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.
Oh no, more navel-gazing parading as reflections on identity. I am outta here.
LOL at Peanut butter
Oh, no! More craven commenting parading as wit, I’m so glad you’re ANONYMOUS and sparing us your value-free presence.
Did I mention that LOL might be the most retarded acronym ever? No? Just did.
There’s a giant blog full of other stuff if you don’t like this post; declaring how you don’t just makes you…well…
Yah baby! I still rock the tapes. Bomb the Tumbi from early 90s is a classic despite the pink cover and cheesy graphics.
You went to Davis in the mid-90s? Yikes you might know my cousin. That’s not a good thing though. She’s psycho.
Punjabi’s can’t make pizza because we think the mo’ milk products the mo’ better =). I always enjoy reading your stories.
Are you Indian?
😉
I’m
South Asiannot EthiopianIndian, all right. 😉Hi Anna, Really nice post! I think you are slowly turning FOB:) In a couple of months you’ll say that your parents are from Kerala. Then you’ll start telling people that you’re from Kerala. Finally, one fine morning, you’ll walk into this Tryst place and see a brown face and ask: so, where you from? You’ll be very very upset when he says California. You’ll go: I meant, where are you really from? Good times await you…:D
Chi chi, chica, how you can loathe Eggplant I can never understand.
Should I try this noxious culinary offering? Do I dare? Will I find an unwelcome present among the toppings?
When I was a freshman at Berkeley me and a similarly nice, goody two shoes vegetarian Rajastani boy met up for lunch. We went to Schlotsky’s and orderered a pizza and carried the box up to the upstairs level. We opened it up and saw . . .something. .that didn’t look like what we had ordered. It was pale . .and lumpy. . .and weird. . .and smelled funny. . .and we both realized that for the first time in our lives, we were out to lunch without our parents but with another religious vegetarian (as opposed to the scads of hippie vegetarians I’d had for schoolmates) and therefore had no one to ask, “um, could you try this and tell me if it’s meat?”. We also were fairly certain it was meat. So we gingerly batted the box closed, reached underneath and carefully carried it on the very tips of our fingers, all four hands, three blocks over and up the elevator before practically flinging it on his dorm’s common room coffee table with a sign, “free pizza!” left on the chalkboard.
I have both chilled slightly and learned to be more demanding about getting restaurants to take back mishandled orders.
Being a vegetarian and not being labelled as vegan/’one of those’ is increasingly getting difficult.
People have hard time understanding that taking the chicken patty out of the burger does not make it vegetarian (for this desi vegetarian).
I’m surprised to read that in all three establishments you visited, at least one person felt compelled enough to either comment upon or inquire about your physical appearance and origin. Granted, I was born and live in a heavily desi region of the US but I can say, on a scale of 0 to 10, with 0 representing impossibility and 10 representing complete metaphysical certitude, that the chance I’ve felt the need to ask someone what country they were from is zero. I know I may be in the minority here, but I was brought up believing that posing such questions to strangers was rude. (And what’s the deal with desis and staring? It seems I can’t even go to Trader Joe’s to grab a box of samosas without every movement and grocery selection being scrutinized by some macaca with a shopping cart full of Two Buck Chuck. Yea, I know what he was rocking ‘cuz I was staring back. I ain’t gonna front.)
But I digest: ANNA, I’m so sorry to hear what happened and offer my sincerest condolences. Props to Pizza Uncle for his generosity but, if I were in DC right now (which I am thankfully not), you’d grubbing on an entire pizza pie, plus a whole thing of cheesy bread! That’s some real Poonjabi hospitality for ya! (Well, maybe half of the cheesy bread. That stuff’s too good not too share.)
This comment is twice occurred and now it’s time to go away on holiday.
).
yup! as i tell others it doesn’t become cheese pizza just because you take the pepperoni off
also just another mute point.. if you are at a company lunch/gathering/fete where there are only 2 veggie lunch boxes or 1 cheese pizza, etc…. please please please carniverous folks..don’t go hoarding them because the veggie folks get shafted…(a super pet peeve)
miss anna: you are not alone in getting asked where you are from..
i get asked all the time where i’m from by my patients.. one refused to believe i was indian…until i showed him a picture of us in indian clothes at a family wedding…hell i got asked that by ted turner when i ran into him…and i told him to guess in 3 guesses or he’s buying me dinner (cheekiness at 6am when i met him i tell you)…a few yrs back when we were at universal studios with family.. i was selected as the random person from the audience to help them with a skit.. when he asked me where i was from.. i said ‘california’.. then he said, ‘no where are you from?’.. i laughed (since i knew what he meant but i didn’t want to play his game..was so not in the mood)..and said ‘america?’… again, he asked where are you from? and i said, i was BORN IN MOTOWN OTHERWISE known as DETROIT!… shut him up..and I sorta peeved off my family…but the ‘where are you from question can get to be quite repetitive and um.. old.
oh miss anna you mentioned BLONDIES… on my telegraph road.. sigh.. you’re bringing back too many fantastic cali memories..when did blondie’s change? (I went for the first time in ’92 and last in ’96)… okay late late late for work.
ANNA, that drink sounds mighty tasty. Remind me to stop in at Tryst and order one… though, not on a Friday/ Saturday night, as I have used your previous Adams Morgan story as a precautionary measure (drunk frat boys are no friend of mine)for all AM-related adventures.
I have experienced the exact same story, though in Subway, with a man who thinks I’m Sri Lankan(oh, to be dark brown…) Nice guy, though a little pushy with the speaking Hindi/Tamil/Malu to me when I just want a to order my sandwich and leave quietly. I have come up with several answers to the question “where are you from?” depending on who is asking. If it’s someone my age then “I grew up in Maryland”; if its an older person “my parents are from India, but I was born here”(which usually avoids the whole ‘you speak English well!’ comment); if its an older Indian, “Kerala”. What dumb-wad has never heard of it???
Anyway, this was a terrific post, because the Pizza Punjaban was right; Ve are neighbors.
Final note: as a fellow malu and hater of eggplant, I can explain how one can loathe it. Eggplant is grody.
Anna can you please stop speaking of self-centered, ethnocentric rambles. This may clue you in to why you are single.
Safri Boys rock! (Or used to…I don’t good old Balwinder has come out with a new cd in a while). Just curious, why does Hindi make you freeze and then feel wary? Bad experiences with Hindi speakers? Too many horrible Bollywood movies? You just don’t like the sound of the language?
I meant I don’t THINK good old Balwinder has come out with a new cd in a while. And please just ignore comment #14.
More on Heer Ranjha:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heer_Ranjha
Tom:
Anna neither speaks “of [sic] self-centered, ethnocentric rambles” nor “in self-centered, ethnocentric rambles”. She ocassionally pens a reflective post about her own experience and life. You can usually tell which ones they are, and if you don’t like ’em, don’t read ’em. It’s pretty simple, really.
Wish your posts were more pithy and less incog vaingloriousness..
Stop hating. Group blog = multiple voices, multiple styles, multiple approaches. We don’t all like each others’ stuff either but we’re not sending each other emails telling each other how much they suck. If you want a single consistent voice and theme, there are lots of good one-person blogs out there.
And Anna writes in a variety of voices herself. This is simply how she does her personal posts. Just like my musings are different from my straighforward factual posts.
p.s. “we’re not sending each other emails telling each other how much they suck” ==> Siddhartha, check your inbox 😉
i blocked your incoming address, playa!
makes “i can’t hear you” faces
I like your personal stories, Anna.
I like ANNA’s encounters with people that she blogs about.
I wish ANNA could email Ladila and Tom before she writes here, make sure they are okay with the draft, incorporate any changes they would like and then post here. In fact all bloggers on SM should run their posts by these two people before they post here. Thanks!
Yeah good idea Al Muj. She only has herself to blame for sarcastic and snide comments, for not seeking permission first.
By the way ANNA, I also have a stock of Punjabi phrases from having also marinated, like you, with the Punjabi people all my life – ‘KIDDHAN!?’ is such a cool greeting too, puts you at ease and makes me smile immediately, its a big friendly informal hug of a greeting, innit?
Anna, I enjoy your personal posts very much.
All brown bhailog, no need to get your knickers in a twist…
To WRITE is to be open to honest critique, unless you folks dont expect a readership and prefer to be holed up in your ivory towers.
Varied audience= varied opinions/voices
You know what I find really weird about A N N A – haters?
They’re all really obsessed with her…
I love reading your writing here and on your blogs Anna, I check in and read from time to time…But I wish I could keep up with those who prefer to spread haterade because I don’t think they’re ever gonna get over you, no matter how many times you keep writing about identity! on a blog about identity, filing your posts under a category called ‘identity.’
Loverly story…Baileys+milky coffee = 🙂 so good.
“honest critique” and “offhand anonymous dismissal” don’t overlap. take it from a writer.
It makes absolutely no sense to chime in just to hate. This stuff is interesting if you’re desi, considering the lack of desi voices out there. Sometimss its nice just to hear about another desi’s personal experiences. Because its so easy to relate, man or woman…
Anyway Anna I hope the news you received wasn’t too bad and you can get over it soon. This story seemed infused with more than a hint of sadness.
I think some of the haters don’t seem to understand the concept of a BLOG. Of course there’s a certain amount of self-centered navel gazing or whatever — that’s kind of the point. And Anna writes these descriptions of incidents in her life very well. And the “that’s why you’re single” comment was way out of bounds. Heck, there are plenty of other threads on here where people tell Anna how hot she is, and if there’s one truism about guys (linking to a different recent discussion), it is that they’ll date hot chicks even IF they are head cases.
Aside to Anna. So, I read this blog regularly, and see all the references to Amma’s (I eat there pretty often), Adams Morgan (I live nearby), and Heritage India and Moby Dick (I work a block from Heritage, across the street from Moby Dick). None are particularly surprising for a brown person living in DC. But where it gets weird is a couple of days ago, when I do a google search on this song I recently discovered and can’t get out of my head — Lonely By Your Side by Azzido Da Bass — looking for reviews of the song or other discussions of the artist or similar music. I get past the first couple of dozen of music download sites and DJ playlists, and the first noncommercial site that comes up on google is your blog, with a list of songs for a drive or something like that. That’s just weird — no brown or DC connection, and your blog was still the first one that came up ….
Well I love reading Anna’s reflections as there’s alot I can relate to – so keep them coming Anna!
I usually get the “Where are you from?” question from Fijian Indians, some of whom have never even heard of Bangladesh. There’s nothing more disconcerting than explaining to a brown person that Bangladesh is not in India.
Anna is currently going through some tough times in her personal life, as she indicated at the top of her main article, so for God’s sake can we please have some sensitivity towards her, people. Thank you.
Anna, I love your writing. When you finish your first novel or book of short stories, I want to read it. I started reading desi blogs when I moved to Japan as a pale American; first for the stories of how to handle questions about skin color and appearance, but then I continued reading them because it was another English-speaking population I could relate to in an unfamiliar place.
I hope your writing eases the sadness you feel…
Peanutbutter, SloganMurugan , Tom, and ladidah: you all forgot to include a picture of yourself in your comments.
OK, OK. Don’t feed the trolls.
I’m invoking the “Unless theyÂ’re funny. ItÂ’s all good then.” clause for my previous comment. C’mon SM Intern, you know you’re with me. @=)
During similar conversation with a Punjabi aunty, I told her I was from a huge-hard-to-miss south indian state. She asked if it was in Maharastra. Had tough time holding off my laughter and not coming off as insensitive.
Dont be sad Anna, its always darkest before dawn.
Anna, I also like your posts. The style is different and you take chances by being so personal. I wish people would get that and just chill.
Peanut Butter, your insult actually meant nothing, it was just a string of words put together. But whatevs.
I’m going to talk about something I love…. the specialty coffees at my fave place The Bean Bar. Coffee lovers, try this sometime: Latte with a shot of Godiva chocolate liqueur and mint schnapps… and call it ‘After Eight’… mmmmm!
yeah, i don’t get the hating on such a well written piece with anecdotal details. Anna, well done. The main reason i enjoy sepia mutiny is the sense of community the site has, and secondly comes the interesting articles and random tidbits. What better way to perpetuate this sense of community then by sharing random but insightful experiences, that most of us have also had in some form or another.
thanks for the post ANNA, I enjoyed it.
My dream day would involve breakfast at Tryst – waffles with fresh strawberries, whipped cream and nutella.
After walking that off, I would head back to Tryst for lunch – the Oscar sandwich.
Dinner would be at Zaytinya and then back to Tryst for some dessert and surfing.
My love for your ‘pind’ centers around this place!
Ritam wrote:
I agree that is nice to hear/read another desi’s experience. I have had some experiences similar to this but clearly not the same. Why are they not the same? Because I’m not an attractive desi woman. I think some of the attention she gets is b/c she’s brown and some of it is from the creepy guys that are attracted to her have have zero social tact (which give the rest of us tactful guys a bad name).
Just my .02. I hope Anna and the rest of the SM crew keep writing their accounts. I hope it inspires others. Sure maybe Anna’s posts are a little flowery and self-indulgent, but aren’t most blog-related activities? I know I occasionally write a blog entry for desi-related happenings in my life. Like the time this guy thought I was black, offered me a huge brick of weed and proceeded to say “you know how it is for a brother”. Or another time when I had spent 2 weeks with a Pakistani coworker at a couple conferences and he didn’t figure out I was South Asian until I told him at the end.
They’re all funny narratives that have a common underlying theme of identity issues, imo.
Write on!
That was a really sweet story. Makes me miss my father ::tear:: Now I need to go to a food shop with a kind old sub-conti dude. Where! Where in Minnesota!!!!
heh! classic.
PS: it’s filed under “musings”, and as such is dear ANNA’s prerogative to muse away. Personally, I enjoy it.
Anna’s entries are almost always my favourites. 🙂
I’ve broken up a fight at jumbo slice before. Although I was on the receiving end of a few punches, it was all worth it b/c I was rewarded with a free pizza slice for my bravery (no matter how greasy the thing was). Another great one, Anna.
HaHaHeHe,
It is hard to please everybody, isn’t it? I think you should read ALL Anna’s blogs…they are not all the same. May be, just may be you might read something you like.
Better still, why don’t YOU write a blog about your expereiences everyday? I will personally let you know how I think you should walk the streets.
Please start writing one now…I can’t wait to read.