Momentary Pauses

440 pages.
That was the amount that I read in three days here. Not that I'm complaining, because it was for really enjoyable classes and I expected this semester to be harder than the last, but still! It feels like an astronomical calculation - amazingly, though I do wonder at it, I do not want to complain.

I have been slowly realizing what this year is about for me: gentle incorporation.
What does that mean? Well, for me, it means calmly and quietly bringing in some of those principles that I had previously tried to force into my life. My major examples:
- It's not about sneaking in time to do something, it's about choosing what you really want to do for that moment.
- Have a schedule, but always be willing to break it.
- Eat! Just make sure that you're taking care of yourself at the same time.
- Write and read and create and smile when you want to. Just don't force any of those things down your own throat!
- Take a few calm breaths before embarking on anything.

The difference between this and last year is that I'm realizing that if I try to impose something upon myself (like, write 500 words a day or something) it's not the route that gets anything done. I guess I had read those articles about 'habit-forming' and such but taken them too closely to heart. When I came stumbled upon 2010, I had an enlightenment - what if we were easy on ourselves?
It makes me happy to note that I have a lot of stuff that I want to do and will make time to do it. In my slower moments, I hope that I can continue to do it; the future is not going to be nearly as busy as this (unless I have something to do with it!) and so I need to start self-motivating in a way that doesn't drain me of my senses.
Anyway, this is a momentary pause in between the ledgers of different classes, assignments and understandings. So now I must fly!

The New Semester

I have returned!
I guess this means that my occasional writing must be changed into the more regular and typical writing that expresses the college lifestyle in all it's glory and triumph... blah, blah, blah.
After spending my month-long winter break in a perpetual sense of dread towards blogging and the undeniable march of time meted out by both failures and the offhanded victory, I have been coaxed once again out of my shell to start blogging. But in a more casual sense, I believe.
I had made all these beautiful plans to start up the 365 project again or work towards a better and more consistent blog posting time, but I think that the only resolution that I can really hold myself to is to write a short something every week and make some ideas happen on the page. So... here is the collection for this week.
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The transition from break to semester two of my college experience was a doozy. I had gone through my typical yearning to be busy and bustling, but had also stumbled into the idea of doing these things on my own time. In a sense, I was much lazier than I had been before. I would create, but then do nothing for days on end. Then I would watch TV or hang around. This was not a bad thing for the time of course, but only a poor precursor for my inevitable return to a flash-bang New York City college experience. I was not prepared.
When I came back, I found that I had four book-heavy classes, an audition that I had totally forgot about, and many little administrative details that needed finishing. I was in a haze from the jetlag that I wished hadn't come and the remote bout of homesickness and desire to be back in my bed or with my boyfriend. But, as I entered through the portal of the dorms and crashed down onto the bedding that had been provided for me, I immediately felt comforted in the fact that this was not, as I had feared, completely foreign to me. I persevered through the next day by buying some simple items with a few friends, getting myself back on track logistically and figuring out the cost of books... the last one was not so pretty.
Though I fell in love with my classes this semester, the book load is immense (34 books in total bought) and I keep having a headache trying to think of myself on that schedule. Amazing classes, heavy reading. No problem! My new moniker is to schedule myself in such a way that things get done without loss of my sanity. We'll see how it goes.
To sum up the first few days back at college, I have felt like there are so many things that I didn't get to do during the break, and yet I don't regret that. I feel like I have a more concrete plan here than there, so that's probably why that happened in the first place. My lack of impetus created a vortex that I could not emerge from. Therefore, this semester I will begin anew rather than wallow in the pit of despair - as I was wont to when no one was looking in the back corners of my house.
Here it is not all glitz and glamor, but I am going along for the ride.

Fifteen Minutes

This is my fifteen minute blog before I go to bed tonight. Because I must go to bed by 1am so that I can wake up in time to shower and get to class tomorrow morning. I must.
I feel like work is sometimes beating me down and, rather than rising to the occasion, I sat down and took the beating this weekend. I did whatever I wanted to do for relaxation (a semi-marathon of Firefly, going on a yarn excursion, seeing Hamlet with Jude Law...) and had a ton of fun doing it! But then I came back down to earth and realized that I'm only 50% finished on certain assignments and that I need to edit an essay and figure out the rest of my LIFE.
Actually, the last part probably isn't true. Considering that assignments are not necessarily the end-all, be-all, I think I will be fine. Also, I'm blowing their need out of proportion considering that I have all of them due not tomorrow but further in the week... I just get stressed at certain inexplicable points in my life. And that's what happens when you want to do anything but work on the current task. Yep.
I will survive, mark my words! Just have to keep pushing.

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.

Hair-story

I attended a conference about the social implications of hair - needless to say, I thought about it for a while.

Long hair was precious when I was young. From the bushy afro of my baby pictures grew a mane that writhed down my back and looped itself over my sloping shoulders. I was a tomboyish child who let leaves get stuck in my curls and let the dark black color of it bake in the summer sun. My hair was always frizzy, never flat.
For a child not indoctrinated into a love affair with dolls, brushing my hair was tantamount to the impossible. My knots had to be combed or cut out by force – first by my blond aunt who was a hairdresser and who sent suggestive combs back with me after each visit. On those occasions, I would squirm in the chair and bite my lip as the scissors came near my ears. Later, my mom tried to tame the beast in our dining room chairs that squeaked as she wrenched holes in my head laying out remonstrations. At that point, I realized that I had to take this into my own hands.
I refused my mother and asked for my dad’s stylist, who plunged me into the shortest haircut I’d had since 6th grade – I was then a junior in high school. With hair around my ears, I no longer was loathe to comb it, which used to take hours and was extremely frustrating.
Indeed, he attacked my curly hair and gave it style – though I had never coveted the time spent by my peers on “hair-epy,” I could now see that their locks were easier tamed than mine because of the constant war they had waged. With short hair, my image became younger (not exactly the best thing for a 16-year-old girl) and my face appeared rounder. But the trials of short curly black hair remained. There was no way to get it off your neck with a ponytail holder, my afro began to rise again in class photos, and I began to judge whether I was taken seriously with a spunky cut that frizzed out in all directions. The melody of regret arose.
But I had never enjoyed the process of growing it back out – why my hair was neither “here” nor “there” represented the times I was most prone to insecurity. So I kept cutting until I reached the wall.
The first time I straightened my hair was in senior year. I sat, trembling, in the salon chair and waited with trepidation. But after the ordeal of burning follicles and half my hair falling to the floor (or at least what looked like it), I peeked at the strange new face and… it looked good. It was long and soft; it wafted like all the natural straight hair that had been prized for centuries before. Needless to say that when I tried to go for this look at home, my head turned into a half-wavy rat’s nest, but there’s no need to talk about that. But straight hair felt like a betrayal.
As a darling child, the older women would lust after my natural curls – even as I screamed at cutting out the knots as if I were an unruly cat, I remembered their praise. With straight hair, I just wasn’t accurate. I looked more doll-like and ultra-femme than my nature warranted. But the compliments rolled in from peers: I was a beauty conformist.
It makes me wonder whether people enjoy conformity so much that, even when it is out of place, they applaud. I had (and still have) a very staunch response to hair dye (an emphatic “NO!”) because it screams out that plasticity is the way to go. I can’t abide by it. I wouldn’t be myself as a blond, brunette, or blue-headed person. Even though, I must admit, the last one has come to mind.
When I discovered conditioner washing, I thought it was a revolution for curly-haired girls (but it turns out I just came late to the party). No shampoo equals no frizz? Something led me to try it and I fell in love. There was no longer an excuse for me to twist up my curls or pick at them for hours with a fine-tooth comb that made it bubble up like a beehive. I felt unique.
These “hair revelations” led me down a lot of paths: the weird unkempt girl and the jungle child were there, but so were the poised femme and the secure experimenter. Hair never felt important in a larger context, but looking at all the time I spent wrestling with it says that may not be all true. Self-image is inextricably linked to hair in a way that you never thought possible.

What are your hair stories?

You might also be interested in opinion pieces like Discrimination and Mixed Metaphors, Single Sex Education for Women and Girls, and The South Asian Question in a New York Minute.
More writing and stories are also available for your reading pleasure.
You can also 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.

Firefly Shadows

Karyan flipped past an advertisement for makeup and found little pencil marks indenting the page. Sitting on her oversized queen bed one night, they had conspired against anyone who wore these atrocious things (half the school) and vowed to cut off their mock-goth hairstyles and burn them in a bonfire. Needless to say, their mothers were exactly happy about this plan, but they figured they’d do it later. Karyan was entranced by the neat tiny lettering that Jasmyn had pronounced her threats in. A combination of loopy cursive and bock print meandered over the page as their ideas grew bolder and bolder. Karyan watched the looping sprawl curve upward and disappear off the page.
“Turn…” commanded their combined script. Karyan turns the page and a void opens up in her chest.
A picture of two filthy children with their hair up in faux-hawks graces one model’s delicate features. In thick red nail polish, the word “NO!” is stationed at the bottom of the page, proclaiming their hoax as an act of treason. Karyan reorganizes her light brown skin tanning under the fluorescent bathroom lights and to her right stands Jasmyn, arms folded, a delicious scowl on her face. They look so comfortable, so lively, these two anti-establishment youths ready to take down goth in their flannel shirts and ripped jeans. Karyan feels tears press at the front of her skull. She wonders, as she sets the magazine down on the floor, whether Jasmyn knew.
If she knew why and how. If, maybe, she knew when. Because Karyan doesn’t belief people just shoot themselves out of sporadic need. There has to have been a plan, a motivation. Something that would make this all connect. There’s a banging sound just behind her and Karyan’s skin prickles as she hears it again. She turns slowly and sees that the screen kitchen door has been unlatched.
She gets up to close it, wiping her eyes on a sleeve to gain control. She approaches the door, tries to clamp it, but there, stuck inside the joint, is a small object. Karyan bends to retrieve it.
She produces a tiny silver bullet with a pink ribbon tied around it, and, for the first time in many years, Karyan is deeply, truly, afraid.

Short stories have always been a point of weakness for me.
I have tried many times to figure out where the "sweet spot" is in writing and, sadly, it either seems to be a drawn-out novella length work or a very very brief flash fiction. However, some ideas just seem better suited to short story. Henceforth, I embark on a journey towards writing one of my first few short stories.
The idea has been swirling around in my mind for a very long time, and it focuses around one central question: what happens to the people who are left behind when someone commits suicide? At one point, I had three different drafts running all at the same time in an attempt to get the words out correctly. Now I've consolidated the best bits and, little by little, am constructing the connective tissue known as scenes.
In my typical nature, I have added a few surreal elements - visions, beyond-the-grave items - to the work and have taken it upon myself to picture myself as that pinnacle character, Jasmyn. I first presented one scene to a writing group in Seattle and they were very receptive to the idea of using the actions as metaphors and the events as part of a larger story - my decision to integrate these ideas has come as a great boon since I can now put myself in my characters' shoes.
But, aside from all the shop talk about creativity and flow, much like putting myself in an insane asylum, I have committed myself to a mandatory set of rules regarding this story. Namely, my goal is to write 250 words or for 1/2 hour (whichever comes first) on this piece every day.
Call it preparation for NaNoWriMo next month, but it's been a tough and interesting way to break me of a months-long writer's block that has come upon me like a plague. So, vive la short story! I am hoping to get a first draft done by the end of this month.

Check out some more posts featuring my photography.
More writing and stories are also available for your reading pleasure.