Despite declaring that I do not imbibe by myself last week, tragic times call for pathetic measures; I spent the greater part of my Sunday afternoon intoxicating at Tryst, alone. I was all dressed up in black (though sadly, I did not resemble an erotic vulture), like some flashback to 1989, right down to the eyeliner-as-eyeshadow-tactic for that extra corpse-y effect.
My favorite way to waste a lazy Sunday is with one fat newspaper and several cups of milky coffee. After a phonecall from home bearing bad news, those props were replaced by this iBook and several pint glasses of milky coffee + alcohol, on the rocks. That was one slightly bright spot on an otherwise bleak day; what I was chugging was delicious and that’s because it was by my design. Sort of. Okay fine, the drink that I want to take credit for right now is but a slight variation on the powerhouse “Martin Blanco” cocktail I’ve been fond of forever at Tryst (iced vanilla vodka + espresso + kahlua + amaretto + milk…shaken violently). Amaretto di Saronno was my Father’s favorite liqueur and I didn’t want to taste it on a day when I was already glum. I improvised.
“Would it be possible to get Bailey’s instead of the Amaretto?”
My waiter paused and then smiled, as if he suddenly approved of such a manoeuver. “SURE.”
Later, when one of his co-workers asked me what I would call this elixir I was re-ordering for the third time, I tipsily blurted out “Martin O’blanco!” and she loved it. So there you have it. Since one of my goals in life is to get something on a menu either named after or otherwise attached to me (I’d totally settle for getting a mention in a menu “description”, which is something I think Tryst does), I take my barely-witty nomenclating of half-creative cocktails seriously enough to torture you with it.
As satisfying (and veg-happy) as Tryst’s menu is, I craved something different. I had devoured Amsterdam Falafel earlier in the day for lunch; I was suddenly consumed with memories of the fantastic gobi I had enjoyed there and I wanted more. I’m like that; if I dig something I will eat it over and over and over (PB + J, every day, grade 1-12) again. I do that with movies, too. And books. Especially suitable ones. Amsterdam it would be. I told the purveyor of O’blanco that I’d be back in 30 minutes and I left.
Though I have learned my lesson and no longer wear anything remotely cute while on 18th street, lest I encourage the invasive jerks who plague my new ‘hood with their assault attempts, all my modest, flesh-concealing layers were barely adequate for the autumn chill. I keep forgetting that it’s October and that I should expect to shiver accordingly. Or, you know, wear a jacket.
“Ay, Mami…where you going? Come on in.” Three confused desi promoters speak Latin to me half-heartedly. It’s Sunday night and the strip is dead. I think they’re more bored than serious. I smile as I pass them, right before one of them asks the other, “Was she Indian?” That’s the question of the day, apparently. At Tryst, I had been approached at different times by two Ethiopian men who inquired about my ethnicity with exquisite politeness, even as I coldly attempted to block them (well, everyone) out via noise-cancelling ‘phones which were blaring my favorite Pixies album of all time. I separately disappointed each of them with my answer that I was all brownz, but the second one was more desperate to make a connection with this potential Sheba.
“We look…same!”
I smiled faintly. I had spent the afternoon trying not to cry; regrettably, I was in no mood to be my usual bubbly, hyper, Cornholio-lite self.
“Really! People ask me…I am Indian!”
I nodded at him. He looked a little desi, but I would’ve been able to tell that his Orthodox church didn’t feature a portrait of Parumala Thirumeni. Maybe I’m more attuned to all of this, though.
I tried to be gentle. “I’m…in the middle of something. It was so nice talking to you. Have a good evening.”
“I thought you were Ethiopian!”
“I know.”
I hated disengaging from the conversation so abruptly, but I did anyway, because I had to. As I approached Amsterdam, I replayed the entire convo one more time. Had I been mean? IÂ’ve been somewhat paranoid about this lately, ever since some craven moron lied about me on a comment thread here. It annoyed me, in part because no one had called him out on his obviously BS assertion that I am a snob who would diss and dismiss someone for being a paralegal. Maybe it was so pathetic and ridiculous it wasn’t worth addressing? I don’t know. I do know that I try to be kind to everyone, not that such a thing is easy to do or something I’m flawless at…whatevs. I began to wonder if all this second-guessing and mental rewinding were indicators of low blood sugar and hunger-induced insanity, just as I jogged up the metal stairs.
No line. Sweeeet. The kid behind the counter resembles Puffy’s unfortunate new album cover, right down to the mirror-covered eyes. I ignore him and lovingly give the counter a visual caress, taking in the perfect condiments, the tzatziki, the hummus, the Turkish and Israeli salads…and then I see it: an empty stainless steel container. No. Come ON. Slightly panicked, I look up and ask, “No Cauliflower???” just as Puffy announces, “we’re all out of that…just ran out, actually.”
I’m forlorn. Gobi is the only reason I came BACK. This is the exact moment he chooses to ask me, “Where you from?”
“California,” I reply somewhat pointedly. I’m in no mood. How could he be fully stocked with everything BUT gobi?
“No. I mean…”
One of my eyebrows climbs skyward in anticipation.
He’s careful. “Where is…your family originally from?”
“India.”
“Yeah, I thought so…though I also thought you were Ethiopian.”
“Are you guys temporarily out? Like if I come back later tonight…?”
He’s apologetic. “Nothin’ ‘til tomorrow.”
Drat. Damn. Sigh.
“Thanks anyway…I’ll-“
“We have eggplant!”
“I…see that. I loathe eggplant, but I appreciate the attempt at substitution.”
“Oh…well if you hate eggplant…”
Right. I nod at him and walk out, slightly worried about where IÂ’m going to snatch dinner, before more Trysting.
I’ve lived in DC on and off since 1999, the year I commenced grad school at GW. I’ve gone out in Adams Morgan for almost as many years. I have never, however, had a Jumbo Slice and for this transgression the Washington Post among other “authorities” would have you believe that I’m not authentically chocolate. I’m not pressed. Those slices are terrifying, easily double the size of the already-generous pieces of pie I used to drive all the way to Berkeley to get from Blondie’s. And each of those purveyors of jumbo-sity is, well, somewhat filthy. But then, so is the Morg.
I’m now starving. So famished, I briefly consider life as an omnivore before disgusting myself with such blasphemous thoughts. I’ve passed one pizza joint and I’m coming up on the second; there are a total of three on 18th street, each of which claims to be the “original”.
Send me a sign, I whimper to the universe. Should I try this noxious culinary offering? Do I dare? Will I find an unwelcome present among the toppings? Eeeeeew.
I’m walking past the middle “original” Jumbo slice and then the air shifts slightly; the heavens part and while this cliché requires singing angels, let’s replace them with yodeling, jagged Carnatic trilling, just to be down with the brown.
The man behind the counter is desi.
My browndar is going off like Naomi Campbell at a new assistant. That does it. I am so going in, especially now that heÂ’s smiling at me so happily. Is it the dorky braided hair? The lack of visible skin? The Merrells instead of stripper shoes? The fact that I share some amount of culture with him? IÂ’m sure IÂ’m about to find out.
The three people who are already devouring fat-laden slabs of carbohydrates are trashed and this reminds me to mentally kill the last of my buzz. He’s looking at me and seeing “good girl”, and like I always am in such situations, I’m full of a desire to go with it, no matter how inaccurate.
I smile widely as I approach the counter. HeÂ’s tickled.
“Hello there.”
“Hi!”
“What would you like?”
“What kind do you have?”
”Cheese and pepperoni, only.”
“A slice of plain, please.”
He nods with approval and hollers something unintelligible after turning away.
“Vere you are from?”
“My parents are from India—“
“I know. Vere?”
“South India…” he’s looking at me expectantly so I continue. I long ago learned that not everyone’s heard of Kerala, though this fact shocks the fecal matter out of me, to this day.
“They are from Kerala.”
“But you are from Amreeka.”
I smile and nod. Yeggzactly.
“You know where I am from? Punjab.”
I had a feeling this was the case; something about this Uncleji’s face. Suddenly, it’s Martin O’Blanco’s last stand and I’m buzzing again. I know this, because two things happen when I’m tipsy/faded: I talk like I’m four and I speak multiple languages. Rather well. Or so we discovered at Davis after doing an experiment where I drank two zimas before every Spanish conversation class for a month. My grade jumped to an A-, as I grew way chatty and rolled my “R”s like I was Manish Vij or something.
“KIDDHAN!” I chirp, as foggy, faraway memories of UC Davis engulf me: I’m surrounded by the past as I remember celebrating Baisakhi, being the only non-Sikh kudi in the fashion show, Safri Boys CDs ruined by loving abuse i.e. use, tasting rajmah for the first time, crying when my bf whispered a tragedy about two lovers named Heer and Ranjha in my quivering ear, wearing my first Indian outfit which wasnÂ’t a sari…
My college sweetheart, who was so nice I dated him twice, was Jat Sikh. My then best friend was also Punjabi. Between the two of them (and their family members), I had marinated in the language. I always feel a pure sense of comfort when I hear Punjabi, vs. my reaction to hearing Hindi, which makes me freeze at first, then feel wary.
Not that it needs to be stated, but IÂ’m a sentimental drunk, too.
I donÂ’t remember now what I babbled to Uncleji in my fourth-rate Punjabi, but he was smiling at me tenderly.
“My dear, I am from the Punjab which is in Pakistan. I am a Muslim. We do not say ‘Kiddhan’, as such. But it is still sweet to hear you in this place.” He’s looking warily at the belligerent, excessively loud drunkards behind me, the kindness leaving his face rapidly…it rushes back when his eyes land on me. He leans over the counter, looks at me intently and then says, “Ve are the same, beti. Neighbors. Now tell me what my neighbor’s daughter is studying.”
“I’m done with school…for now.”
This receives instant approval.
“Veddy good. Always put education first. You will get Master’s?”
IÂ’m digging him fiercely, not just because he has such a distinguished face, but also because he didnÂ’t mention professional degrees.
“I have one, Uncle…”
“Ha! Excellent. You will take your PhD.”
I have relatives who donÂ’t believe in me or encourage me this much.
“Here we go! You ever have this before?”
I nod negatively.
“You will not be hungry, I promise you.” He triumphantly hands over a slice of cheese pizza so large, it doesn’t fit on TWO paper plates laid side-by-side. Good lord.
IÂ’m scared to even carry this gooey behemoth, but I do, making my way over to a filthy counter which immediately makes me miss Blondies. I refer to the OLD Blondies, i.e. the one which existed c. 1990-1997. I donÂ’t go there anymore. ItÂ’s not the same and neither is this. But at least Blondies bolts their grated parmesan cheese, red pepper, garlic powder et al to clean counters. Here and now, I see four random pepperoni dotting the space where I am loathe to lay even these paper products I know I am about to toss. Blech. What I would give to see rock and roll history as art, next to the jewel in the UC system right about now…
It truly is a massive amount of pizza to consume all at once and I try not to think of the bad reviews and articles IÂ’ve read online, regarding such establishments. To distract myself, I revisit conversations which IÂ’ve had this evening, each of which is more than happy to burst out of my memory to torment me. Each exchange involves a question about my ethnicity, specifically a curious query regarding whether or not I am Ethiopian.
I start to weird out slightly; IÂ’ve always thought (and been told) that I look very desi, so thatÂ’s the first thing which springs to mind. Then I try and force context in to my brainÂ…IÂ’m running around little Ethiopia with an Orthodox crossÂ…itÂ’s totally understandable that IÂ’d make people wonder. Still, if I don’t look South Asian…
“Escuse me…beta?”
I turn, surprised, towards the voice at the counter.
“Is okay?”
He saw me and knew me immediately; realizing this makes me instantly happy and I am flooded with a sense of love for this stranger.
“Yes, Uncleji. I’m totally okay.”
He beams at me.
“You visit again?”
“Sure. I don’t get nearly enough opportunities to practice my Punjabi.”
He grins and says, “Kiddhan!” in response. We both know that I probably won’t be back, because much to his relief and my elderly pragmatism, I don’t go out in the Morg on Friday and Saturday nights, which are the traditional times for eating Jumbo-style. He looks at me with all the doting affection of a Father and I get it, as I wrinkle my nose. He wouldn’t mind seeing me again, but he’d prefer that he didn’t. No worries. The pizza is okay…but it’s no Ray’s. Or Blondie’s, c. 1990. I wrap up the detritus, toss it in a huge bin and take my apparently-Ethiopian kundi on home.
Y’all GregP over here said it like it is… so y’all take a chill pill aite??
Kush – in Punjabi that would be Kurrian or more properly Kurri [Hindi Ds become punjabi Rs]
Kiddha means “what’s up?”
What? My answer wasn’t good enough for you?
What does KIDDHAN mean??
Paging Rajni! Time to shut this bad boy down…or better yet, just delete a whole bunch of nonsense flexing in the past 30 posts or so!
…brownology.
Shut down all the garbage batches on the detention level will ya? Shut down all the garbage batches on the detention level.
Clean up on aisle 158 … Clean up on aisle 158
What is it about my having a vagina that makes rating my posts on some pointless scale an acceptable activity? I blame my genitalia because truly, I can’t remember EVER reading someone comment, “This is not one of Abhi’s/Amardeep’s/Vinod’s best posts…” Beyond that, ever since we started this blog, I find it bitterly amusing that “criticism” always goes ad gyninem when it comes to me. Forget what I wrote, let’s diss and dismiss ME. Here’s the 411, son: you don’t have to like me, but you don’t have to be cruel to me, either.
Oh, if only I were a boy, then they’d judge me not by the shimmer on my skin but by the content of my blog posts. I have a dream one day. Which will never come true.
:+:
To everyone who stood for goodness and civility on the internets, a fat, lipgloss-enhanced kiss on your cheeks. Thank you.
I don’t know if it’s just about your vagina, Anna, otherwise other female mutineers would have gotten similar types of comments.
Taz’s name and the few other female mutineers’ names could be inserted there as well.
Maybe part of it has to do with the fact that you write alot about …. YOU. Therefore maybe your writing is seen more from a literary angle than the other mutineers’ writings? I don’t know.
So a few people offered some light criticism. I don’t think there is cause to get offended or for others to get offended on your behalf.
Another thing is that I think people expect a very good literary piece out of your writings here because in the past you have offered some very good reading. So maybe they are comparing your present work to your past? That’s what I did.
Also, a few people here thing you have the potential to become a great writer (even though that may not be your aim), and probably others of us then expect more out of you than the other mutineers?
PG – it wasn’t just light criticism. Some of it has been deleted.
Wait– you don’t call it a yoni?
Communis ji –
I WAS going to call it yoni but my pavlov went into gear when I remembered the response I got to lingam.
Uh, other female bloggers have received similar treatment. As Ennis rightly pointed out, we delete the worst of it, as soon as we see it.
OK, then maybe you have a valid case. I guess the worst of the offenses are deleted by the time I read SM.
PG,
The fact that people feel the freedom to attack Anna on a personal basis definitely has to do with her having a yoni. Just like your getting called umpteen names, and my getting called a crackpot, a liar, vicious, nasty, paranoid, loony blah blah blah, have to do with my having a yoni. Taz, all due respect to her, is an extremely laidback blogger. As far as I’ve noted, she doesn’t go out on a limb, or put herself out there in the way Anna does.
Apropos of all of this, Canada’s foreign minister is currently getting raked through the coals for calling an Opposition MP, who is young, attractive and was once his gf, a ‘dog’. No – let’s not actually address her opinions – let’s attack her because – she has a yoni!!!
DQ –
I see your point. I also mentioned that Anna writes alot about ANNA, what you call “putting herself out there”, and that may be a reason for some of the personal attacks on her, because her writing itself is so personal. Her writing is not just informational with the occasional joke thrown in. She often let’s people into her own private world through her writing and maybe this appears to be an invitation to some to personally critique her private world and perhaps to critique her as a person?
I noticed how when I made my lingam comments a few guys got stirred up. But how many times do us women have to bear the brunt of scrutiny over our looks, bodies, behaviour, bedroom skills, etc.???
I know ALOT of guys don’t like to think about it, or even BELIEVE it, but when us women get together amongst ourselves, we can be very brutal in our scrutiny of men on these same matters and rightly so. For decades we’ve had to hear it from them and now that the tables are being turned we are expected to shut up in order to preserve THE GREAT MALE EGO? Ain’t gonna happen.
PG,
Ennis, I believe, posted quite a personal and moving post a while ago related to being a man in a turban in the present day US. And occasionally the other male bloggers do write from a personal vantage point. So why do people feel free to attack only Anna??
The personal is political.
That’s deplorable. When did showing vulnerability by sharing personal experiences start coming with a license to criticize the person who was brave enough to do so? Anyone who creates such an “invitation”, accepts it and then shows up to be vile to the hostess isn’t worthy of your attempt at rationalizing their behavior.
Ever since I started posting here (ha! ha! just partially joking).
I think some of the people who read Anna’s stuff, here and on her other blogs, have issues with the way she presents herself. Isn’t that what some of them indicated?
I think they feel that with all the writing she does about herself and all the pics she posts – of herself, well, that she is full of – again, herself.
I think that just about sums up how these people feel and I can see how that might be the first impression someone gets of her, though that in noway justifies violent verbage. People could say the same thing about me, and they have, right here.
You think your respective situations in this community are analogous? I’ve read your comments and I disagree with that take; I think the issues people have with you are different, though I wouldn’t expound on them like you just did, since I don’t have something against you and thus don’t feel the need to painstakingly describe why others might, all in the guise of being helpful.
That’s good to know!
PG, Jerks do not need justification. See Siddharths comment #30.
Carol and PG:
There is a tendency everywhere for outspoken females to cannibalize each other (minority syndrome?) – whereas strong males compete, but often cooperate as well. Let’s please not fall into the former pattern.
Whew…I’m so glad this is actually all about you. Now I can go out with peace of mind.
Do you have those issues too? You seemed to have memorized the party platform rather well, so I wasn’t sure if you were just reciting it for our edification or if it’s also what you believe.
Also, regarding my “stuff”, here and on my other blogs, just what am I supposed to post on my personal sites? Newsflash– I’m nothing special when it comes to being a blogger. Millions of other people do exactly what I do; so why am I singled out?
I always think a post is improved by a visual. I know that I’m more likely to read something if there’s a picture, so I try and provide similar when I write. Since, as you’ve repeatedly pointed out, I write about ME ME ME, just what else should I use for an image when I’m doing so?
What is this based on?
Dharma Queen, point taken. I hadn’t refreshed before posting and I didn’t see your very wise words. I’m sorry for impersonating a Fine Young Cannibal.
If Pardesi Gori cares to, she is welcome to take this dialogue to a back channel. So is anyone else who has such “problems” with me.
DQ, for the record I shall never cooperate with the male commenter who uses the name “Manju.” Or the one that goes by “Vikram.” If I could I would cannibalize them and grow stronger having devoured their weaker spirits.
After I’ve had my fill.
Slightly off topic, but on part of Sahej’s comment:
Did y’all know that something like 85% of the NYT’s opinion and op-ed section is written by men? (The exact figure is around there–I got it from Catherine Orenstein who teaches opinion and op-ed writing, especially to women.) Perhaps some of this vitriol would be reduced if women’s voices were given, um, a little more play? We still have a long way to go in shattering the glass ceiling.
To SM: Maybe SM could do its part? Why aren’t there more female full-time SM bloggers? It’s really disappointing and I wonder about this all the time. Also, if this is a South Asian blog, why not at least a Pakistani/Bangladeshi/Sri Lankan-American voice or two?
Just a thought or two.
SM does not discuss matters like this online. We are, and always have been a secretive cabal with our own ultimate designs. There is always a method to the madness.
Ismat thanx for posting the info. I empathize with Anna. Like her I have put myself out there with a lot of my writings in the past 8 years I’ve been writing and always felt like I got bitched out more because I was a woman and it was almost always personal and very little about the content of my writing. I actually took a long break once upon a time because I couldn’t imagine that total strangers had the potential to be such big assholes when it came to really mundane writing. All because I had an opinion.
We live in a society where when a woman talks people rather pick at what shes wearing, what she looks like, her breasts, her looks and who she’s dating rather than what she is saying and unfortunately this is no different. I think it takes a special kind of asshole IMO to respond with personal criticism on a piece that was so lighthearted. I mean for fucks sake it’s not like she was putting anyone down or posting something negative. Jesus who are these people really? I’d like to flog them. Ugh.
Laaaaame. Come on, Abhi, I expect more from a Wolverine! 😉
no relevance to the thread… but i’m just thinking… another friday night and we are on a blog!… sad… internet addiction or just plain sad? and i don’t know what’s worse on a friday night, studying or blogging?!
It’s Saturday afternoon here,
but I can def say with certainty,
STUDYING.
cya 🙂
close comments for a week. see how people like it, after all, you’re putting up a big sign on your front lawn for people come in and spit in your face if they like it as it is. this is the internets, no analogy to face-to-face conversation.
…or a reasonable explanation for it. Seriously. It’s not like we’re unaware of this and thrilled about the swordfest which is our bunker. But I also wouldn’t be a part of a project which selected for items on a checklist vs. actual mutinousness. Personally, I’m looking for awesome, talented writer first, plumbing and country of origin later. The fact that I’m a girl was irrelevant to my being asked to move to the middle of nowhere during the summer of 2004.
We have had two Sri-Lankan-American guests and current hostage Taz is of Bangladeshi descent. Ideal? Perhaps not, but we try. And I hate even getting in to this, b/c we’ve re-hashed it 274 times, but “South Asian” refers to content, audience, vibe…not necessarily the bloggers themselves. We’re trying to create and maintain a space for a certain view of the world and our community vs. assembling quasi-creepy wooden dolls for the desi “It’s a Small World” of the blogosphere.
Now does anyone have anything vaguely on topic (read: nothing about what SM should or shouldn’t do) to add? I don’t think I’ve been called boring enough for the evening to be truly special. If someone could follow up the “you suck” with a “because” that actually contained valid feedback (“I didn’t like this, this or this…”), I’d love it.
I know this piece was not my best. That’s why it took me four days to finish it and post it (with great reluctance, I might add…but it was more important for me to connect with this community at this exact time than feel even more isolated). Contrast that to 99.9% of my other posts, which are written in one breathless, impassioned stretch where I neglect food, water, bills and boy in order to…finish.
I’m sincerely sorry if those of you who expect more from me were disappointed, but my heart is glad that some, if not more of you enjoyed this, even if it wasn’t my best. Reading your comments made these last two days so much more bearable and I’m grateful for it. I’ll try and write better next time.
Jesus loves you.
Damn, you leave for a little while and. . .
I think it’s rude to criticize the style of someone’s writing in the very comment section of their blog; I also think it’s rude to criticize the choice of subject. Critcize the substance, criticize the argument, criticize the analysis, criticize implication and tone, criticize clarity or confusion, criticize the evidence–these are the kinds of critique the “comment” button invites. But both style and choice of subject are the authors’ perogative, and you should either read it or go away. If it really bothers you, then you can blog on your own site about why it bothers you. Blogger’s free, and so is wordpress.com, so you really have no excuse for being rude here.
Anna, again, off-topic, but I don’t know where else to post this:
Of course writing talent and awareness of SA issues is a prereq. But certainly there are some other women out there who fit the category? Also not suggesting you’re a part of SM because you’re a woman–and I did not imply that. Getting a diversity of voices does not mean that you have to sacrifice quality.
Again, all you’ve noted is recognized (and appreciated!), but again, no permanent bloggers repping from diverse fronts. Of course, “South Asian” refers to the content, etc., but having a few voices from said backgrounds (if they’re up to snuff) would help diversify the very content and perhaps provide fodder for posts that cover issues that are possibly overlooked. For example, the post you wrote on being harassed in DC probably couldn’t have been written by Abhi–it was very specific (and thus useful for the SM community) to your experience as an Indian-American woman being harassed. Similar posts could arise from folks of other backgrounds. Not really much of a secret or leap in logic. No “creepy wooden dolls” suggestion here at all.
I love it when the Bean Counters go after the Liberals.
ismat, statistically 88% of south asian americans are indian origin. reading the comments of this weblog from the point of initiation it seems that a much higher % of participants in the boards are indian origin. the two most prolific commenters who are from “muslim backgrounds” are AMJ and myself, and neither of us are believers. perhaps the indo-centric bias of this weblog turns off more diverse audiences, but my own hunch (and from talking to muslim south asians) is that many of them are not as invested in a ‘south asian’ identity as they are in a ‘muslim’ identity.
Yes, you’re half right– it had to be a woman who wrote that post. But I think the fact that I’m of Indian descent is irrelevant. Pakistani, Bangladeshi and Sri Lankan women of all three gens related to that even though I wrote it and I’m part of the oppressive majority. Folks from other backgrounds could add a lot, but I think it’s entirely possible to have a South Asian blog even if all the permanent bloggers are only from one part of South Asia. I’d love for us to have mutineers from everywhere and when we find the right people, I think we will.
As for the rest of your comment:
Ismat, I hear you and I appreciate both that you cared enough to want to speak about this AND that you recognized that I wasn’t trying to have that conversation here, though it looks like we are, against my will. My reluctance to get in to this is nothing personal, it’s just that down this garden path comes much pain, as we have learned. Not everyone will be as respectful or constructive with their questions or suggestions as you have been, unfortunately.
If I could mod 24/7, I might be willing to have this discussion… AGAIN. But I can’t. Especially not now. Your contentions have been made in the past by others. Please believe me. We know. Please have faith in our attempts to do the right thing, for this community and this project.
Running this is just not as easy as one might think.
I’ve been here since day one and I’ve recommended guest bloggers who turned out far differently than we expected. Sometimes, people you think would be amazing just don’t bleed Sepia like you think they could. Sometimes they can’t keep up with the posting volume or they find that they hate the “has to be brown”-angle to everything, though lord knows that’s elastic. Sometimes, they realize they’d rather have a life than sit here monitoring the Mutiny on a Friday night. What do I mean?
Blogging here creates neverending demands which are so draining; we each moderate our OWN threads. That takes far more time than most of you think. If someone isn’t willing to watch their comments sections relentlessly, that’s not going to work for us (or you!), b/c it’s usually about 30 seconds to utter shittiness around here, from the under-the-bridge-brigade. And what’s the payoff to researching, writing, pondering and nurturing? It ain’t pretty. Speaking for myself post-SM, I don’t read regular books, write essays for my “real blog” or see movies anywhere near as frequently as I once did. While I once played indoor and went to the gym 4-5x a week, I haven’t done that since we started. And I’ve had not one, but TWO guys give me grief over living in the bunker, because they were bitterly jealous of how much time I spent blogging/just being here. THERE’S an attractive compensation package for a potential mutineer. I won’t even go in to the Sepia curse, i.e. how if you didn’t join while you were engaged (Sajit) or married (Amardeep)…you remain single and woefully play-free.
Beyond that, it’s never been as simple as, “Oh, this girl who is Pakistani-American writes pretty well– let’s scoop her.” Sometimes, that girl wants no part of US, b/c of the bullshit I had to go through upthread. I don’t blame her, at all. It’s no fun getting skewered.
It’s a lot harder behind the scenes than it looks or seems. I’m sure you can relate to that, b/c of Nirali? If everyone who complained actually gave it a shot, there’d be several gorgeous magazines and a few dozen competing mutinies, wouldn’t there? And yet…there aren’t. Not because SM is the alpha and the omega– but b/c it’s so much work, it’s so much harder and it’s so thankless at times.
But…I wouldn’t have had the last two years of my life any other way.
but b/c it’s so much work and it’s so much harder than one thinks and it’s so thankless at times
all you need to do is show up? 🙂 and put in 4-5 hours per day?
Anna, thanks for responding, again, all is noted and I have much respect (and understanding) for what you guys do. I do get that it’s not easy and that it’s time consuming and thankless. Believe me, I do. I have no life of my own and I’m sure you can understand why. (And my own lowly blog gets no love from me, and I’ve been running that for more than five years.) I’m raising these issues because they are important ones that should continue to be raised, regardless of the reasons you’ve give above. I am not trying to be contentious. Believe me, I love SM and what it offers to our community, and that’s why I keep coming back to it. But I’m glad to hear (and did suspect as much) that you bunkermates discuss this kind of thing and are actively seeking representation. It’s my firm belief that a diversity of voices always enhances a publication or public forum, and I think about this a lot being a journo. Still, your readers should be able to voice their opinions on the matter–and respond to your concerns. (And yes, your DC harassment post was relatable to many women, but some of the nasty comments you fielded about you “tasting like curry” [ugh, I still shudder at that] spoke to the intersection of you being a woman and being of Indian origin. It provoked such great discussion and thought. So I’m saying the intersection of your identities helped give that post a very specific identity.)
Razib, you sure do make a lot of assumptions about what people think, or at least that’s what it seems like to me. You may have spoken to a lot of those who are more interested in their Muslim identity than their SA one, but that’s hardly a scientific sample, and surely you can agree with me on that? 🙂 There’s a huge second-gen Pakistani-American community that is not all that invested in its Muslim identity–I’ve seen and attended events here in NY representing such. Many of them are about as Muslim as you. But they also don’t identify as much with being Indian. That’s all I’m saying. And, yes, statistically speaking, I get the 88% thing. But stats aren’t always what we should look at. For example, only 13 percent of Americans are of African descent, but I still believe that our public dialogue, discussions and media should give a lot of play to race and race relations, because of various reasons. You feel me?