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.
Anna, my sincere condolences…..and when you said Kiddhan, it reminded me of my childhood friend Rajju-she always used to say Kiddhan :). i am a Punju and true, as the Uncleji said, its a very informal word-used only between close friends. but thanks for using this word, it sounds sweet.
People have hard time understanding that taking the chicken patty out of the burger does not make it vegetarian (for this desi vegetarian).
and yup! as i tell others it doesn’t become cheese pizza just because you take the pepperoni off
how true Brown_fob and Chickpea.me too, i have had countless experiences with “vegetarian” food here-some people even ask me if i eat fish, soon after i mention that i am vegetarian :). and it especially becomes difficult at Department get togethers and lunches, when u got only egg-rolls in the name of “vegetarian” food. it gets worse, as Chickpea mentioned, when all the vegetarian sandwiches/ box-lunches are taken by the people who eat meat. though i once had a very nice experience at a department bbq. my lab-mate’s BF who’s an African-American, cleaned up the grill before he started grilling vegetarian stuff for some us-i thought that was super-cute :).
Love ur posts Anna.
I always think it’s kind of heartwarming when someone asks you “Vare from are you?” The look of anticipation in the eyes of the ones questioning hoping you are from where they are. Most days I’ll humor them, some days the questions come with lecherous looks and I’m forced to ignore them. Almost always they are from men very very rarely from women. So I relate to this a lot.
My most interesting experiences of being asked where I was from are from the middle east. Once upon a few years I used to spend a lot of time there and women (not men) would come up to me with awe and ask me where I was from. I looked like them but didn’t dress like them and they were always filled with such glee to have that conversation.
It’s heartwarming. That is how I feel when I read Anna’s post. And self indulgent…fuck it’s a blog. I get the hataration on my blog too and I don’t understand. It’s a personal blog I can kiss my own ass if I want to…no one is holding a gun to anyone’s head to read it. Jeez…
hmmmm…so, blondies pre ’97 was good huh? maybe that’s why i have an affection to good ol’ fat slice!
Why can’t I leave a comment?
Well, everything I wanted to say has been said. This one is too close to home. If the haters think they have come across as intelligent and as critics, I would like to correct their delusions. It takes guts to put yourself out there and if anything, you have come across as someone who is not able to handle the ‘real’ness of life. An indicator of emotional immaturity maybe?
damn, what a blast from the past, Anna. I also was at Davis in the mid-90’s, and was in a few of those ICA (or whatever the name of the club changed to every year) fashion shows. I wonder if we ever met?
word to the ‘veggification of pizzas and burgers’. In college, I fully admit veggifying Woodstock’s pizzas by tossing the pepperoni slices. It makes me slightly ill to remember how many times I did that. I’ll have to find a place in SF that can recreate the goodness of your Martin Blanco cocktail.
–“This stuff is interesting if you’re desi,”
And it’s interesting if you aren’t. Those who deem personal stories as “navel gazing” should ask themselves why they are so dismissive. Perhaps they are so busy gazing at their own navels that there’s no room for another’s experience.
Thank you for the read, Anna. I loved it.
Methinks us veggies should let go of expectations of sensitivity to our kind. I know it’s a pain in the ass -but I’m the only one responsible for what I eat. I rarely am dissapointed. I check all takeout food before paying, for instance. Sometimes I am in a situation where a host ‘insists’ on trying to be veg friendly and it turns around to bite her on the behind and she grumbles. So now I bring my own food (enough for many curious eaters) often as a ‘gift’ for a host/party.
I also enjoy your posts. (I’ve suffered the gauntlet of pervs on 18th too). When the temperature drops, instead of Baileys try E&J Cask & Cream – it’ll get your blood flowing.
Anna, if you were in the Morg by yourself and looking for cheap eats, how could you have passed up Julia’s Empanadas? (My friends in NYC can’t find better.) So tasty, and open till 4 am. My other cheap eat faves in the ‘hood are Astor Palace (Greek/Mediterranan) and So’s Your Mom deli (which unfortunately is not open late) both around the corner on Columbia, and both cool to dine at solo.
Man in thiries : Where are you from? India I like Naan
Old lady: Where are you from? India You know what the problem with India is? To many people!
Man in forties: Where are you from? India I went there to spread the word of Christ. When I went to Bombay, the poverty affected me so much, I stood there and cried. Then I couldn’t sleep that first night because I kept crying.
(assorted university types): Where are you from? India You must be very good with mathematics.
(several 18-25 young men): Where are you from? India I’ve dated Indian girls.
(All kinds): Where are you from? India. I get Indians on the phone when I call customer service. They go “Hello..” (imitating Indian accent)
Where are you from? India You are a very non-violent person, then?
(Woman in forties): Where are you from? India You know, Indian laws don’t let me adopt a child from India. An Indian girl, wouldn’t that be nice?
Oops, forgot to add some text before that list. In every case, this came from white people.
btw, not much of that was much of a problem with me. What bothered me was this
Where are you from? Why do you ask? Well, your accent is certainly not American. So, I thought.. But I never said anything. How did you hear my accent?
I know, my ‘accent’ is written on my face. It’s quite OK that I’m considered an outsider. I’m perfectly fine being considered Indian till the day I die. But what bothers me is that my children will look just me and they too will constantly get this question as if they must be “from somewhere”. OTOH, maybe in another generation, there will be so many desis in the US that people will stop making the assumption that you are from somewhere. Anyway, I hardly need to add anything here. You all get this much more than I do.
I gave a (white) friends’ brother a wedding present today, wrapped up, and he said “So in India, would it be customary to open this now or later?” I was flummoxed, I had no idea. Uh, uh. . .”Or, Bengal?” Uh. . uh. . .my friend rescued me, “how about right here? what do you want him to do?”
It was an odd moment. I think my friend thinks of me as American as he is, just differently so–he was recently very surprised when, while with him, I went through a series of Anna-like-experiences. But for whatever reasons, his brother seems to think of me as Indian, more often anyway.
You know, I just started reading The Inheritance of Loss, am 100 pages in, and one of the characters, Biju, is an Indian immigrant working in the kitchens of restaurants in New York. Just the kind of person Anna writes about her momentary connection with here. So, I think that there is an underlying pathos in this writing. And Anna writes sensitively about this, a connection of one person from different worlds being friendly amidst loneliness. You’ll know what I mean when you read Biju’s story.
So read The Inheritance of Loss people, it is really very good indeed, some sublime moments. Funny too, which I was not expecting, but a melancholy kind of funny.
Isn’t there some ancient connection between Ethiopians and Kerrala-ites? I thought the two groups migrated either way and inter-mixed back in the day and that’s why they resemble each other so much? Anyway, there’s some Africa-centrist theory that states this.
I didn’t get this line;
Why would the Pizza Uncle prefer not to see you? You both had a nice exchange, hai na?
What’s wrong with our children? Drinking vanilla this, iced that, and coffee and alcohol together! Tauba, Tauba! Whatever happened to strong black coffee in the morning and a strong scotch at night, and the two drinks drunk exactly 12 hours apart!
Duuuuuuude! I always say “New York” when asked. Except with kids.
Also, for you NYC-ers, there’s another Pizza Uncle on 9th Avenue between 46th and 47th (or maybe a block south). I’m used to Mexican run pizzerias (Sunset Park) and Albanian run pizza joints (everywhere), but when I walked in here and saw one of those monochromatic faded red glossy pictures of Ganesh tacked on to the Coca Cola sign, I couldn’t believe it. Good beef patties too (although blasphemous)!
Balwinder Safri in the house (of Safri Boys fame):
http://youtube.com/watch?v=86VLhV7CrfE
That would explain a lot, including some food similarities.
Yes, I thought about the food similarities too. Guess it’s time to google “ethiopia south india historical connections”.
I’ve been reading this blog for a while, and I feel like this subject has already been explored (in terms of, “What have YOU been mistaken for?”). In fact, I commented at the time! But I guess it’s inevitable that subjects will be repeated and rehashed, esp since there are new readers every day. I also prefer other types of articles like some other “haters,” but I respect that there are several pieces a day so I can skip whatever I want, which is the great thing about SM. That nice pic of the drink reeled me in though 😉
Protect your neck.
Tread water.
Don’t let a win get to your head or a loss to your heart.
Don’t sweat the technique. Don’t believe the hype. A change is gonna come. Oh the rusted signs we ignore throughout our live. Choosing the shiny ones instead. I turn my back, now there’s no turning back. No matter how cold the winter there’s spring time ahead. I don’t know how to wake the things that sleep inside. I only want to see the light that shines behind your eyes. Always look on the bright side of life.
Don’t fret. Things will turn around. You’ll find whatever it is that you’re looking for when you least expect it.
Oh Puhleese; Kerala is “God’s own country,” created before anything else. Everything else, including Ethiopia, is a pale imitation; any commonality is a figment of one’s imagination. Also, God lives in Kerala; some place near Cochin. She is really cool and friendly, when she has had a few glasses of Toddy;) Peace
Asha, your daddy has great taste in music.
Because of the “ju” in my name, a kid in elementary school once asked me; “how come i never see you in hebrew school.”
yo… whatd i say, i check back and my comments gone
this blog is orwellian yo… whos big brother btw
I think you are on the wrong comment thread. Come to my thread sometime to see how good you currently have it.
How inaccurante is it? 😉
Ethiopian food half-reminded me of Punjabi food… What I’d ordered last time I went to an Ethiopian restaurant looked like a version of rumaali roti, daal, and koftas in regular ol’ thurka.
Damn, I’m hungry now.
UberMetroMallu (#74):
I have to agree. I’m going next weekend for some prawns and fish fry. mwahahahaha!
I almost always enjoy ANNA’s posts. Good luck getting through the current travails, ANNA.
And though I’m shocked to agree with PG, what lead you to say,”He wouldnÂ’t mind seeing me again, but heÂ’d prefer that he didnÂ’t.” I enjoyed your post, but I didn’t understand that line.
Do Punjabis actually ever say kiddhan? I’ve only heard it used by non-Punjabis trying to chat me up. But they probably can’t help it since I’m so attractive.
Anna,
There are some good posts and then there are some bad ones. I liked some of your earlier posts but not so much this one. One of the interesting things about reading SM is reading the comments and how people react. Sometimes I’ve had some much fun/information about a particular topic reading the comments more than the original post. My point is this: when you are in a public sphere and have welcomed people to comment on your work there’s bound to be a bunch of comments you don’t like or appreciate — like peanutbutter’s comment. Your response his comment was as rude as his comment in the first place( Actually, I thought his comment was funny! and apt). Jaisingh mentions that you are having personal problems and you should be given a break. From what little I know of you through your writing, I don’t think you are the person that would accept pity. In response to your dig on peanutbutters identity, I have something to say: we don’t all have to produce an ID before we comment. Don’t you agree? Towards the end I’ve noticed there are certain comments that are certainly malicious and I don’t have any answer on how to deal with those types.
I’ve never earnestly used it in a sentence but, then again, I barely speak Punjabi.
Great references, Chris. Here’s a golden oldie you guys might be familiar with.
Ooh-oo child Things are gonna get easier Ooh-oo child Things’ll get brighter Ooh-oo child Things are gonna get easier Ooh-oo child Things’ll get brighter
Some day, yeah We’ll get it together and we’ll get it all done Some day When your head is much lighter Some day, yeah We’ll walk in the rays of a beautiful sun Some day When the world is much brighter
Uncle Ji knows he works in a shitty joint around shitty people. The story described a warm connection between Anna and the Uncle Ji, so it’s safe to assume he’s thinking of her as a daughter-figure. And no matter how much you liked seeing her, you wouldn’t want your daughter around those parts – for her sake, not yours.
Whenever I pull into a gas station or convenient store run by desis, especially if it’s dark and/or I’m lost, the uncles and aunties would always be very helpful, but uncomfortable with the fact that I was in a shady place like that by myself. They’re just concerned for you, is all.
Ech, sorry about the bad grammar back there.
And nice music references, Asha’s dad. I could use some of that myself. It’ll be the first time I listen to Oasis and the Wu in the same frame of mind.
Shruti
Thank you for a very articulate answer to my question. I appreciate it!
There’s a huge difference between context and pity.
Not really. It’s easier to be vicious when you’re anonymous because there are no repercussions. No one actually emails or goes after someone who had the
ballsdecency to leave their contact information or web site via the handle their comment was posted under…I know I don’t. If criticism is honest and not malicious, why be anonymous? No, we don’t all have to produce anything before we comment, but if we want our words to be taken seriously then we also understand that accountability leads to credibility. Anonymity is the refuge of trolls and scoundrels.:+:
Shruti nailed the “why…” question which Brooklyn Brown and others posed. Perfectly. So thank you for the assist, Shruti. I appreciate that you did it, but most of all, I appreciate that you get it.
:+:
To everyone else: thank you, for thinking of my Aunt, for all the kind words about my writing and especially the encouragement about how my life will not always suck like a Dyson. You made today so much more bearable.
(DJ Drrrty Poonjabi: classic)
Your response his comment was as rude as his comment in the first place
you invite someone to your house for a party, and they’re like, “damn, you gotz one ugly face!” and you respond, “your breath be stinky!” and another guest opinines, “wow, your response was just as rude as your guest!” is something wrong here? yes, what’s wrong is that when a fellow guest is rude to the host one expects that other guests would note how rude it is to behave as if someone else’s house is their house, especially when the other person is investing time and energy to throw a nice little party. you may not be expected to bring ID to the party, but civility seems a condition of entrance, no? you might be served dishes that you find unpalatable, but would you go up to the host and tell them that their food sucked and it would be better if they cooked up something to please your own culinary tastes?
Haha, thanks! What can I say, they needed to be called out: kicking a girl while she’s already down is great way to get yourself on the front of a Summer’s Eve product. No one deserves those comments. I wish the best to you ANNA, “Things’ll get brighter“
Well said, Razib. The Mutineers are nice enough to let you into to their home, why can’t you guys wipe your feet on the way in?
Anna, Sorry about that LOL. Just that I found this peanutbutter’s comment funny. I guess that he is a resident indian like me. Maybe this place is not for ppl like us and will remember to shup up.
That’s fine; I found it unnecessarily rude and pointless, i.e. borderline trolltastic.
Don’t do that. Don’t make it a you vs. me dichotomy. You know for a fact it’s not like or about that; this place is for everyone, resident, non-resident, president. I responded to “peanut butter” during a bleak, wine-soaked moment and I’m sorry if my sudden and anomalous declaration regarding how “LOL”-usage is such a pet peeve of mine was hurtful to you.
Thanks Anna. There’s also a difference between compassion and pity. My previous post was intended in the spirit of the former.
Maybe it depends on exactly which you part of the world you live in and also specifically which Punjabi community is being referred to here (Sikh or Hindu ?). For example, the majority of (Indian) Punjabis in Britain are Sikh, and yes they say “Kiddhan” all the time.
I’m not so sure about the smaller Hindu Punjabi population here; some of the 2nd-Gen HPs say kiddhan too (although they tend to be fluent in both Punjabi and Hindi), but I don’t know if that’s just because of the Sikh dominance of 2nd-Gen British Indian culture.
This little one liner generated so much response?
The nature of a blog is that the bloggers can write whatever they want, and the readers can comment. Afterall, the whole point of blogging is to get response right? Otherwise bloggers would not make the oppurtunity to comment available.
Anyway, I’ve enjoyed some of Anna’s writings in the past, but this one is not one of her best. When I got to the last sentence I was thinking, “phir kya?”…then what?
But so what? She can blog about whatever she wants – not every piece has to be a literary or conceptual masterpiece.
Similarly, not everyone has to appreciate her writing it even though she’s going through a personal hard time. The two are very different spheres. One can empathize with her personal situation while at the same time not digging her writing.
PG – I would just luuuuuv to read a blog written by you.
Sonu –
It’s coming!
Perhaps Pardesi Gori should be a guest blogger here on SM. She can write an article about her experiences, and then commenters can ask her various questions about it all. Basically along the same lines as the recent two articles by Siddharth & DesiDancer.
In the meantime, apart from the palpable racism being demonstrated towards her by some commenters, I also suspect that it’s driving some people nuts that PG appears to have a greater academic knowledge of her religion than they may do, even if they don’t admit to either of these prejudices. Human nature unfortunately being the way it is, people sometimes become a little touchy about “outsiders stepping on their turf”, and so on.
A N N A,
This:
made me sad. It’s like you’ve internalized, or at least capitulated to, the tedious dictum that women who get harrased in public are in some way responsible for it, that they were asking for it.
I was also totally ummm… disappointed for another reason: i like hearing you describe cute clothes 🙂
Chin up, and hope things are great for you soon.
I didn’t understand this. What context? You seem to be thinking you are entitled to good critiques on your posts. You just have to live with the other kind. I’ll give you an example. Please read this link http://www.nytimes.com/2004/03/07/arts/07RICH.html?ei=5007&en=53742c631bd2326f&ex=1393995600&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1161350999-nadMOD4W97Tgfr5YJ8A/KA On receiving a bad review from Frank Rich about his film “The passion of Christ,” Mel Gibson came unhinged and wished the critic and his dog dead. Now, I’m not saying Mel Gibson is crazy but we all saw what happens when he gets drunk, which brings us to your latter comment.
This could go on and on.
Now coming to razib_the_athiestÂ’s comment:
HereÂ’s another analogy for you: IÂ’ve moved from India and not a citizen of the U.S. In a way I got invited to the party that is the U.S. But, I hate our presidentÂ’s policies and from time to time I express my displeasure. So are you saying I should shut the **** up or go back to India? While you may view SM as a party and pay your reverence to the bunk monkeys( or macacas if you willÂ…IÂ’m with it), I donÂ’t view it that way. I see it as a place to have an intelligent discourse( that includes you, IÂ’ve enjoyed many of your comments earlier) where I can express my opinion freely. If that gets me banned to SM, I will just assume this is too much dictatorial for my liking and move on.