I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore

Umm, in case you haven't heard, a tornado hit New York. What the bloody Jesus?

It took me three hours to get from the hovel to the office -- and then when I got there, I was one of only five or so people in my department resourceful enough to navigate the wild, wild world of thousands of stranded subway users, fighting for a bus heading for the Midtown Tunnel.

I did walk about two miles, snicker at a woman trying to vanquish a foot of standing water with a small mop, invite myself to share a taxi with three people who had only limited English skills, and lost my leg to the jaws of the 7 train at the Jackson Heights station, but so be it. Delhi crowds prepared me well; whereas claustrophobic Americans were hysterically imploring fellow riders to "Act like human being, not animals!", I was smugly listening to Golmaal Golmaal ... Everything's Gonna Be Golmaal and wiggling around frenetically, my eyes glazed in bliss.

That said, I thought I would stop dealing with woefully inadequate infrastructure when I left the "third world." So much for conventional notions of modernity and backwardness ...

Forgive me, fam ...

... but this is simply too good not to blog about.

My grandfather has decided, for reasons unknown, that he wants to be baptized. Which is cool, you know, I respect his decision, and he wants it done on our family property (through which the Tuolumne River runs), so I suspect it will be a rather beautiful occasion.

But he was talking about it with my mom (Grandpa: "Daughter, would you also like to be baptized?" Mother: "Hell no!"), and my stepdad, a former Mormon mucky muck of some repute, steps into the conversation. "You know, when I was in the church, I used to do that; maybe I could be of some help."

So now, my stepdad is officially baptizing my grandfather. As if I needed MORE to talk about in therapy.

Uncomfortable conversations with a recent immigrant

Partygoer: So, S, you've just gotten here from India. How do you feel?
S: Well, it's still a little overwhelming, you know. I'm fresh off the boat -- only been here for a few weeks.
Partygoer: (Uncomfortable silence)
S: Great to meet you!

Z to S, in hushed tone: Ummm ... so Americans are a little more PC than that.
S: What do you mean?
Z: It might make people feel weird because you're talking about your recent immigrant status in what could be construed as a derogatory way. Wikipedia says, "The term "FOB" has been used with offensive intent, often to those with a foreign accent or ethnic style of dressing. Depending on the person's attitude to the culture in question, he or she may or may not take offense at these statements. The term may also be used by people who themselves were immigrants years ago, in a way turning the insult once hurled at them onto the new arrivals, and in so doing emphasizing their own progress in assimilation or improved language skills."
S: Can't we just tell them to fuck off?
Z: ... And never the twain shall meet.

Should I be enjoying this ironically?

The other day at work, someone started a long yarn about how she saw a restaurant the other day that served rice pudding. And only rice pudding.

I half thought she was joking (still getting accustomed, again, to the American brand of wry cynicism) until, when taking the inimitable husband on a whirlwind tour of the Lower East Side, we chanced upon Rice to Riches.

What I suppose are considered tongue-in-cheek flavors -- Sex Drugs and Rocky Road? Corner of Cookies & Cream? -- seem a bit pat. It's novel, yes, that the proprietors can support themselves by selling a product that frankly probably isn't that great by merely appealing to the fact that if you build it in a cool neighborhood, hipsters will come; at the same time, are we really so post-everything that people will pay $6 for a cup of pudding topped with fruit?

It's a hell of a town

That's right, I'm coming at you live from Sunnyside, Queens -- NYC at its finest. Not even a last-minute bout of gastroenteritis could keep me from my motherland, and now that I'm here? Pleased as a little pea.

But don't fret -- this blog won't die, it will simply be repositioned. Not only will I be trying to discover the city, I'll be exploring from a somewhat skewed perspective: I'm an insider in that I'm American and I've spent a bit of time in New York in the past (local vs. express trains? I'm all over it), but I'm an outsider in that living in India (not to mention marrying an Indian citizen) has shifted my perception of my identity.

For example, coming home from work yesterday on the 7, I was reminded of Delhi's notoriously crowded buses; unperturbed by squishing myself between a Hispanic woman and a coochie-cooing couple, my ears instantly pricked: I heard Hindi.

I turned to my left, and there were two men, holding hands (a custom which I imagine baffled some of my fellow travelers), discussing which station to get off at. I cocked my head toward them, considered interrupting, then remembered the power that passing under the radar can grant you sometimes -- so I smiled, turned away, and jumped off at my stop.

On the way home, I passed a Japanese/Nepalese restaurant.

I think I'll like it here just fine.

Picture is from Union Square, February 2006. Apologies for the crappiness.

India and the white other

An addendum to Khushwant Singh's column in the Hindustan Times, courtesy Vipin Bucksey, New Delhi:

"When I born, I Black
When I grow up, I Black
When I go in Sun, I Black
When I sick, I Black
And when I die, I still Black.
And you white fella,
When you born, You Pink
When you grow up, you White,
When you in Sun, You Red,
When you cold, You Blue,
When you scared, You Yellow
When you sick, You Green,
And when you die, You Gray ...
And you calling me coloured?"

I understand the necessity of having some sort of counter to the predominant message that whitness is greatness. But if India is going to flip a collective shit over Jade Goody being "racist," it might be worthwhile to note that these amusing limericks and anecdotes don't do anything to improve race relations. Actually, it makes me feel pretty shitty, and when you call me a gora, or a firang, and assume that I don't speak Hindi or understand the somewhat negative connotations of the words, it's insulting.

This poem is part of a corpus of work, oral and written, that focuses on mocking the white other. When I was teaching in Kerala and attending, I believe, an Onasadhya, a man came up and introduced himself to me. We got to talking, and he starts telling me a story.

"Have you heard about God's oven?"

No, actually, I haven't. Please, sir, explain?

"You see, God was making the people. First he made the African. And he put the dough in the oven, and he left him in too long, and when the first man came out, he was burnt black. So the next person he made, your people, he put in, but he was afraid they would get burnt, too, and so the Europeans, the whites, they're pasty and undercooked. Finally, he got it just right: perfect and brown, the Indian. Not too dark or too light, just right. The Indian."

There's a part of me enjoys the fact that people are so upfront about differences; my co-workers will talk about "chinks" and I'll cringe because I'm a PC thug, but they'll just shrug and be like, "They look different, you know?" Still, there's a part of me that wishes there was some intervention; some way to explain that even though my country is incredibly chauvinistic and full of rich people and stuff, white people don't like being called firangs any more than Indians like being called Pakis.

I donno; ever since the man told me I was undercooked, I've started thinking that my face does indeed look a bit Pillsbury-esque, pinched and risen but not quite set.