plane, my father said that this world “suited me” - it was “a fit.” I thought so too. Now I have somewhere outside of NYC that is my own viable abode.

This quotation taken from Tolan applies to temporary places as well. Have you ever been on a road trip somewhere? Or did you ever have to go to you brother/sister’s college graduation? Passing by the towns adjacent to the college campus that are almost always impoverished, do you find yourself silently thinking?… “There is no way I would ever live here. Can we just leave already! I’m getting weird vibes…How did he/she go to college here?”

Learning from mistakes: The importance of U.S. News Rankings = to the importance of the actual location of the university -

Epiphany: Increasing age has a linearly direct correlation to the greater realization that we’re human…

So we can’t ever be Spongebob/one of the Charmed Ones - no biggie.

That’s what Halloween in three days is for -

XX. I'm Mary Poppins-

I never saw the movie nor do I ever want to.

Still, I am Mary Poppins.

My bag is ever-expanding though it is square and compact.

Book after book, oblong odds and ends, a wallet, and my rebellious plastic water bottle that isn’t as “green” as the thermoses that surround me, (but is far more hygienic), are pulled out of my bag.

There is even an umbrella in my bag - granted it’s not doilies-like, effortlessly and effeminately laced. It does not manually open up into a perfectly symmetrical crisply paneled pseudo-pinwheel. My umbrella is an industrialized automatic one and it’s black.

Still, I am Mary Poppins.

I too want to heal, to make better, and to repair.

I want to be a physician - a learned and yet eternal disciple of medicine.

Yet, I do not seem to be able to care for my own health and as a result I cannot fly. I cannot fly on no sleep and complete task after task as Miss Mary Poppins does.

I have not seen the movie so I don’t know her, you’re saying?

Not true - I have become acquainted with her via verbal narrative…

              The old-school way.

Yes, I am old school - just like Mary Poppins.

I am old school because I detest the superficiality of the people in this place and refuse to comply with the unwarranted laughter and happy countenances of this modern-networking and unnecessary socializing-obsessed world.

I am Mary Poppins -

              because I too am solo. I don’t desire your unwanted presence(s) for the sole reason of wanting to create an artificial friendship group that operates according to a schedule of inconvenient compromises.

I am not cold and I do not want everyone to be unhappy.

No-

I just want the happiness to be warranted - to be real - just like in the world of Mary Poppins.

It is true, Mary Poppins’ life is not real because she can fly with an umbrella and can pull out gigantic and heavy items from an otherwise small shoulder-swung purse.

Still, I am Mary Poppins.

XIX. Note To (OUR)Self(VES) – Fall (Term) is such a Tease -

oranges - yellows - deep reds - trees aka cycle of life - pumpkin pie - fallen leaves

Whether you’re a university student or a resident of the “real world”, (working, earning money, and living outside of a campus bubble), the fall season is a tease. September through December is just a large conglomerate of Hallmark Card spikes in profit.

Your focus is continuously shifted from your work to making train/bus tickets and figuring out travel plans aka breaking twenties to get change for paying the taxi driver.

The hard truth is that you come home knowing fully well that the ensuing week will be even more sleep-deprived than the week before you decided to give in and go home.

Midterms (Penn’s word for all types of “exams”) – Dance Performances – Papers – Assignments – Finals – “oh my (Insert Your Choice of Ultimate Authority)”.

||                            (PARALLEL(S))

Columbus Day = Fall Break, Diwali (yes I celebrate it… otherwise it would have sounded very exotic between the bland Anglicized sound of “Fall Break” and the all-American day of cynicism - “Thanksgiving”), Thanksgiving, Roshashana, Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanza, other holidays I missed -

You see the relatives, you eat good food, your weight fluctuates between holidays - gaining while at home and losing when back to the routine of sleepless nights, library/office camp-outs, and being wired on enough caffeine to jump a stopped car on the highway.

The justification you give yourself is probably along the lines of:

At least I caught up on sleep, got my dose  of unconditional love, got to nurse my hair back to health by letting it stay in its natural state as a result of the unconditional love, and now I can better get back to my work without feeling burned out and in need of a study break.

Some say these constant blips in the Google Calendar,  the e-mails reminding you of the eminent end of a “fall break” or a weekend designated for home, (that you receive while lounging around in your PJ’s at home), and that are interspersed in the massive amount of e-mails notifying you of term paper proposal due dates, are ironically what makes the Fall bearable.

That was barely bearable to take in yo -

I concur. The spring (term) is just a monolith of rain, good weather, summer nostalgia, exams, work, school, and many “I want my family :(” moments. The Spring (term) stretches from blizzards to eighty degree days - it’s no wonder that the Spring term feels as though it will never come to an end.

Well, enough of that future talk.

The focus is in the now - sleep or no sleep.

We just have to make it to Thanksgiving = #fallmilestonesohyeah -

XVIII. What about me? -

I think my idea of what “perfection” is, is skewed.

When our expectations, assuming they are all positive, are not fulfilled, it is normal to feel saddened and disappointed at the world.

But what about those expectations that are not in the short term or the long term? What about those expectations that are set by you for your own life but without a time frame?

I’m not talking about the expectation of losing two pounds by next weekend.

I’m referring to those vague expectations - dreamlike contexts that you superimpose onto your own life, similar to that song that you consider to be the perfect soundtrack to your life.

Those expectations materializing into real life would be absolutely perfect. You don’t have a time frame because there is still quite some time for these expectations to come true. That is to say, perfection, (as in these expectations), can still come true.

What happens when you see others living out your expectations for yourself? Their lives must be perfect, no?

No. No their life is not perfect because they don’t live in New York City like I do.

They don’t live in your cozy home.

They don’t have your family.

They don’t have a settled life with a locale.

They’re a local of nowhere.

There life is not perfect because they didn’t find the amazing sale that you did last weekend.

There life is not perfect because they will never get to sit in this class and hear this amazing discussion.

They will never experience the euphoria I felt dancing spontaneously in public aka not by myself, for one of the first times ever, solely because I wanted to prove a point - I am a dancer, I am trained, and I am not one to be overlooked because what I do cannot be showcased.

They’ll never feel the spiritual closeness I felt on midnight on the first day of 2011, sitting in Gurudwara (Sikh temple), rose petals falling over and past my head, toward all that is divine.

But for some reason, things are not perfect.

Why?

I find myself answering with the following:

because what I wanted has not happened as of yet –I observe and there! That is what I wanted but he/she has it and I don’t.

Or

because this or that is not happening. When will it happen?I see it happening to them and they’re younger than me! I thought I had time… maybe not.

Is this an expectation, a desire, both, are they synonymous?

What do you consider to be perfect?

Do you act proactively to make sure that there are optimal chances for your expectations to be fulfilled?

Is part of what makes something perfect the fact that the expectations that you have can only be fulfilled effortlessly and without any intervention on your part?

You know what I’m referring to.

I’m not talking about that expectation of enjoying your graduation day the upcoming Spring of your senior year. That is almost a given. It is inevitable- your graduation day.

I’m talking about that which may not be inevitable. We don’t know if it will or will not happen.

I’m referring to that expectation of falling in love with the perfect person.

Holler at your homefry -