The Tired Artist

This peacock's name is Phil.

As of today, I have returned to the fold of college students. With classes and books and other nonsensical ideas such as program filing for next semester (although the website is mysteriously lacking in functional ways to do this). Overall, the last two weeks have gone by with a blur of intensity that just left me unable to write for days!
But now, alas, it is NaNoWriMo and I have to remedy my lethargic writer's state with 1667 words per day [I started two days late, so I have to catch up, but hey, it happens]. For now, I am taking a procrastination break to record down past events for tangible reincarnation.

Last Saturday marked my 18th birthday, so I am now technically a legal adult. With no job and a hefty sum of debt. I can see how our economy has tanked so badly; we imbue even our youngest adults with this overwhelming sense of lack. But, aside from that, everything went fantastically! I partied it up with my friends, got a Halloween costume (a week early, obviously) and ate cookie cake with whipped cream until sickness set in. It was a memorable evening.
When we got back, four girls conked out on my floor, reminding me of the days when the Sixth Floor Legends were all plopped into one room, struggling for space on a thin slice of floor... ah, the good old times. I can't believe I did work after that - we had school for an entire week and I can't seem to remember any part of it except talking to people about wanting to go dancing again. And having random intimate conversations in the middle of the night (isn't that what college is all about?)

Preparation for the weekend was an exercise in separation anxiety; I hadn't realized how much Barnard felt like home until my dad showed up on Thursday and started marveling about how I now live on my own... similarly, when we finally packed up our bags and headed out to New Jersey, it was a strange feeling to be leaving campus for a longer period of time. I guess the converse wasn't any better - Molli tells me that staying on campus was pretty dull (as expected with everyone flocking to their corners of the earth), but the feeling still remained.
When we did leave the city, I was immersed in Bangla. Culture, food, everything. People in our culture often don't mind if you "crash a party" (as my dad would say), so we ended up at a commemoration for a man who had died two years previous through friend-of-a-friend contacts. Many people were there, not only to pray but to enjoy great food (goat!) and chat with their colleagues. Sometimes my thoughts fly away with me on these trips, however, so I started asking my dad awkward questions about what he would want us to do when he died. He waved me away, told me to eat some more goat curry, and yet the thought still remains in my head. It shows me, somewhat, that I don't know much about Bangla culture. I feel now that I need to learn before I speak again.
As we piled into the car with Moushir and his family, I began getting the third degree about not calling in two months... this is another Bengali context, of course (we always want to be in communication). There's no escaping the guilt of not feeding back to your community; you lack the words other than "I was busy" and that just makes you sound like a snob. Hmm...
However, each time we head over to my dad's friends, we are treated exceptionally well. My first trip to Philly was the next day with Ashraf and his family. We saw the Liberty Bell and some historic sights, ate Philly cheese steak, and [most importantly] Da and his friends talked about the past.
I have, since last year, thought about writing a biography of my dad. His misadventures, even if never published, make up an amazing story that I would like to preserve. Why not, right? But now I see that others in our community have similarly interesting stories. So, though I will start small with my dad, I think I will progress to write on their stories as well. Time will tell me how that goes on - especially with NaNo right now - but I think it would be an amazing compilation of a different type of immigrant story. We'll see.
The point is, while my dad was here, I realized yet again that there are so many interesting things that your parents just don't discuss with you. Entire generations pass on without their histories recorded. On the train back to New York, my dad and I started talking about life and death again (because, as he said, Bengalis are always "solving world issues" - through talking endlessly about them) and, although I hope that my father has another 40 years under his belt (Insh'Allah), it is pertinent to be uncovering bit by bit what hasn't been learned yet.

So, my weeks were somewhat philosophical and somewhat racy, but positive and negative equaled out in a sense. I am never ordering clams again without asking about cookedness [they served them raw] and I am no longer going to eat that much candy corn [guh]. Those were parts of my young self doing it's thing. But I am going to "listen to my elders" as every text would say and know now that living on my own in New York City is where I need to be right now. Is that my old self? Well, it's coming along.

Check out some more posts featuring my photography.

The South Asian Question in a New York Minute

The New York Minute
Living in New York is a mixture of fast and slow moments - this week, I've experienced the latter half. But, even when God deals you an idle hand, you must embrace it. And therefore, we must write.
Thus, this week, I present to you a warm-up article for the actual one that I am writing to (hopefully) enter into Awaaz, our South Asian publication. This article is only an editorial, but describes some key issues I have been exposed to this week.

The South Asian Question
Second-generation immigrant children get a bad rap for living between worlds.
Though we may learn the language of both countries, we speak with an American accent. The schools we attend teach colonial history with an anglophile’s fervor. The food and clothes we prefer may shock and numb our parents and revert them to pointless adages such as “when I was your age…”
The source of these discrepancies, especially for a South Asian-American, rarely comes from a sense of abandoning culture and rebelling against it, but from a more ambiguous place. Cultural confusion and ambivalence reign strong in American teenagers – they are just trying to find their niche in a society where one needs the right clothes and the right slang to fit in.
Living between two worlds entails that we meld with both our parents’ South Asian society and the society of our peers, which is often multicultural and largely based on mainstream media. The expectations are high. Sometimes they are overt, such as when I am asked by my father’s friends what I am majoring in; when they hear “creative writing,” they will nod and change the topic, no doubt wondering how I will make an income in the future. Other expectations are much more subtle, such as, when going out of the house, I become hyper-conscious of how short my skirt is – even when I’m wearing tights. Even while living on the Barnard campus (where no one is short of personal expression), I sometimes feel as if I’m straddling a cultural boundary when I explain to people that I am not a vegetarian just because I don’t eat pork and the location of my home country, Bangladesh, is not north of India, but to the east.
Most people at Columbia, I am glad to say, are receptive to the idea that there is not just one type of South Asian. But simple acceptance is often not enough. South Asian youth are often muddled into one category, Indian, with little more than a second thought.
But what is Indian? And, for that matter, what is Pakistani, Bangladeshi, or Sri Lankan? Just below the surface of this seemingly innocent question lies a startling answer that is mired in vague terms and body counts. If the issue is surrounding the unity of the subcontinent as a whole, these ties are sorely lacking. Following colonialism, border wars have continued daily – from the massive extinction of Muslim brother by Muslim brother in the 1971 independence war of Bangladesh to the long-ignored Sri Lankan conflict that is the longest running civil war, uniting the states of South Asia presents more problems than solutions.
And why shouldn’t it be difficult? We are of contrasting backgrounds, histories, cultures and languages. Our children grow up eating different types of meat or none at all, the education of our parents depends on their location, and even religious progress is questionable in a society where caste determines whether you are liberal or conservative or have no say at all.
This struggle is what South Asian immigrant parents retain with them as they travel the ocean to America – consequently, the way they teach their children about culture is reflected along the same lines. A Hindu may not understand a Muslim and a Sikh may not understand either of them, but Americans tend to see black as black, white as white and brown as brown. Thus, when expected to make new friends, second-generation immigrant children forego these distinctions and make friends of all stripes and colors. The question is: does this mean we are losing our culture? Are we, as the sons and daughters of parents who have left their countries, expected to uphold their legacy or walk our own paths? The question is one of stirring debate that has plagued every immigrant community, not just those of South Asia.
As youth in America, we are emboldened by the freedom of choice. There is always the possibility to forge your own path and make your own destiny; however, the culture lines that make our country the great salad bowl are still visible. Caught between two worlds, the children of the subcontinent must carve out a unique space in America – one that satiates individual expression and satisfies their quest for identity in a multicultural society.

If you're interested in more opinion pieces, take a look at Discrimination and Mixed Metaphors and Single Sex Education for Women and Girls.
You may also enjoy my audio-recorded story about South Asian women.
Check out some more posts featuring my photography.