from class

this is just something that i wrote last semester. it was an in-class assignment: 40 minutes to tell my professor why i write (like george and joan did). this is what happened--

11/25/08
Why I Write

This morning, my grandfather came to me in my dream, just before my eyes opened at the sound of my alarm. He told me to keep dancing, I cried, I was so happy to see him. He does that a lot, my Dada-- he comes to me in my dreams; he laughs in my dreams; he makes me cry in my dreams. He looked younger than I remember him-- the last time I saw him back in April, he was in a casket, covered in flowers, a newspaper rested at his side. I always hated that that was the last look I ever got of him. So this morning, as soon as I got out of bed, I pulled out my journal and wrote what I had seen just moments before, what I had felt just moments before: my Dada, with his silver hair and straight-toothed smile, embracing me, telling me to keep dancing.
The journal I wrote it all down in is this beautiful Italian notebook with turquoise, white, and fuchsia print all around it. I saw it for the first time last December, in Kate’s Paperie just 2 weeks before my birthday. My friend Nami and I had been browsing for wrapping paper when I saw it on the shelf. I don’t know why I was so struck by it—the brilliant colors in a paisley design crawling like a vine across the little book. It was so beautiful, I was afraid to touch it. When I finally did, in order to sift through the soft, lined pages, I held it like a little egg with both my hands. I turned it over, and I saw the price tag: $40. I quickly put it back on the shelf. I was used to writing in old school notebooks and on stray pieces of paper that eventually wound up in the abyss of my desk, charred with black and blue ink. There was not a shot in hell I was about to throw away $40 away on a notebook when I could barely afford groceries.
Nami had been admiring the notebook with me, as I cooed over its leather binding. When she saw me put it back on the shelf. She suggested that I splurge a little, treat myself to something I really liked. I laughed, and told her, “I could never write something beautiful enough to scribble into a $40 notebook…” And we went on shopping.
Two weeks later, at dinner with my closest friends (The Core, we call ourselves), after tapas, drinks, and dessert, Nami placed on the table a box wrapped in lovely purple printed paper with a bow on top. I smiled at my friends in the candlelight. The box was big enough to hold any number of things—a sweater, maybe, or a scarf? No, a book—I couldn’t wait to see what was inside. As I slowly peeled away the wrapping paper, I discovered exactly what I had expected—a scarf! A lovely scarf, the most beautiful, sparkly, my-name-all-over-it scarf I’d ever seen. I smiled, thanked my friends and began to put the box away, when I noticed that there was something else tucked underneath the lavender tissue paper. I looked up at Nami, she smiled back. Before I could even take the notebook out of the box, I began to cry—no, weep. Blubber. Sob. We were all surprised by my reaction. As they comforted me, and I gathered myself, I told them why this gesture meant so much to me. This was Nami—this was all of The Core—telling me that even though I didn’t believe I could write anything beautiful enough to scribble into a $40 notebook, they did. And they knew that this was my first step in writing beautiful things.
I think of that night every time I go to write in my notebook. I only open it up if I know I am ready to write; if I am moved, if I know my body is only a husk and that something inside me needs to find its way out. When I wrote about Dada today, it had been over 3 months since I had put a single word in that journal. I only want to put beautiful things in that journal. I still write in my old notebooks and on scraps of paper—in them, I write thoughtless, silly things; I write angry, doubtful things; I write curious, confusing things. I know that even these words help me grow and keep my fingers dancing on paper. Keep dancing, like Dada said. That’s why I write, and write, and keep on writing: so that one day I can write beautiful things that last.

manahatta

Greetings from mile-a-minute, mighty mistress, midnight minx, menage-a-million, manhattan...

it's been a crazy week back from spring break, with round 2 of midterms (do they ever end?!) and my soul sister visiting me from my hometown. Many late nights and early mornings. So, naturally, i thought i would waste a little more time by reading some blogs, heating up some chicken noodle soup and waiting for my laundry. While perusing the blogosphere, i came upon a dear friend's recent post  asking her readers to tell her the one thing that they would wish to possess forever. It got me thinking: What is the one tangible object that, if given the choice, i would keep?

i feel like i live such an impatient life in this town. From the moment i bounce out of bed in the morning to the very last moment before i crash into my pillow, the whole day is a series of flashes. i cross the street as soon as i can, as quickly as i can. i rarely stop to talk if i run into an acquaintance in passing. Sometimes i forget entire days, they went by so fast. Nothing stays the same, nothing is something you can hold onto for very long.

And yet, i feel like despite--maybe even because of-- the fact that we (i don't think I'm alone in this) live this impatient life, we savor differently. We walk fast, but we think fast; we see and listen harder and closer, we feel more and hold on tighter. This town, this impatient life, makes us braver and a little more foolish...thank god for that.

But back to the question. What would (will) i keep forever? A card i received from a stranger (an old friend of my father's, i'm sure, but a stranger to me, nonetheless) just before leaving for new york that says: 

Dear Foram,

Believe in the beauty, the goodness, and the wisdom that are uniquely yours. There is only one you, and this world needs you, just as you are.

I look at that card whenever I feel like this city is going to chew me up and spit me out. It makes me brave, and I want to be brave forever.

Good bye Spring Break, Hello Spring!

In just a few hours, I'll be on a plane headed back to NYC neck-deep in work I've been putting off until the end of spring break. I'm not planning on sleeping much on the plane. I'll be outlining, note-taking, and reading until my eyes burn. Welcome back to the real world, Foram. 

Though I'm not looking forward to the exams and articles that await me, I am so excited to ring in spring with NYC. When I left for LA, I hoped that I would be greeted to a little bit of sunshine upon my return to the city. Daffodils, picnics, puppies and brunch! This is Manhattan Spring time... I can feel city on my skin already. 

Long-Awaited, Live Action,  Larger-than-Average, Love 'em and Leave 'em Artists, Late Always, La La Land.

I'm in beautiful Southern California, spending my lazy days watching Happy Gilmore with my windows open, soaking in the sun, going for walks, doing lunch, doing dinner, doing coffee; this is how the Los Angeleans do. 

In NYC I can smell the difference between human piss and dog piss (that's how you know you're a new yorker). City air is profound, sometimes violent; Valley air is different. It's mild, fragranced with honeysuckle and leaves and concrete, with just a hint of smog. On night drives, I roll down my window and let the cool air in, the way I used to when I was in High School driving home late. I swear, as soon as my hair starts flying, I'm 16 again. I'm 16, dreaming about what lies over the mountains, painting my life in my head--the people I would love, the memories I would learn, the person I would be-- as soon as I got to new york city. LA was where I was born; New York was where my life would begin.

Every year when I come back here, I seem to leave looking a little different. Last January, when I came back to LA for winter break, I left freshly inked with a feather on my left foot. 

This year, during my brief visit here for Spring Break I've punctured new holes into my body...ok, I could get pierced in more scandalous places, but still! My ears will never be the same.

I'm beginning to think that I make these marks on my body when I come back here as a sort of commemoration to my hometown. New York has changed me so much on the inside, it has marked and scarred and healed me. Los Angeles was for so long the place I wanted to leave, but lately it's turning into a place I am relearning, reliving, reloving. I want it to leave a mark on me...

25 things

Yes, we all love facebook-- even those of us who don't like to admit it. but this adorable, funny, charming kid (an internet crush? it was only a matter of time.) named Julian Smith made this video about the 25 things he hates about facebook, a spoof off of that chain note that has been going around, "25 things about me that you didn't know" or whatever it's called. the way it's made is smart and funny. watch it. love it. 

secrets for strangers 2.0

Thanks to last night's snowstorm, I got to sit down and do some spring cleaning...on my blog. I've had this thing since 2004, since I was a sophomore in high school, when blogging felt like a display of sheer hubris, so I kept it private until now. Now that the print world is turning into a digital one, and i'm taking a class to actually learn how to keep up, i decided it was time to make secrets for strangers public. 

that said, there was plenty of shit on this thing i had posted as an angst ridden teen for my eyes only. so i deleted that stuff, for the most part. hope i got all of it. 

the point is, starting now, this blog is reborn. welcome, strangers!

when life gives you lemons...get married!

Now I know why I can't get a guy to stick: this woman is marrying all of them
What I find really disturbing, though, is the fact that this woman is openly acknowledging the fact that she's kept up her serial nuptials for the sake of publicity. While I don't think it would be healthy for her to be under some delusion that she's married for love every time (signing your life away 23 times!?), I find it offensive that she's making a mockery of marriage in this way. Marriage wasn't invented to help you get air time. Now, I'm not saying that I believe in all that one-true-love bullshit, or even that "i'm gonna love you forever" is a reason to get hitched, but marriage is a promise-- i feel like it's the biggest commitment two people can make to each other, which is why it kind of is like signing your life away, at least part of it.
What's more, by throwing a proposal around like it's a coffee date, she's abusing the right that so many people in our country are being denied. She gets to marry 23 times, for no apparent reason other than, "it gets lonely," while fully committed couples who want to honor their relationships-- and who happen to be homosexual-- don't get to? There' s a disconnect there. 

At least she's making light of a potentially upsetting situation. yea, she's gotten 23 men to marry her, but she's also lost 23 husbands. 23 failed marriages is a lot to handle-- hell, 1 is a lot to handle. maybe this is just another way of making lemonade?

some thoughts on valentine's day

I don't hate valentine's day; i resent valentine's day.

Sure, it was invented by hallmark. Okay, everyday should be valentine's day. the commercialization of showing you care isn't what gets me; i am not worried about the mortality of chivalry and romance. I'm mostly mad about feeling discriminated against.

In a lot of ways, valentine's day is like a party that single people aren't invited to. Sure, I'm relatively cognizant of my singlehood every other 364 days, but i feel like each year invitations go out to couples everywhere, and if you're not on the couple train by february, you're out of luck. 

So, your friends get invitations, and all around you, everyone is asking,  "are you going to the party saturday?!" and if you say you have no plans, they say, "oh, thats ok," awkwardly, kicking themselves for not realizing that you didnt get invited. 

and then...THEN.  they say, oh, you should celebrate anyway, even if there's no special someone in your life. they might as well be saying, "oh, you didn't get invited to the party? it's not a big deal, you should come...come! it'll be fun! it's not a problem, we're all going, just come with us!"

the last thing i want to do is crash a party i wasn't invited to, especially if the last-minute, make-shift invite comes out of pity. "no, thank you," i say. " i actually got an invitation the other day to clean my bathroom, watch movies online and eat cold pizza by myself."

What boggles my mind, though, are those girls who manage to have a valentine every year. they're the girls who slip into relationships every year just in time for the dreaded v-day. 

they make it look so easy... 

"...I slid the picture of us between the layers of books on my shelf. I wanted to forget it ever existed, and sitting at my desk it was too much to see, swept up between old magazines and envelopes. It caught my eye on a regular basis, and it never got easier to look at. I thought it would, god, I prayed it would.  when you left and I told you i was fine i held my breath when i buried my head in your shoulder, because i just knew if i ever smelled the scent of your hair again i would never get it out of my head. so i let you leave, and didn't turn my head to look back, because i thought i was being brave. 

do you remember the picture? i took it on an old disposable camera, there were only 4 or 5 shots left on the roll and we were sitting next to each other on that big couch in your living room. i think you were having a party. even then, when i barely knew you (the way your hands, your lips, your head feel rested on the nape of my neck), i knew that you hated having your picture taken. so i pulled you in by the shoulders and snapped one quick. you're making a face in the picture, only half smiling. my cheek is pressed to yours, the first time ever. it looks like one of those shots that couples take on vacation, trying to get the background in, but fail because the angle is all wrong. sometimes i look at that picture just to see your face close up. 

but this is not why i'm writing to you. i'm writing to you because i told you i would  write when things changed. you told me in those last days, that if i ever changed, you wanted to know, because one day you would come back for me and you would want to know if my hair was shorter or if i grew a few inches or if i started to like "better" music. you held my hand, do you remember? and you whispered it to me, like it was a secret or something that was too important to say out loud. and then you laughed at yourself for sounding like such a girl and you made me swear i wouldn't tell anyone that you softened so much when i held your hand. i said ok.

i've waited, impatiently. but the days are hard and the nights are worse, and i can't keep this light on without beginning to fear the dark.  you said this is something you have to do. and i understood, i still do. but there is only so far you can go before you forget how to find your way back..."

“…And two years later, I’ve stopped crying. Not because I don’t want to cry anymore, well, not just because I don’t want to cry anymore, but because my tear ducts physically can’t take it anymore. See these dark circles?” she pointed to the shadowy patches under her eyes, “these are the result of rubbing tears from my eyes too hard. My doctor said if I kept going the way I was I might actually go blind from popping too many vessels around my eyes.”
She said it all so casually over her pad thai, as she balanced her chopsticks between her index and ring fingers. She watched her hands carefully as they fidgeted, eventually giving up and resorting to the fork rested on her plate (just in case).
For some reason I wasn’t uncomfortable the way I usually am when someone is so honest about her pain, especially someone I’m supposed to look at as a sort of caretaker. Her candor was somehow humbling, somehow made her more human to me, somehow made me more human to myself

Her raw sores were beginning to callous, slowly. The things she was telling me about so coolly, I’m sure were the things that brought such poisonous tears to her eyes just a few months ago.

How brave she must be, I thought, to still be sitting in front of me, after losing a life she had loved so much. Not just a man, or a house, or a weekend routine, but an entire life…
To lose the life you had, and halfway through, have to start over, and rebuild from empty scraps—an old couch, dusty carpets, unused china. The thought was almost unbearable. It still is.

It only bends


She said, The mourning never ends,
it never stops hurting
but over time,
you change.
And because of that, the way you mourn changes.
The sadness doesn’t end,
it only bends.

But I just couldn’t get over the thought
of knowing a face so intimately,
so unbearably close,
Remembering what it was like to hold it in your lap,
rested between your palms,
and to know every hair on it.

And even more,
To know that you’d never see that face again,
Never feel that head in your lap,
It was almost unthinkable.

Old memories would be changed
Somehow,
because every sensation would be veiled
by a pang of loss,
like it was now.

I saw her eyes glaze over a little bit,
And I knew in that moment,
She could see her
Feel her near
and I knew that her lap was weighed down a little,
her palms rested at two cheeks.

In that moment, I felt her
Bruised spirit molding
around an instant of utter happiness,
Bending.
Behind those sad
doe eyes
was this enormous
Looming Love
of what had been.

Her love was so vocal, so real,
so alive.
And maybe by feeling it so vividly,
so desperately,
she was proving that she hadn’t lost
anything at all.

“Just go,” she said, so resolutely. “Don’t think about it, because when you think too hard you stop doing. Do while you can, and then think about it later.” Two hours into our coffee, we were jumping from place to place in her life, from her time in Tibet to South Africa to India to New Zealand to Portland back to New York City. She spoke effortlessly about each adventure, not hesitating between locations, hardly taking a breath. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t wrap my head around each place, I couldn’t fathom breathing in such different air, hearing such different languages, being so far away from everything, alone. Only not.
Having the courage to leave is something I’ve been holding onto so tightly, something I held so close to me, to think that now I’m struggling with it all over again is both frustrating and exciting. It’s a familiar anxiety, but one that reminds me that I’m growing. This is when the stretching happens.
I am astonished with how easy it seems. Maybe it is that easy, when you stop thinking so much.
She sounded so sure that I could do it, that it was right. After so much skepticism and disbelief I thought I was asking too much of myself, too much of the world. But she made it so real. I feel like she’s someone I’m supposed to know. Dad says that’s because she is.
There was a moment when we were talking, maybe it lasted longer than a moment, I don’t know, where I realized that this was a turning point. This moment, this meeting, this person collected, was a catalyst. She was placed in front of me, with her “to go” cup rested next to my “for here” mug, to remind me of the beauty in uprooting myself, of letting go of what you know and holding on for dear life to what you don’t. Some moment of clarity reminded me that there never was a choice…what a familiar, overwhelming feeling.
It was like someone just woke me up, like someone just told me the truth. It reminded me of what it was like for my life to change—for it to mold and bend in and around an instant, without excuse or warning. I am so excited about my life.

“Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.” These compelling words by Nelson Mandela will always be relevant to us, yet they take on even greater meaning now in some of the most formative years of our lives. And as we approach the end of a school year that has battered and bruised us, bothered and bewildered us, intimidated and inspired us, we are now faced with something even more daunting than the past: the future.
For soon-to-be sophomores, juniors, seniors, and high school graduates, the cycle continues; as time slowly charms us into moving forward, we continue to move, learning that letting go is a necessary aspect of surging onward. Releasing ourselves from our own securities- our friends, our families, our favorite restaurants- we are forced to be alone with ourselves. Perhaps what scares us so much about being alone is the idea that we might be better off that way. That maybe, despite all outside influences, we are extraordinary individuals. Because, really, once you realize you’re extraordinary, you can’t let it go to waste; you’ve got to realize your potential. Thus, we are thrust into the spotlight of our imaginations: fearful of failure, but even more fearful of mediocrity. It’s easy to get lost in that light.
But the exciting thing about getting lost is that it is when we are alone searching for something that life gets interesting. And it is the fact that we are never truly certain what we are searching for so constantly, so endlessly, so painfully, that keeps us discovering ourselves.
So as the year ends, embrace all of the things you have learned and take them with you as you brace yourself for the knowledge to come.
We are chameleons, extraordinary magicians, who continually surprise ourselves, and have “power beyond measure,” if we allow ourselves to see it.
We know no boundaries, only those we set upon ourselves that desperately need to be stretched in order to prevail. So as we pack our things and head off for vacation, or school, or work, I hope that after all this time waiting for your departure from home, you are more excited about your arrival into the world.

Newton’s First Law of Motion states that an object in motion tends to stay in motion in the same direction unless acted upon by an external force. Tell us about an external influence (a person, an event, etc.) that affected you and how it caused you to change direction.

I was born with a curse; his name is Deep- my overbearing, overprotective, over-everything older brother. Of course, my brother has always toyed with my thoughts. Growing up, he told me that having brown hair meant it was made of beans, that squinting was a fashion statement, and that showers were actually completely unnecessary and only adult rituals. He so heavily influenced my thought, that as his impressionable kid sister, I was at his mercy. And he knew it.
I was raised by boys, and by the tender age of seven, I could out-wrestle, out-curse, and outwit any boy in my second grade class. I was a competitive video game player among my boy cousins, and insisted on playing ghost busters over tea party. My brother relished in my being a tomboy; he’d always wanted a little brother. But by being more of a little brother than a little sister, I never got a chance to be myself.
This insecurity grew with me over time. I constantly second-guessed my decisions because I was afraid of making the wrong one. I didn’t have the confidence to believe that I could reach my goals. I was afraid of letting my loved ones down and I was afraid that I would never fulfill my potential. All these stigmas inhibited my actions- I didn’t feel like I could do anything as well as my brother could.
Becoming close to my brother was something I had never anticipated. As similar as we were in interest and age, our differences made it impossible for us to understand one another. As I grew and became more of a girl, he grew and became more of a boy, and we went our separate ways.
Somewhere along the line, something changed and some mystical, unmistakable, undeniable force brought us together. Perhaps it was a shift in the cosmos or a new balance between good and evil. Maybe it was something we had eaten that morning. Whatever the cause, my brother began to reach out to me. Whether it was by inviting me to watch television with him, or simply asking for my advice on what to wear, my brother slowly emerged as a friend: my best friend, in fact.
We are still incredibly different; everything about us- our humor, our style, our opinions, our personalities- seems to conflict and complement simultaneously. While he watches football games we discuss the latest celebrity gossip; while I shop at the mall he tags along and looks for video games. He has managed to be the most supportive yet most grounding source in my everyday life: he’ll readily admit how proud he is of me, but will just as quickly belittle my confidence. I think only a big brother can do that - only my big brother can do that.
His moments of support linger in my mind when I’m riddled with insecurity; I simply say to myself, “If Deep thinks I can do it, I bet I can.” When I’m racked with guilt, I hear his words of approval. And when I think that I’m the best I can be, I always remember that there’s someone waiting for me to be better.
Somehow we find a balance between brother-sister and best friends. We fight, we argue, we quarrel, we give each other the silent treatment. And along the way, we learn from each other. From him, I’ve learned one of the greatest lessons of all: that some curses can be blessings.

so here i am, grateful to feel anything because for some reason theres this overwhelming numbness that i cant seem to get away from. i've dubbed it my 1/5 life crisis. ripe ol' age of 17 and 11 months, ive let the rain start to fall a little. a little more than a light drizzle- a few puddles here and there, and occasionally a little blue in the sky. i cant seem to do anything but dream but dreaming is what scares me most right now. i dont know. theres something so terrifying about "laying all your cards out on the table"- its a strange feeling of triumph just for having the courage for doing it at all. even if it hurts a little. the strange thing is, the things i love, the things that are so deeply embedded in my blood, pumping through my veins, are making me hurt. but something about the hurt is comforting, because i know that hurt is better than nothing at all. and the hurt is only temporary, i hope. i hope that soon i wont have to close my eyes to smile.

I think the scariest thing is believing that you have some sort of perfect approximation of your own capabilities. Some people take comfort in it- i think i did too- but lately i've been hoping more and more to prove myself wrong. Maybe theres some sort of deep-rooted self-deprecation that we all take part in by imposing our own understandings of our limitations; by setting a sort of barrier between what is possible and impossible, there's no way we can get hurt, right? No harm, no foul. But the thing is, having these sort of barriers kind of freaks me out- it's probably the same reason organized religion kind of freaks me out- because it's almost like slapping a post-it on your forehead that says, "you can dream as much as you want, just dont pass this line: _____." and every morning when you look in that mirror, you see that invisible post-it in your reflection and though part of you takes comfort in knowing something for certain in an all too uncertain world, the other part is secretly dying, just hoping that you're wrong about who you think you are.
i think i'm beginning to rediscover that internal struggle that everyone talks so fondly about- i want so badly to be bigger than i actually am, i can almost feel myself on proverbial tippy-toes. and i almost feel like a spectator in my own life, taking part in a sort of audience-interactive play, where i can tell the characters what to do, and occasionally take part in the performance, but for the most part, i know that i'm pretty much helpless when it comes to the outcome. i just wish someone would let me in on the secret, you know? what an awful feeling it is to expect rejection.
so i'll take one day at a time (i dont have much of a choice), and try to take the advice i've been giving to everyone else for far too long. i'll just keep doing what i love, and hope that the people that hold my future in the palm of their hands see in me what ive always seen in my reflection, sans that bloody post-it.

been a long time. sorry. this summer has been the worst, but im starting to ease back into myself, slowly
dancing is really helping me do that

around this time last summer, i heard sarma sir hum a little tune to my teacher, an idea he had for a thilana. i remember so vividly listening to him and not blinking. i know i didnt blink because the second i took my eyes off him the rest of the room was dark. i also think i must have been smiling, only because whenever i think about it now i smile.
we learned the dance in about a week. i say about because i think it was more like 5 or 6 days of intense, exciting, exhausting 4 hour classes where all i thought about was dancing. im pretty sure thats all that was running through my mind, i was happy that way. i still wonder how we did it, not just myself and my fellow dancers, but sarma sir. how did he create something like that in such a short time? not only that, but literally in front of our eyes. he would take small breaks from us, i could tell, he would close his eyes and sing to himself and i knew that his mind was racing with numbers and counts and rhythms and hand gestures and all we could do was stand quietly and wait. and then he would come back to us with another piece of creation.
and then he went back to india, just as swiftly as he came and left us with the dance
he came back this summer and made a few changes, which was expected. he made it harder, which was expected. and yesterday we did it again, in its entirety, for the first time in a long time, and for some reason it felt like we had never taken a break at all, as if he was in front of us, with his eyes closed, nodding with approval at our sloppy aramandis, as we desperately tried to remember the intricate rhythms again.
and all i could do was smile at the fact that we had watched this baby being born, experienced this art being created. for as long as i live, as many times as i watch different dancers bring this piece to life, i will be able to say that i was among the first. it gives me goosebumps

A few months ago, in a sincere attempt to take initiative and bond, I promised my father that I would soon join him on his evening walks. This evening, when he returned home from work, he entered my room and asked me to walk. With his laces already tied, I was bound to my word, so I grabbed my shoes.
Heading down the street, the heat was almost unbearable and my father began to chat about his priestly endeavors, discussing the significance of a marriage license. I smiled and nodded, concentrating mostly on the designs of the cracks in the sidewalk. Before I knew it, there was a small dog at my feet; a short-legged Jack Russell Terrier, stout and rambunctious. One of those small dogs that’s born convinced she is bigger than she looks. Though we couldn’t help but laugh, I couldn’t help but admire her.
She passed us, and we walked on. My father said to me, “Up the street you’ll see Anju and Manju, they’re dying to meet you. Every day they ask for you.”

What? I looked at him like he was crazy.

Before he could answer any questions, I was greeted by a girl on a scooter, Anju, or maybe it was Manju, one of the eleven year old Sri Lankan twins adopted just two years ago by a kind suburban family living in Kansas. They moved here recently and since then my father had apparently developed with them a relationship of sorts.
I saw the girl run to her mother and say my name, pointing at me. I walked to the girls and introduced myself.

“Today is my birthday,” one of them said, “I’m eleven”
Happy birthday, I said to one, I forgot to mention it to the other.
As I walked down their driveway, a strange sensation came over me; I can only believe it is the feeling of being loved by strangers. My father saw my face, unchanged, still utterly confused
“See how much love they have?”
I didn’t answer
“That’s the way love is.”
And all my questions vanished.

We turned the corner, and Sir Geoffrey greeted us. He was knighted by my father not long ago, this crazy old man. Every evening he asks my father if he can walk with him for 100 steps (“no more, no less, I promise”), and chat. The trouble is, every time he joins my dad, he becomes so occupied with counting his steps that all conversation is lost. I walked a little behind the two of them, two crazy old men in different ways, and mused at the humanity of it all. There was Sir Geoffrey, my father’s knight, who would occasionally turn to me and call me princess. And there was my dad, laughing with a man most would turn away from.
Geoffrey had headed back a few paces ago, and my father spent the last quarter of a mile droning on about the art of shoe insoles. As I absentmindedly nodded, I looked at the neighborhood I had spent my entire life in, a neighborhood I knew nothing about, a neighborhood made up of different worlds, different universes. I looked at my father, my tour guide through this vast place, and saw his chest swell with pride. Had I done that? Had my mere presence on this Monday evening ignited that glimmer in his eye?
I wondered if he felt my love in my silence. I knew he did. I guess that’s just the way love is.

after too long away from my sari, i put it on today, trying to remember the perfect number of pleats that always made it fall just the right way, and the perfect length it needed to be to tie around my waist. i started to get nervous as i wrapped myself up in this sort of inherited wrapping paper, worrying that i had been out of practice for too long, that maybe it would be easier to just miss one more class. but as i willed myself into the yards of fabric, still embedded with the familiar scent of washed-out sweat stains mixed with scented fabric softener, i began to feel a little more like myself.

when the dancing started, i stopped thinking. i forgot how beautiful that is; how my spine tingles when the music starts to play, and how my toes begin to twitch as they remember the movements to the dances i thought i had forgotten.

by the end of class, my back was sore, my face was red, and my feet were throbbing, the way a baby feels when she is born. maybe the way we all feel when we're born again, in different ways.
it's funny to think that i almost forgot about this part of me; it's scary to think that i almost wanted to forget about this part of me. it's comforting to know that regardless of how far i get away from it, i'll always come back.

i think if, for one solitary second, i ever thought that i was in over my head, i proved myself wrong. and im so happy i did. its funny that going into something thinking "if i can do this, i can do anything", i never thought what it would be like afterward. i didnt even consider what it would feel like to actually do it. its incredible. i've still got a lot to do, but i feel so comfortable with the challenges ahead of me. they dont scare me as much as they did before, and that feels good-- to feel just a little bit taller after so much work, so little sleep, so many challenges. i like that this feeling isn't wearing off, and i hope it never does. this is cool.
and it doesnt hurt that after nine months of no real social life, i finally get it back