{"id":6246,"date":"2010-07-06T22:04:53","date_gmt":"2010-07-07T03:04:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com?p=6246"},"modified":"2010-07-07T10:01:59","modified_gmt":"2010-07-07T15:01:59","slug":"a_part_yet_apar","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/2010\/07\/06\/a_part_yet_apar\/","title":{"rendered":"A Part, Yet Apart; For All of Our Paattis."},"content":{"rendered":"

Six years ago, I helped four others create this space for us<\/em>; I am immensely grateful that I was gifted with such an opportunity. It has, without a doubt, changed my life.<\/p>\n\n

When Abhi dreamed up the concept of a group blog for the American children of immigrants from South Asia, there was nothing else quite like Sepia Mutiny, anywhere. We didn’t have a virtual adda<\/a> to discuss politics, prose or polemic. We were born in this amazing country because of the epic struggles and sacrifices of our courageous parents<\/a>; yet no matter what we ate, wore, read or said, we were often considered “apart”<\/a>, not “a part” of our own culture and country.<\/p>\n\n

You younger types have it so much easier than the first wave of post-1965-era babies did. \ud83d\ude42 We didn’t have the internet (not until college, and even then, it was IRC and Pine!) and many of us went to schools which didn’t have massive “Indian Associations” or inclusive “South Asian Student” orgs. A non-trivial number of us grew up in homogenous areas, around people who neither knew nor understood anything about what we ate or how we worshipped (and why we weren’t allowed to go to Prom). For every kid who graduated from a diverse place like Mission San Jose, in Fremont, I feel like I’ve met ten who were the only brown kid at their school. That was often a lonely, challenging experience.<\/p>\n\n

Was it the end of the world? No. We survived. Many of us thrived. But many of us also sport faint scars from the digs, disses,<\/a> and yes, even the depression which was summoned by difference.<\/p>\n\n

Do people who are hyper-recent immigrants to America also feel lonely and face challenges? Yes. But with all due respect, none of this was created for you because we are not you; we could never fully understand or do justice to what it is like to be<\/em> you. You are welcome here and you are respected here, but please, keep our intentions in mind. Lower your expectations accordingly. \ud83d\ude42<\/p>\n\n

My favorite Sepia Mutiny posts, the moments which I cherish, the conversations<\/a> that I adore– those occur rarely<\/a>, and always when we examine<\/a> our identity<\/a>, because we are unique, damn it<\/a>, and we deserve to evaluate and make sense<\/a> of that. My Mother is fond<\/a> of saying that her children are the lost ones, and thankfully, we will be the only ones. That by the time we have kids<\/a> of our own? Those future grandchildren of hers? They will be fine. Grounded. Accepted. Taken for granted. 100% American in a way that was denied to us. Then she grows quiet, doleful.<\/p>\n\n

“I am sorry that my choices meant that you would hurt.”And she means that, with every cell within her. And both Mother and Daughter blink away tears. Because each loves the other so much that they wish it weren’t true– but each knows that it is.<\/p>\n\n

So this post is an opportunity to pause. To examine. To reflect. Because these experiences which molded us and defined us, which continue to keep us apart…they deserve to be understood and appreciated, even as they slice our insides, and make us bleed in hidden, painful ways.<\/p>\n\n

::<\/p>\n\n

I saw my friend Vijay<\/a> last week. After exchanging pleasantries, he paused and mentioned this blog. Specifically, he said that he had been thinking of it, recently. I playfully asked, “Oh? Why’s that?”<\/p>\n\n

“My maternal paatti (that’s Tamil for grandmother) died last week.”<\/p>\n\n

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ll keep your family in my thoughts and prayers.”<\/p>\n\n

Later, he wrote to me and I immediately understood why SM had been on his mind. This is what he said…<\/p>\n\n

\n

She was 91 and had lived in Trivandrum<\/a> for the last 20+ years with my uncle and aunt. She had lived in India her whole life, and had never visited the US, where I grew up. She was kind, energetic, and a gem. Her life had its ups and downs — one of her six children died at the age of eight, there was some drama amongst her five adult kids, and she was a widow for almost 20 years. But she didn’t show any of it on her sleeve and was blessed with 11 grandkids and 12 great-grandkids.<\/p>\n \n

Growing up, like many of my contemporary Indian-Americans, my family took big summer trips to India every three-odd years. I visited her about a dozen times spending between weeks and days on the various visits. Post-college, I visited India three times and made it a point to make it to Trivandrum.<\/p>\n \n

She only spoke Tamil, so our interactions were minimal. She was the only person for whom I felt justified getting the nerve to go into that uncomfortable space of speaking Tamil–which could, at best be described as “pigeon<\/a>“– to communicate. My last three real Tamil conversations were with her– sadly over a 7-year span.<\/p>\n \n

In 1996, I went to India with two friends, largely not visiting relatives, except I couldn’t miss seeing my Paatti, so I broke apart for a few days and went to Trivandrum and spent two days with her. A decade later, I would learn that the fact that I had made that visit profoundly touched her.<\/p>\n \n

On my last visit to India in 2003, just after I got married, my wife and I went to Trivandrum and my paatti showed us something she had been keeping tucked away like a treasure. She opened up a dusty locker and in it were stacks of carefully organized photos. She had created a stack of photos of my life, collected over the years. My wife and I were so touched. With a little translation help and a lot of hand gestures, the three of us ended up having a great conversation about her memories of me, through her “once in three year”-snapshots.<\/p>\n \n

When I learned of her passing, I felt naturally sad. I was about to mention what happened to a colleague, when I simulated a reasonable dialogue:<\/p>\n \n

“I am so sorry, when did you see her last?<\/p>\n \n

“2003”<\/p>\n \n

“Oh, when did you two last talk?”<\/p>\n \n

“2003”<\/p>\n \n

“You’re going to the funeral, right?”<\/p>\n \n

“No, my mom is going to represent our family”<\/p>\n \n

“Oh, ok”<\/p>\n \n

I realized I had started going through one of those episodes that puts the “C” in ABCD. I wouldn’t be able to relate this situation well at all. Our relationship was mutually considered good. Yet the combination of language, hearing loss and distance made it seem completely broken to a conventional eye.<\/p>\n \n

I found myself not sharing my news with the majority of people I interacted with last week. I just didn’t want that conversation. Here I was feeling as awkward as I’ve ever felt in elementary school.<\/p>\n \n

My grief is not one that will be omnipresent at Thanksgiving or Christmas. It will not emerge because I have to change my weekend routine.<\/p>\n \n

It won’t be experienced by my six-month-old son, Manoj<\/a>, who, in half a year of his life, has seen his grandparents as many times as I saw mine over my 36.<\/p>\n \n

I am doing better this weekend. I saw off my aunt and mom to India. They’ll be able to make the 10th day of my paatti’s rites.<\/p>\n \n

My aunt relayed a nugget that has lifted my spirit. We had sent photos of Manoj and had no doubt that they had been meticulously cherished.<\/p>\n \n

What we didn’t know was that she had kept one under her pillow.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n

::<\/p>\n\n

I was deeply moved by this because I identified with it, consummately. I knew some of you might, too.<\/p>\n\n

My father was the tenth of eleven children. I have only been to Kerala three times in my life, and the first barely counts because I was 16-months-old and there for the funeral of my paternal Appachan. And yet, when the news is haphazardly relayed that one of my Father’s elder brothers has passed away in Thiruvilla or Trivandrum, I am seized by grief. I have met these men twice. But they are my blood.<\/p>\n\n

For my entire childhood, their photographs gazed out at me from frames lovingly dusted and displayed in places of honor in my home. Their voices boomed over then-rare, static-coated telephone calls from the other side of the world, as they vigorously demanded, “How are your studies?” and then shouted, “Veddy good!” after my dutiful replies. Their stories still ring in my ears, though the beloved teller<\/a> of those tales has now been gone for almost eleven years, himself.<\/p>\n\n

But I never explained, at work, the next day, why my eyes were red. Why my voice cracked. Why I seemed lost in my thoughts of regret and grief. I never said a word.<\/p>\n\n

The only thing worse than losing someone is having to justify your pain over it. Why should we mourn people we’ve barely seen or known? What right do we have to grieve? Why should I have to dignify such intrusive, disrespectful queries with answers? I shouldn’t. I won’t.<\/p>\n\n

I don’t.<\/p>\n\n

And I thank Gods that precious little Manoj<\/a> will never have to. Because he is not lost. He is a part<\/em>, not apart. He will see his grandparents and learn from, love and know them, in ways that neither Vijay nor I ever knew our own.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Six years ago, I helped four others create this space for us; I am immensely grateful that I was gifted with such an opportunity. It has, without a doubt, changed my life. When Abhi dreamed up the concept of a … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[47,30],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6246"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6246"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6246\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6246"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6246"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sepiamutiny.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6246"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}