My body is not White, or
thin, or tall. My body
is not tight.
It is not male.
It is not saved.
My body is not
American made.
My body is well used.
Two souls
came through it.
It is able and stabilized
by access to money,
and care, and
work.
This is my body.
The place where “I”
resides.
It will have to do.
I like most of the kids at school, but some of them are mean. Most of the kids in my class are White. But me, Marvel Waits, and Asha Desai all have brown skin. I think we are like a team. Marvel is big and wears glasses. He looks kind of like Fat Albert from TV. Asha is Indian like me. She is my first Indian school friend. She is quiet. She never says anything and she doesn’t play with the other kids. She is so pretty and small and her eyes are very big and sad. One day, when I am a mommy I will have a baby and name her Asha. Sometimes I play with Asha because I know she feels scared. I want to take care of her. Marvel takes care of me. He reaches things that are high up. He stands next to me when other kids are being mean. We don’t play together but he is there with me. Me, and Marvel Waits, and Asha Desai are a team. The Brown Team.
On the playground there is a concrete barrel turned on its side. Its a good place to hide during recess. I am new at this school and I don’t have many friends. I am in the barrel sitting and singing to myself. A girl peeps her head in. She has dark skin and kinky hair pulled tightly into two braids on either side of her head. She looks at me with a smile on her face. “Hi.” she says. I say, “Hi.” She says, “Are you pregnant? Cause my mom told me that Indian people have babies when they are really young.” My face gets hot. “No.” I say. I am just fat.
Jeni is my best friend. I think she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She has white skin and long brown curly hair. She has cute freckles and big eyes. She is short like me. I think she looks like a princess. We laugh a lot together. She is very funny and she thinks I am very funny too. On the playground, Jeni comes running up to me. I am waiting for her on the hopscotch drawing on the black top. I am saving it for us today. She is crying and snot is running down her beautiful freckled nose. “What’s wrong Jeni?,” I say. She says, “Yesterday, at church, my pastor said that you are gonna go to Hell.” She’s crying more now and hugs me tight. “I don’t want you to go to Hell!” I hug her tight and rub her hair like mommy does when I am sad. Poor Jeni. I don’t want her to feel so bad, so I say, “No I am not. We don’t have Hell in my religion.” She breathes heavy, and calms down. “Really? Oh good!” she says. I throw the stone I’ve been holding in my hand and hop on one foot all the way to the end.
My neighborhood has lots of different kids in it, but they are all a little older than me. We live in a row house. Ours is the one sort of on the end with an alley in between us and the next house. It’s fun to go back and forth in the alley from the front yards, to the back driveways. Different worlds. My world is in the alley. Most of the time I play alone. But there are three kids I know.
John’s grandma takes care of me after school so we have to play together a lot. They are White. They have those cookies that look like doilies and the house is covered in doilies and all the furniture is covered in plastic. We watch tv and have snacks. He’s like 11 or something. He likes to play with his Star Wars figures and he makes me play with him. They are fun. Except, when we have pretend battles he says, “Girls can’t win Star Wars battles.” Then he takes his figures away. Sometimes he and his friend from a few blocks away throw rocks up at our kitchen window from the back alley. When I come to the window, they pull their pants down. That makes my face get all hot. I try to tell my dad but they are already gone.
Sarita lives four houses down the street. Her family is Black and they have lots of framed cloth paintings with Black people on them. She has two older sisters. Her sister Star is deaf and talks with her hands. Her oldest sister is a teenager and she has a boyfriend. At their house, Sarita and I peek through the keyhole of her sister’s bedroom door. I hear noises coming from the room. I move my eye around until I can see. The boy is lying on top. I can see his dark brown back, butt, and legs. Sarita’s sister is naked too. They are rubbing and grunting. My face is all hot again, but I don’t stop looking.
Valerie is White but I’ve never seen her house. She seems a lot older than me. She never really plays with me, but I see her on the street with the other kids. She’s very pretty with freckles and dark brown hair. She has cool clothes too. I want her to be my friend but she usually doesn’t talk to me. One day, she says, “Hi” to me and asks if she can see my house. Now my face is hot because I am so excited. I take her in the house. My mom is in the kitchen cooking. We go upstairs. She wants to see my parent’s room. We go in and I am sitting on the bed. She looks at all the stuff on my mom’s dresser. She picks up a necklace and puts it on. Then she starts to walk out. “Hey, that’s my mom’s necklace. Give it back!” I say. She says, “No!” I say, “I’m gonna tell my mom.” She takes the necklace off and throws it on the bed next to me. “Be quiet you little nigger. ” She walks down the stairs. I sit on the bed. My face is hot. I don’t know what nigger means. I don’t ask.
I don’t know what it means.
Swollen feet pinched by tight fancy Rajasthani shoes that point at the toes. Been on the plane for 8 hours. This nice old man next to me in the turban keeps giving me candies. They are gross. They taste like flowers or soap. I am alone, chaperoned by airline hostesses. Almost home. Excited to show off my outfit to mommy and daddy. Off the plane now. Waiting in long lines. My feet hurt!
Up to the counter now. Airline hostess left to go back to work because I am, “pretty much out now.” Man asks for my passport and green card. I have my passport, but I don’t know anything about a green card. My face feels hot. My feet hurt. My stomach is buggy. A lady comes over in a suit. “Come with me honey.”
Inside an office. Sitting at a seat. Man behind the desk asks me question:
Him: “What’s the name of your school?”
Me: “Jennie Smith.”
Him: “Where do you live?”
Me: “1955 Lakeview Drive.”
Him: “Where are your parents?”
Me: “Waiting for me out there!”
Tears form but I squeeze them back. I am a good girl. The lady who brought me in says, “Are you sure you don’t have a little plastic card with your picture on it?:
“You mean this one in my pocket? But it’s not green. It’s pink.”
I don’t tell my parents what happened. I am too embarrassed.
If you can say my name,
I’ll give you 50 dollars.
And if you spell it right
then you deserve a billion more.
That’s one for every person
in the country that i come from.
No, I don’t know them all,
or your friends in California.
—-
(Chorus)
Oh I’m exotic
I guess there’s no denying
I’m so exotic
sometimes it leaves me crying
Yes, I’m exotic
That’s why I’m always flying home
To bring you presents from the Taj Mahal
—–
I ride an elephant
Yeah, all my cows are holy
And I’ve got monkeys all around me
everywhere I go
And when I leave the house
I always take my cobras with me
It never hurts to be this charming
when you’re on your own
—–
Well I’m exotic
I guess there’s no denying
And my food’s exotic
sometimes it leaves you crying
I am exotic
That’s why I’m always flying home
to bring you peacock feathers for your wall.
——-
Well that red dot I wear
Means I’m feeling homesick
I lost my identity
Can’t tell you why or when or where
I’ve got a feeling
that it happened when I was a baby
On flight 291
from New Delhi to Delaware
Yeah, I grew up in Delaware.
—–
That’s not exotic
I guess there’s no denying
I’m not exotic
Sometimes it leaves me crying.
So un-exotic
That’s why I’m always flying home…
to bring you presents from the Taj Mahal.
Identity
I was born into my grandfather’s house in India, the first grandchild. I lived the first three months of my life cradled in arms, never once being placed down. My grandparents, aunts, and uncle passed me around, giving me to my mother only when I needed feeding. This was my second womb.
At three months, I boarded a plane with my mother bound for America. Every few years I would return to that house in India. Bonds formed in spite of the distance. Though I was a stranger to India in many ways, India never seemed strange to me. There, I would always be the first grandchild, the first baby. My grandparents were anchors mooring me to India even as I became more American.
My grandfather died last week. He was the last of my living grandparents. With his passing, I felt the last of those anchors lift up into the atmosphere. I felt rootless, unmoored. My Thatha, the man who loved me so well, was no longer holding a space for me there.
Nationality
When I was 21, I relinquished my allegiance to all other states, princes and potentates. I became a citizen of the United States of America. My mother took this step long after me and with serious reservations.
The day after my Thatha died, my mother came to D.C. on a desperate mission to obtain a visa so that she would be able to travel to India for his funeral. I drove her around from office to office and finally to the airport. When it was done, we both felt a sense of relief. This time, she would be there to say goodbye.
It felt good to do something, to help my mother regain access to the place that she could never truly leave. It grounded me and gave me purpose. But the moment she left, I felt myself float out of my body, and follow her onto the plane.
Culture
In the days that followed, my disorientation was profound. What should I do? Where should I be? Should I be there? What is happening there? Who can I talk to? Where am I? I began to read the Upanishads, a Hindu holy text. The night before my grandfather’s funeral, I fell asleep with these words in my head:
“Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life. Ashes are my body’s end. Om… O mind, remember Brahman. O mind, remember they past deeds. Remember Brahman. Remember thy past deeds. O god Agni, lead us to felicity.”
That night, at 2 am, the phone rang. I answered still in a half dream state and listened to my mother describe the funeral for me. “We fed him rice. His body was laid out on a palanquin. We carried him to the crematorium. We poured water around him. He looked peaceful. He is on his way.” I was there with her. I could smell the smoke, the incense, the flowers, and the sweat. I could hear the chanting, the tears, and the distant traffic. I imagined temple idols, garlanded in flowers, watching with careful, loving eyes.
That morning I awoke from a dream. I stood at the edge of a vast ocean, bathed in warm sunlight. Pink flower petals floated in the air above me, blown by the wind out to sea. That day I called home, to India. I spoke with aunts, uncles, cousins, and my mother. “I am there with you,” I said, even if it was not true at all.
Community
The funeral was over. The work week was done. And I was here, in America. And here, in America, the in-laws were due to arrive to celebrate both Easter and Passover. I was yanked from my hazy mourning reverie into a world of chocolate bunnies and Seder plates, Easter eggs and Matzo.
I took my daughter to a neighborhood Easter party sponsored by a local church. With beautiful weather, and smiling children, I felt welcomed by but distant from this earnest community celebration of resurrection and eternal life. This was someone else’s holy day, someone else’s path to peace.
That evening, the Passover Seder was led by my father-in-law at my sister-in-law’s house. As is customary in my husband’s family, each family member took turns reading from the Haggadah. The Haggadah guides the celebration of Passover and commemorates the sufferings of the Jews in Egypt and their eventual liberation through God. I missed out on most of the reading because I was busy dealing with my two toddlers, both over-tired and over-excited from the day’s activities.
When the kids fell asleep, I rejoined the Seder. The meal was complete and only a few passages remained to be read. I have been participating in Passover Seder’s for the last eight years and so I actually missed being a part of this ritual. I asked to read the next passage not knowing what it was.
I began to read, “Their idols are of silver and gold, the product of human hands: they have a mouth, but cannot speak; they have eyes, but cannot see; they have ears, but cannot hear; they have a nose, but cannot smell; their hands cannot feel; their feet cannot walk; they can make no sound with their throat.”
A fit of giggles seized me. “The idolater is reading the part about idolatry!” I said. Around me, my family by marriage joined in with chuckles of their own. My father-in-law winked playfully saying, “From now on, you always get to read that part.”
Faith
I do not know what any of this means. I do not know who I am, where I belong,what I believe or who my community is. The things I do know:
1) My grandfather loved me in the best way.
2) Part of my heart lives in India.
3) Another part of my heart lives in a 600 sq. ft. condo in D.C.
4) Chocolate bunnies and Easter eggs are lovely reminders of rebirth and eternal life. And they are especially good for distracting a grieving heart.
5) Children don’t care if you’re sad when they’ve had too much sugar.
6) Like the show, the Seder must go on, and on, and on. 😉
7) I am and forever shall be an idolater. Amen.
Washington Post Reports that Zimmerman will be charged. How do you think this will change the impact of the Trayvon Martin’s death on the American public’s discussion of racism in America?
“Zimmerman must die.” I live in a predominantly black neighborhood in D.C., a few blocks north of Howard University. My neighborhood is vibrant, home to a number of Afro-centric stores, vegan restaurants run by African Israelites, and sundry stores that serve Howard students. It is generally peaceful. Neighbors are friendly with one another. Old men give my children candy.There is a mix of people from different races and classes People look out for each other.
My daughter attends preschool across the street from Howard and so I walk her to school every morning down the main drag. Yesterday morning, I saw this sign, a sign I have noted for weeks because it has a White hand and a Brown hand each cradling a Samsung Galaxy Note and the sign tells you to “take note!” But yesterday, what I noted were these words.
“Zimmerman must die”. What else could the sign say? “Justice for Trayvon!” “Arrest Zimmerman NOW!”. For weeks now, I have been sensing a shift in the vibes in my neighborhood. I have always been a sensitive sort of person, highly attuned to the moods of people around me. This is why I became a community psychologist, because I believe that communities have their own moods, ups and downs, and struggles. “Zimmerman must die.” Like a dream rising up from the subconscious mind of this neighborhood. While public faces don hoodies of support and make plans for marches. “Zimmerman must die” seeps silently onto a billboard – itself a sign of gentrification – like words written in blood by a horror movie poltergeist.
I see it in the early afternoons at the playground with my kids. We used to be there alone. Now, young Black and Latino men gather in clumps, drinking beer and smoking weed. Clearly, they have not felt the economy improve. But I am sure they see the march of the gentrifiers continuing around them: new restaurants opening in the neighborhood, new condo buildings being built. They are at the playground drinking beer because none of this means jobs for them. “Zimmerman must die.”
And where do I stand? I live in one of those condo buildings. I patronize those new restaurants. I have no jobs to offer. I ask the young men to move their drinking and swearing to another part of the park, away from the slides and the jungle gym. It’s not that I disapprove. What else are they supposed to do? But my children need to play, and I know that underneath their somber expressions, something is bubbling inside these young men. I do not want my children to be hit by shrapnel when those bombs go off. “Zimmerman must die.”
The lumpy, messy stew that is America, is beginning to boil. People are remembering the Trayvon’s in their own communities. Overt racism rears it’s ugly head after a few decades of sneaking and skulking in the dark. Folks are angry for good reason. I fear the coming of a hot summer. History tells us that this is when the race riots begin.
We must all pay attention right now. We must all raise ourselves up to a higher level of consciousness. We must deliberately uproot the ugliness of internalized racism that lies within each one of us. This is not just a White and Black problem. Monica Novoa has a great article in Colorlines discussing the need for White people and people of color to face up to that fact http://colorlines.com/archives/2012/04/life_every_voice_for_trayvon_martin.html
Moments like this can make that happen. Like nuclear energy, we can use it to power the world. “Zimmerman Must Die” can remain a nightmare from which we awaken and begin a new day.
Because I am American. Because in America I can never be just American. Because I am not White, but I have been told by others, “I just think of you as White.” Because when I am in India, I am American, but when I am in America, they ask me “Where are you from?” and they are not satisfied when I reply, “Delaware.”
Because I have never wanted to live anywhere else, but I have always thought it might be easier to live somewhere else. Because I am married to a White, atheist, half Jew/ half Christian man. Because my children are part of us both and something else entirely. Because I don’t know what neighbordhood any of us belong in.
Because I love America and need so very badly for America to change. Because I work hard to love Americans by helping Americans to change their communities, their organizations, their minds, and their hearts.
Because I know I am not alone in my aloneness. Because I am not unique, though there is only one of me. Because blogging used to be cool, so I have to start doing it now that it’s not.
Welcome to American Incarnations.
american incarnations 