have some chai when you read this.

never before, next to nothing, now-not-never, nuanced nesting, new.

 I am here I promise. Newly graduated, newly unemployed, newly moved, newly many other things. I have finally unpacked my life from boxes and bags and things are finally finding a place in my home. It was a strange, stressful task, physically packaging up my life so that I only had to worry about one thing at a time. Books in one bag, jewelry in another. summer clothes, winter clothes. and the things I had to throw away! It broke my heart to toss out shirts from high school and middle school, the letters i would never send and the books i couldn't get money for. No matter how hard I try to compartmentalize, things always get messy. My mom says that's because I'm too emotional; My dad says that's because my mercury is weak; My brother says that's because I got the inferior genes. Whatever the reason, there's always going to be clutter, no matter how regularly I make my bed or how carefully I fold my clothes. Because I'm just messy. And I'm not just talking about moving. 

I've been rediscovering this mantra my grandmother used to repeat to me when I was a little girl: Om Namah Shivaya. She used to lull me to sleep whispering it under her breath as she patted my back with the palm of her firm, papery hands. It appeared to me again after so many years in a book I read a few weeks ago, Eat, Pray, Love (which is far superior to any other chick lit I've come across). In the book, Elizabeth Gilbert translates the chant to: "I honor the divinity that resides within me," which isn't literally what it means, but is the essence of it. Literally, the words mean "I honor Shiva," the creator and destroyer of the universe; but in Hindu scripture, Shiva is also the name given to the one thing that remains intact even when everything else goes away...the self.

Is this too zen? Sorry. My point is this: I've been relearning how to feel, fear, love, and trust this whirling magnetism that I was born with-- that we're all born with. And an amazing thing is happening... I'm learning how to let go. This is no easy task for the girl who can't bear to let anyone else stir the brownie batter and refuses to let go of the remote control. This feeling isn't new, but it's rare and fleeting. I know it like I know a great pair of jeans or a good haircut or a beautiful conversation...I hope it stays for a little while. Paring my life down to some boxes proved to me how much I need and don't need. Because when all this goes away, I just have me.

But who I am is made up of all these people and lives and loves I'm experiencing now. Me is what happens in the middle. And I guess that's why I'm okay with letting go a little bit, not holding on so tight to what happens next...because tomorrow I won't be what I am today.

im here, hello

I've been negligent. For that, I'm sorry. So much has happened in the past week: Nami and I got the keys to our place (it's official, we have an apartment). Finals FINALLY ended! Meanwhile coping with brief episodes of anxiety attacks about graduation (it comes in waves, I tell ya). Meanwhile coping with my mother in town (she's a handful, I tell ya). I can tell you one thing I haven't been doing-- Sleeping.  So, in the midst of all the glamour of packing and cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors and writing papers by day and painting the town red by night, my secrets have been more in my head than out in the air. But I wanted to stop and say hi. I miss you. Do you miss me?

 Just in case, here are some pictures of me and my lady loves (taken by the brilliant Nicole Tung, as promised) to hold you over until next time:

My new place

Today, Nami and I signed the lease to our new apartment (!!!). I was surprised by how empowering it felt, to sign my name, claim something as my own, to know that I'm willing and excited to commit myself to another year in this place. I feel grateful to know that I can. Just a few months ago, when my future was even more uncertain than it is now (I can hardly believe that), I remember I sat with Nami at Think, nursing my coffee with one hand and holding hers with the other. We were so upset at the thought that our lives as we knew them could be over.

*******

I saw a movie this weekend called, "Salt of this Sea"  for the Tribeca Film festival. It's a modern-day take on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through the eyes of one Brooklyn-born Palestinian woman, Soraya (played by one of the most powerful poets I've ever experienced, Suheir Hammad). And back in January I saw the brilliant and moving "Waltz with Bashir." Okay, first thing's first: I don't know enough about the history or politics of these cultures to understand the intensely personal and complicated conflict between them. All I know about either is the friends I've made who happen to be Israeli or Palestinian in heritage. In a lot of ways, seeing films or stories about it makes me feel ignorant and naive; these are histories that have shaped the world as I know it, yet I know so little about them. But sometimes I feel lucky to hear these stories and see these faces with clear eyes. Because I don't know enough to make judgments, I have no biases; they're just people. They're all people who have lost land and lives and stories and heirlooms and time because of... I don't know. Maybe I don't know the reason because there are too many to count; maybe I don't know the reason because there aren't enough.

One thing I've noticed over time, though, is that so many of my friends share this intense sense of belonging to a people and place. My Jewish friends are so closely connected to their heritage that it seems innate; my Palestinian friends voice their ties to their history so fiercely and ardently that it feels like they're defending their mothers. I wondered for a long time how they could be so impassioned by a place many of them had never been to, of a time they never knew. 

But I guess that's what happens when your land, your history, your people have been threatened for as long as you can remember. It's what you've been told since you were a kid: That this is your identity, but some people don't think it belongs to you; That this is your family's house, but not; That this is your homeland, kind of. 

I've never felt tied to my "homeland." I thought that every first-generation experience was like mine-- a limbo between two places you didn't quite belong to. I thought that the fact that I was never quite Indian enough to be Indian or American enough to be American was all part of the motions of assimilation...I had to be a little homeless now so that one day, my kids might completely belong to someplace. But here are people my age who have been born and raised thousands of miles away from their roots and yet feel a sense of belonging that is so foreign to me. It's an amazing thing, to see someone fight for a place she doesn't know but is somehow utterly connected to.

******

When I was walking home in the rain the other night, I was thinking about that...and I thought, maybe one day I'll love a place or feel so rooted to a world that I am willing to fight for it, risk for it.  And as I trudged through the rain and headed home to make myself a can of soup for the third night in a row (times are tough; we're in a recession, people!) and email my boss to tell him I'd be at work late and study for another final and call my mom to assure her that I indeed am still alive after another day in this big, bad new york city, I realized that I already do. 

That's why signing that lease for some four-story walk up around the corner matters so much. I'm deciding to belong to someplace...I'm taking what's mine.

I'm still here

No, I didn't forget you exist, dear blogosphere. I just had some finals to deal with. So much has been going on in my head, I have so much to say. I promise as soon as I get a minute I'm going to spill my guts out onto this computer screen and clickity clack my fingers into arthritis, or maybe carpel tunnel.

I'll be here soon!

I think you're an asshole, no lie.

Case Study: “I Think You’re Fat” By A.J. Jacobs

The Writer: Raised in Manhattan, A.J. Jacobs is the editor-at-large for Esquire Magazine and the author of two books. He might be best known for his month-long self-imposed experiments, which are the subjects of most of his writing. He has also written for the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and New York Magazine. In his first novel, The Know-It-All, Jacobs chronicles his quest to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, cover to cover. His second book, A Year of Living Biblically, tracks his year of trying to live literally by the every single rule in the Bible. He continues what he describes as “experiential journalism” with his new book, The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment (2009). 

The Story: It was during his research for A Year of Living Biblically that Jacobs stumbled upon another story idea. While browsing the Internet, Jacobs ran a search on “honesty” in a search engine. “And up popped an article about a guy running for Congress in Virginia who refused to lie,” Jacobs said. That guy running for congress was a man named Brad Blanton. The more Jacobs read, the more interested he became. Blanton would become Jacobs’ truth mentor. Blanton’s movement was dubbed as Radical Honesty—a lifestyle that dares the practitioner to speak exactly what is on his mind at the exact moment that the thought occurs to him. Blanton’s book, also titled Radical Honesty, promises to “change your life by telling the truth.” Intrigued by the challenge, Jacobs decided he would try to give Radical Honesty a shot, and traveled down to Florida to experience Blanton for himself.

 

The Reporting: After spending a long day with Blanton, observing him and documenting his reactions to the people around him, Jacobs returned to New York to try Radical Honesty himself. Most of the research and reporting in his piece go hand-in-hand; in experiential journalism reporting and research occur simultaneously. He lived Radically Honest for a few weeks—less than his usual month-long endeavors. Jacobs writes about the highs and lows of being totally—brutally—honest. 

The Writing: The article is written Radically Honestly, complete with parenthetical candor as well as straightforward statements of opinion. When it came to describing Blanton, Jacobs didn’t have to worry too much about misrepresenting him. “I was lucky because his quotes speak for himself,” Jacobs said. “[Blanton] says such outrageous things... That doesn't happen too often, sadly.” So Jacobs relied mostly on Blanton’s quotes, “…and on his gestures,” Jacobs said, “like picking his nose and spitting.” After two or three drafts, neither radically different from its original form, according to Jacobs, the article was complete. 

During the drafting process, a conflict arose between Jacobs and his editor: Editor wanted to remove a section in his article about the implications of Radical Honesty on an ever-invasive environment of technology and social networking. “He wanted to take it out. I wanted to keep it,” Jacobs said. “We compromised by having him write ‘Bullshit -- Ed.’ at the end of the section.”

 

{Below is the excerpt from the article}:

“Now, my editor thinks I'm overreaching here and trying too hard to justify this article's existence, but I think society is speeding toward its own version of Radical Honesty. The truth of our lives is increasingly being exposed, both voluntarily (MySpace pages, transparent business transactions) and involuntarily. (See Gonzales and Google, or ask Alec Baldwin.) For better or worse, we may all soon be Brad Blantons. I need to be prepared. [Such bullshit. -- Ed.]”

 

An inadvertent moment of brutal honesty occurred during Jacobs’ writing process but was cut out due to space constraints (I wish it hadn’t been). Says Jacobs: “I asked for help transcribing the interview tapes from an Esquire intern (we only had female interns at the time). Which was humiliating in it’s own right, because [Blanton] said so many offensive things. And then, to make matters worse, the intern reported that I forgot to turn off the tape recorder while taking a pee. Three times. She had to listen to me go to the bathroom.”