I've been driving since I was 18. I always felt "free" when I drove. There was a period of three years when I had no access to a car and I was in another country and, hence, I couldn't drive. It was unbearable. I felt caged in, trapped.
My car has always been my ticket to freedom. As long as I had my car, I was free to be me and to be anywhere I wanted to be. Sounds like a country song, right?
When I initially realized I was going to end up in Fresno, I knew I was going to drive there. I was going to drive my little green Toyota from Houston to Fresno with a U-Hual trailer hitched up to the back. It sounded plausible at the time. It sounded like a good idea. I could do it. As long as I had my car, I could do anything. Of course, my parental units had a fit.
My parents didn't like the idea of me, their only daughter, driving halfway across the US by herself. I guess I could understand that. But I wanted to drive. It was the essence of "coming of age": leaving home, making that long trek with whatever you could pack in the trunk, and starting over again on your own. I would have so downloaded and played the theme song to the Mary Tyler Moore show because it would have been so apt, so romantic, so how-I-pictured-it-would-be.
Two days of emotion-filled arguments that ended with me slamming the phone down and angrily shouting "I can't talk to you right now!" I had had enough but I was too stressed to continue fighting. I got my stubborn streak from my Dad and he wasn't going to budge. Time was quickly approaching. The moment I decided to give into mom and dad's advice, I felt like I had lost. I know they meant the best for me but in my rage I felt like the powerless 13-year-old all over again. Gawd, they drove me crazy! What pissed me off even more was that my brother seemed to be in cahoots with them. Looking back at it, I see how emotion really does make you irrational. At the time I really did feel like they were trying to control me when in actuality they were just scared. I think my brother summed it up best when he said, "Yea, I know you can do it but just humor them, ok? If you travel like that, that's like 3 days of worry. If by plane, it's like a couple of hours." He made sense and so I finally listened.
So, in the end, I paid some carrier to ground transport my car and I flew. My mom actually came with me with the notion of "Well, if I come, that's more luggage we can bring" but I knew it was really "I want to make sure you'll be okay in that place-we-have-no-relatives." After arriving in Fresno, I was actually glad mom was there. The first week is the loneliest time in a new place. You don't know where anything is. There's too much stuff to establish or switch over. And, you don't have anyone to help you through all that. It wasn't a new concept for me because of my whole India thing but, unlike in Fresno, I was in a dorm there with a hundred other girls in the same boat. Here, I was the only one. I'm not going to lie: it was kind of scary. Mom being there did help.
A couple of days after I moved into the apartment, the carrier called to let me know that my car was now in California. I was happy. Mom and I walked about a block away to meet the truckdriver. He handed me the keys. We got into the car and drove back to the apartment. I was reunited with my little green Toyota and I felt whole and free again. It gave me hope that I had left the craziness behind.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Lost in Fresno: Shopping
I know I'm not in Houston anymore. I arrived in Fresno more than a month ago and I still feel like I don't know anything about anything. It's like a different country where they all speak English and they look like everyone else. The rules seem to be the same but I feel like I'm in the twilight zone.
The stores are different. I miss Kroger and HEB. I have to go to three different stores to be able to eat for the week. Bread, pita, and hummus from Trader Joe's (yea, I didn't think they sold produce when I first heard the name); water, oranges, vegetables, and cheese from Save Mart (probably something like Houston's Randall's); Sandwich meat, milk, bananas, cereal from FoodMaxx (kind of like the Walmart of the food world). They do have Walmart and Target but that's all they are...they are not the "Super" version. Man, I never thought I'd actually miss that. I have yet to go to the Indian store though there is one rumored to be near by. For now, I've been buying Indian spices and sandelwood stuff at Whole Foods.
It's really hard not knowing where to go to get stuff for the best prices. Last week I had an adventure trying to find this particular exfoliant that is like the next best thing to a miracle. I knew I could buy it online but who wants to go through the hassle and the wait and the Shipping-and-Handling?
In Houston, I had always gotten it at the Whole Foods on Bellaire. I was, indeed, quite thrilled to learn that there was a Whole Foods not too far from here. So I drove there one afternoon after work.
For the life of me, I could not find it! I looked up and down...went around the aisle twice and still couldn't find it. They had other products that were from the same company but not the exfoliant! Aaaah, the humanity! It's the only thing that was saving my face from looking any worse than it already did. I was frantic since I could already see the bottom of jar I had brought from Houston. There was not another Whole Foods nearby. I think the only other one was in another town and I was not about to drive there. So, basically, I ended up ordering it online from TheVitamin Shoppe.
It took a little less than a week for UPS to bring it by which was great! BUT, I was never home whenever they came 'cause, just like any other normal person, I work 8am to 5pm too. So after the second "attempt", I called them to arrange a pick-up. That sounds so clandestine, doesn't it?
8:00 pm to 8:30 pm Friday evening was the time for package pick-ups at the UPS wherehouse, the bright lovely UPS lady informed me when I called the 800 number on the "2nd attempt" notice. I was a little taken aback that she said 8:00pm. Was that normal? Isn't that kinda late?
Even after a month of being here, I'm still a little wary about hanging about anywhere after dark. You'd think coming from Houston, this would be nothing. But you know, in Houston, I knew the places to avoid after dark. Here, I have no clue. However, on the bright side (no pun intended) Fresno has an unholy amount of daylight. The sun doesn't set until after 8:15 pm! Is that a California thing or maybe a Valley thing?? I don't remember it being like that in Houston but whatever, I digress. So, basically, it was not technically "after dark."
As I approached the desolate wherehouse area between Highway 99 and the Golden State Blvd, it was still early. I turned into the UPS gate (one of three) and drove past uniformed men in brown UPS attire who were in various phases of loading and unloading packages from huge trucks. On any other day, under any other circumstances I would have just enjoyed the view but that was neither the time nor place for checking out men in shorts, sweat glistening on their forearms as they bent from the knees to pick up another box....mmhmm...ahem...I digress again.
So I drove on past the trucks and came to a small parking area but a sign warned me that it was employees only. WTF? Where the hell was I supposed to pick up this package? I spotted a security guard scurrying past me. He waived at me in a friendly manner. I waived back and then realized that I should probably ask him what I was looking for. Rent-a-cop or not, he surely know where the customer pick-up area.was. I slowed down and motioned for him to stop by passenger side. The man was straight out of some TV show. He was probably in his late 60s, one or two teeth scattered in a large wide mouth, gray tousled hair and a red jolly-St-Nick face. I suspect he had been imbibing recently or had, at least, previously been addicted to something. His stained, gray uniform barely stretched over his pot belly. However, at that point, for me, he was just as welcome a sight as the real Saint Nick.
After spending what seemed to be an eternity rolling down my passenger window, and slowly cursing the fact that I was so minimalist as not to want automatic windows, I told him I need to pick up a package. He huffed, "Well, I'm headed over to open the gate right now" and motioned his hand vaguely to some area back behind the trucks I had just passed. "Oh okay", I mumbled, thinking he had to flip a switch, and voila, I would be in like Flyn. "Umm, you may want to drive around the block. It may take me some time to get down there." I looked behind me and, sure, enough, taking another cursory glance at this man's gait, girth, and grandeur, I too was pretty sure he would take a while to get down there. I drove around the block.
There were a couple of other cars parked at the third gate after I came back around and a couple of us formed a line at the front door of the side of the building marked , in quite large distinct letters, "Customer Service." Why I hadn't seen that when I first drove by, I don't know. It was probably because I was looking for it.
Anyway, so two guys opened the door and the packages were lined upon the floor behind the counter. One of the guys was named Leon (the other guy called him that) and they were funny. The guy at the counter was sweating profusely. He said something like "this is the most I've sweated all week". Of course, not realizing the context, I wasn't sure if I should laugh. Did he mean that just as he said it? Or did he mean that he hardly gets this many people picking up packages? I chuckled amiably anyway. A chuckle "always means well", I say.
Leon put my package on the counter and asked the guy behind me for his address. Leon looked at the packages lined up on the floor for the same address and could not seem to find that guy's box. "I have a very small package." the guy behind me offered helpfully. Me and my one track mind thought that was hilarious and let a grin escape. Leon saw it. I don't know if he was thinking what I was thinking but he smiled too. There was suddenly a sense of cameraderie there and all because I'm a disgusting one-track-mind perv. I'm a whole bunch of mess. I got my box of exfoliant and went home.
Now this is the part of the story that proves God has a sense of humor. The next day, irony of ironies, I was looking for the Barnes and Noble and noticed a Vitamin Shoppe on the corner. "Oh no." I thought. I went inside. "Please, no" I thought. And there I saw the personal care shelf. "Oh dear lord." There on the shelf were hundreds and hundreds of boxes of that exfoliant. Okay, maybe not hundreds but definitely more than one. And they were cheap. The guy was putting another row of the boxes on the shelf. "Do you need some help, Miss?" he asked and I suddenly had a flashback of the jolly ol' security guard. "No, I'm just looking," I said. I bought a bottle of massage oil and very quietly exited the store. God is hilarious.
The stores are different. I miss Kroger and HEB. I have to go to three different stores to be able to eat for the week. Bread, pita, and hummus from Trader Joe's (yea, I didn't think they sold produce when I first heard the name); water, oranges, vegetables, and cheese from Save Mart (probably something like Houston's Randall's); Sandwich meat, milk, bananas, cereal from FoodMaxx (kind of like the Walmart of the food world). They do have Walmart and Target but that's all they are...they are not the "Super" version. Man, I never thought I'd actually miss that. I have yet to go to the Indian store though there is one rumored to be near by. For now, I've been buying Indian spices and sandelwood stuff at Whole Foods.
It's really hard not knowing where to go to get stuff for the best prices. Last week I had an adventure trying to find this particular exfoliant that is like the next best thing to a miracle. I knew I could buy it online but who wants to go through the hassle and the wait and the Shipping-and-Handling?
In Houston, I had always gotten it at the Whole Foods on Bellaire. I was, indeed, quite thrilled to learn that there was a Whole Foods not too far from here. So I drove there one afternoon after work.
For the life of me, I could not find it! I looked up and down...went around the aisle twice and still couldn't find it. They had other products that were from the same company but not the exfoliant! Aaaah, the humanity! It's the only thing that was saving my face from looking any worse than it already did. I was frantic since I could already see the bottom of jar I had brought from Houston. There was not another Whole Foods nearby. I think the only other one was in another town and I was not about to drive there. So, basically, I ended up ordering it online from TheVitamin Shoppe.
It took a little less than a week for UPS to bring it by which was great! BUT, I was never home whenever they came 'cause, just like any other normal person, I work 8am to 5pm too. So after the second "attempt", I called them to arrange a pick-up. That sounds so clandestine, doesn't it?
8:00 pm to 8:30 pm Friday evening was the time for package pick-ups at the UPS wherehouse, the bright lovely UPS lady informed me when I called the 800 number on the "2nd attempt" notice. I was a little taken aback that she said 8:00pm. Was that normal? Isn't that kinda late?
Even after a month of being here, I'm still a little wary about hanging about anywhere after dark. You'd think coming from Houston, this would be nothing. But you know, in Houston, I knew the places to avoid after dark. Here, I have no clue. However, on the bright side (no pun intended) Fresno has an unholy amount of daylight. The sun doesn't set until after 8:15 pm! Is that a California thing or maybe a Valley thing?? I don't remember it being like that in Houston but whatever, I digress. So, basically, it was not technically "after dark."
As I approached the desolate wherehouse area between Highway 99 and the Golden State Blvd, it was still early. I turned into the UPS gate (one of three) and drove past uniformed men in brown UPS attire who were in various phases of loading and unloading packages from huge trucks. On any other day, under any other circumstances I would have just enjoyed the view but that was neither the time nor place for checking out men in shorts, sweat glistening on their forearms as they bent from the knees to pick up another box....mmhmm...ahem...I digress again.
So I drove on past the trucks and came to a small parking area but a sign warned me that it was employees only. WTF? Where the hell was I supposed to pick up this package? I spotted a security guard scurrying past me. He waived at me in a friendly manner. I waived back and then realized that I should probably ask him what I was looking for. Rent-a-cop or not, he surely know where the customer pick-up area.was. I slowed down and motioned for him to stop by passenger side. The man was straight out of some TV show. He was probably in his late 60s, one or two teeth scattered in a large wide mouth, gray tousled hair and a red jolly-St-Nick face. I suspect he had been imbibing recently or had, at least, previously been addicted to something. His stained, gray uniform barely stretched over his pot belly. However, at that point, for me, he was just as welcome a sight as the real Saint Nick.
After spending what seemed to be an eternity rolling down my passenger window, and slowly cursing the fact that I was so minimalist as not to want automatic windows, I told him I need to pick up a package. He huffed, "Well, I'm headed over to open the gate right now" and motioned his hand vaguely to some area back behind the trucks I had just passed. "Oh okay", I mumbled, thinking he had to flip a switch, and voila, I would be in like Flyn. "Umm, you may want to drive around the block. It may take me some time to get down there." I looked behind me and, sure, enough, taking another cursory glance at this man's gait, girth, and grandeur, I too was pretty sure he would take a while to get down there. I drove around the block.
There were a couple of other cars parked at the third gate after I came back around and a couple of us formed a line at the front door of the side of the building marked , in quite large distinct letters, "Customer Service." Why I hadn't seen that when I first drove by, I don't know. It was probably because I was looking for it.
Anyway, so two guys opened the door and the packages were lined upon the floor behind the counter. One of the guys was named Leon (the other guy called him that) and they were funny. The guy at the counter was sweating profusely. He said something like "this is the most I've sweated all week". Of course, not realizing the context, I wasn't sure if I should laugh. Did he mean that just as he said it? Or did he mean that he hardly gets this many people picking up packages? I chuckled amiably anyway. A chuckle "always means well", I say.
Leon put my package on the counter and asked the guy behind me for his address. Leon looked at the packages lined up on the floor for the same address and could not seem to find that guy's box. "I have a very small package." the guy behind me offered helpfully. Me and my one track mind thought that was hilarious and let a grin escape. Leon saw it. I don't know if he was thinking what I was thinking but he smiled too. There was suddenly a sense of cameraderie there and all because I'm a disgusting one-track-mind perv. I'm a whole bunch of mess. I got my box of exfoliant and went home.
Now this is the part of the story that proves God has a sense of humor. The next day, irony of ironies, I was looking for the Barnes and Noble and noticed a Vitamin Shoppe on the corner. "Oh no." I thought. I went inside. "Please, no" I thought. And there I saw the personal care shelf. "Oh dear lord." There on the shelf were hundreds and hundreds of boxes of that exfoliant. Okay, maybe not hundreds but definitely more than one. And they were cheap. The guy was putting another row of the boxes on the shelf. "Do you need some help, Miss?" he asked and I suddenly had a flashback of the jolly ol' security guard. "No, I'm just looking," I said. I bought a bottle of massage oil and very quietly exited the store. God is hilarious.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
My Parents' Daughter
I was born in the latter half of the 1970's in the heart of the Texas Medical Center. My mom had then been in the States for about 5 years, and my dad had been here two years. I'm sure the New World bewildered them. They've told me stories of how hard it was. They always wish that my brother and I will never go through such difficulty or struggle. I look back and try to imagine how it was for them and I can't. They were brave to leave their homes and start all over again. I think in a way I'm following in their footsteps even though I would have abhorred the thought a few years ago. I'm their daughter indeed.
School: The Pits
I did kindergarten and first grade at Play Palace. I did second grade through 8th grade at a private Catholic school in a suburb of Houston. When I first got there, people didn't like me. They thought I was weird and I thought they were too. THey had known each other since kindergarten but I hadn't. I did pretty bad those couple of years. It wasn't until 4th grade that a teacher noticed my creativity. I guess lying about my aunt beating me just so I could get attention was pretty creative. I played on the American taboo of anyone but your parents spanking you as taboo. I think Mrs. Brelsford saw through that. She saw the kid that needed attention. She actually liked me. She took interest in me. She didn't label me as "average" like the other teachers. Her positivity changed my life and encouraged me. The authoritarian discipline at home was balanced by her laizzes faire one. She let me be me. I never thought I was gifted and talented. She thought I was. She changed my life and made me love writing and learning.
High school sucked. Period. It was like all the cool kids in high school were Bananas. And I, alas, was a fucking orange. Yea, I love the puns: it was the pits, I was pitiful, etc etc. I truly hated myself. I was depressed. I feel like I didn't belong. I became semi-anorexic but I was still fat. Throwing bologna sandwiches away doesn't help much. In fact, when mom found all the bologna sandwiches half rotting under the drawer in my bedroom, that didn't help at all. She got on me for wasting food. She didn't know that I was not eating. She just thought I didn't like it. It turns out that little episode left me anemic. I always felt faint and tired. I just wanted to die most of the time.
I was a total dork. I remember I refused to answer a question in class even though I would lose points if I didn't. I was in honors English. I would get a B if I didn't participate. I didn't answer just to spite the teacher. She wrote some retarded comment on my paper. I guess at the time I really didn't take well to criticism, constructive though it may be. And I hated the people in my class. Someone in my class was like, when they were all patiently waiting for me to say something so they could leave early, "just say something!". "Fuck you" I thought and shook my head. I can be extraordinarily stubborn. I still graduated top 10% in my class and went to UH main campus like everyone else.
High school sucked. Period. It was like all the cool kids in high school were Bananas. And I, alas, was a fucking orange. Yea, I love the puns: it was the pits, I was pitiful, etc etc. I truly hated myself. I was depressed. I feel like I didn't belong. I became semi-anorexic but I was still fat. Throwing bologna sandwiches away doesn't help much. In fact, when mom found all the bologna sandwiches half rotting under the drawer in my bedroom, that didn't help at all. She got on me for wasting food. She didn't know that I was not eating. She just thought I didn't like it. It turns out that little episode left me anemic. I always felt faint and tired. I just wanted to die most of the time.
I was a total dork. I remember I refused to answer a question in class even though I would lose points if I didn't. I was in honors English. I would get a B if I didn't participate. I didn't answer just to spite the teacher. She wrote some retarded comment on my paper. I guess at the time I really didn't take well to criticism, constructive though it may be. And I hated the people in my class. Someone in my class was like, when they were all patiently waiting for me to say something so they could leave early, "just say something!". "Fuck you" I thought and shook my head. I can be extraordinarily stubborn. I still graduated top 10% in my class and went to UH main campus like everyone else.
Learning my ABCDs (American Born Confused Desi)
I hated school. I mean, I liked learning and stuff and was a good student but the social and cultural aspects baffled me. For the longest time I thought that all people in the world ate rice with their hands and had chai for breakfast. I would beg dad to give me chai in my lunchbox for lunch because it looked like chocolate milk: all the cool kids in kindergarten drank that. I loved pouring it out of my transformers thermos and all the kids, sans chocolate milk ,envying me.For the longest time, I thought Bob Allen, the sports reporter on Channel 13, went home after work, wore a "munda" (a sarong type clothing) like my dad, ate rice with his hands and talked to his daughter in Malayalam just like my dad. I wanted to be a reporter on Eyewitness News just like Bob Allen. But I wanted to deliver my sign-off line flamboyantly like white-haired, blue-tint glassed Marvin Zindler. You Houston people know who I'm talking about. I used to climb to the top of the burgler bars ('cause we live in that-kind-of-a-neighborhood and still do) and shout "[Karmic Journey], EyeWitness News!" I would then leap onto the sofa! I did this several times during the 6 o'clock news until, one day, I got a nosebleed. And then mom made me stop.
When I was 6, one of my Uncles was moving to Chicago and he was on the phone with his friend. They were talking in a language that was not English or Malayalam. I asked my Dad, "Is Uncle talking in Chicagoian? Is that how they talk there?" My Dad thought that was hilarious and told my mom and my uncle. They looked like a bunch of loons laughing. My dad, after he stopped laughing, said, "No, molay (term of endearment in Malayalam), that is Hindi. They speak English in Chicago"I still didn't get why Uncle didn't just talk to his friend in English then.
When I was 6, one of my Uncles was moving to Chicago and he was on the phone with his friend. They were talking in a language that was not English or Malayalam. I asked my Dad, "Is Uncle talking in Chicagoian? Is that how they talk there?" My Dad thought that was hilarious and told my mom and my uncle. They looked like a bunch of loons laughing. My dad, after he stopped laughing, said, "No, molay (term of endearment in Malayalam), that is Hindi. They speak English in Chicago"I still didn't get why Uncle didn't just talk to his friend in English then.
Saturday, January 8, 2005
Graduation
Yes, it has been more than a month since I wrote. Since then I've graduated but not walked, experienced my first white Christmas though it melted by 10am, and actually wore a sari to a mallu-american thing. Tres weird. Acceptance is the last phase they say. I guess I'm simply tired of being angry, lonely, and in denial.
Wednesday, December 1, 2004
Don't Screw My Happiness
I'm sure that my memories of Bangalore, India, have no real bearing on the Bangalore of today. When I was there, Bangalore was bustling with people and noise and animals and it probably still is. However, the Bangalore I remember doesn't exist anymore. The Bangalore I remember exists in my 4-years-ago recollection. It is a visual montage that contains things as vastly different as the Christ College under-the-tree spot, whimples of the nuns in our hostel, Black Sabbath riffs, and the crowded Sudhe Gunde marketplace.
I hear horns and cows and Fr. Saby's monotonous speeches. I feel the ink flow through my Parker Pen like blood as my classmates wrote line after line of Shakespearean sonnests: some funny, some sad, some desperately rhyming.
I smell warm chapatis in the mess hall, and the yellow curry that always made me gag. I hear the screech of the metal chairs on concrete floors and the too-cool-for-school slouch of the "last benchers," the heavy metal loving rebels that always sat at the back of the classrooms.
Being in Bangalore was a great experience for me but, don't get me wrong. It wasn't all "gulab jamun" and bollywood dance-a-thons. It was the first place I was physically attacked. It was the first place I felt my life threatened when someone threw a rock that shattered the bus window. It was the first place I was forced to commit civil disobedience.
Yet, I was happy.
I wonder now why I don't feel the same the happiness. I have reached a conclusion: my happiness was screwed.
In India, we used to say that all the time and I suppose it means just as it sounds. "Don't screw my happeniness" means "don't upset me." However, "don't upset me" simply doesn't have the "oomph" of "don't screw my happiness." It probably has a lot to do with the word "screw" which, in American slang, has "sex" written all over it which is perhaps why it has the "oomph."
The phrase appealed to me because it is quite possibly the worst thing someone could do to your happiness: fuck it up. What good is happiness when it's all fucked up? My happiness has lost it's innocence out here in the real world.
I want to write a book about Bangalore but the more I put it off the more I forget. Initially, I had hoped this book would get me out of the poverty that forces me to sleep on floor pillows arranged underneath my mom's 1970's beadspread. I'm hoped this book would sell millions and the catchphrase, "Don't screw my happiness" will make its grand debut on "Good Morning America".
Who am I kidding? I won't ever write beyond this paragraph and most of you have given up a few lines ago. But, then again, a little reverse psychology and subliminal propaganda never hurt anyone. :-)
I hear horns and cows and Fr. Saby's monotonous speeches. I feel the ink flow through my Parker Pen like blood as my classmates wrote line after line of Shakespearean sonnests: some funny, some sad, some desperately rhyming.
I smell warm chapatis in the mess hall, and the yellow curry that always made me gag. I hear the screech of the metal chairs on concrete floors and the too-cool-for-school slouch of the "last benchers," the heavy metal loving rebels that always sat at the back of the classrooms.
Being in Bangalore was a great experience for me but, don't get me wrong. It wasn't all "gulab jamun" and bollywood dance-a-thons. It was the first place I was physically attacked. It was the first place I felt my life threatened when someone threw a rock that shattered the bus window. It was the first place I was forced to commit civil disobedience.
Yet, I was happy.
I wonder now why I don't feel the same the happiness. I have reached a conclusion: my happiness was screwed.
In India, we used to say that all the time and I suppose it means just as it sounds. "Don't screw my happeniness" means "don't upset me." However, "don't upset me" simply doesn't have the "oomph" of "don't screw my happiness." It probably has a lot to do with the word "screw" which, in American slang, has "sex" written all over it which is perhaps why it has the "oomph."
The phrase appealed to me because it is quite possibly the worst thing someone could do to your happiness: fuck it up. What good is happiness when it's all fucked up? My happiness has lost it's innocence out here in the real world.
I want to write a book about Bangalore but the more I put it off the more I forget. Initially, I had hoped this book would get me out of the poverty that forces me to sleep on floor pillows arranged underneath my mom's 1970's beadspread. I'm hoped this book would sell millions and the catchphrase, "Don't screw my happiness" will make its grand debut on "Good Morning America".
Who am I kidding? I won't ever write beyond this paragraph and most of you have given up a few lines ago. But, then again, a little reverse psychology and subliminal propaganda never hurt anyone. :-)
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