Tu Hai Jahaan

Main hoon vahaan.

I don’t consider myself to be a socially awkward person.

I have a tendency to by shy, and am not traditionally the person to initiate conversation with a person.  But when someone starts a conversation with me, I typically can very easily continue to conversation, even if it’s the most boring and dull conversation in the history of bad conversations.  I like talking and holding thought provoking conversations with people.  This is why I don’t consider myself socially awkward.

However, I have an issue of going to crowded places alone.  My anxiety skyrockets, and I feel like everyone in the world is looking at me and silently judging me in their heads.

And in my head, I know that no one really gives a flying fuck about me, but my anxiety has the tendency to disregard everything my head says.  Thanks, anxiety.  You’re great.

And the place my anxiety built up recently?

Menchie’s.  Yes, a goddamn fro-yo joint.

It has been really hot in the Valley lately, and a couple of days ago, the high climbed up to 103 degrees.  It was still 95 degrees at 10PM, when I decided to go to Menchie’s at get my cup full of toppings with a little fro-yo.  I was having a really rough time with one of my lab reports that was due in 12 hours, so I decided to get fro-yo to get my mind off of it, and thought that since the place closed at 11PM, it wouldn’t be crowded.

Yeah, I was wrong.

Most people who go to get fro-yo go with friends or family, but I was alone.  With my moving here a couple months ago and my hectic commuter schedule, the only people I know are my neighbors, who I’m on a small talk basis with.  All my good friends are still in the City or South Bay, where I went to high school for 2 years.

So, when I went to this place at saw it was completely packed, I almost turned my car around just so I didn’t have to deal with my anxiety, which was already emerging from its dormancy just looking at the crowd.  But, I had made my mind up on getting fro-yo, so I tried to push down the already bubbling volcano of my anxiety and get my food.

I had tunnel vision when I got in there, but as I unsuccessfully tried to get my cookies and cream fro-yo, the tunnel was crumbling, and I felt embarrassed that I tried to get a flavor in which none was left.  Why this trivial thing that I had no control over affect me so much is beyond me.  So, I got all chocolate and got all my toppings.

I went to the cashier, who was one of the owners, and told her my phone number for my rewards.  She wasn’t understanding the fact that my phone number had a different area code than the local one and it was not that of one in a neighboring area, and she kept entering in my number incorrectly.  Prolonging the process of me getting my fro-yo?  Not good.  The lava was nearing the summit of the volcano, readying itself to explode.

She finally got my number right, and told me I had a $5 rewards.  I told her to use it, and with the rewards, my total came to $1 and some change.  I only had my card, and when I handed it to her, she asked me if I had cash, since it cost the business a lot to charge a little amount to a card.  Volcano: exploded.

As she kept repeating this point, after I had already told her to save the reward, I felt the stares of her employee, husband, and other customers in line.  I felt my sweat glands open, and my body heated up in embarrassment.  The whole world began to shut in on me, and I didn’t even do anything wrong.  She continued to repeat the point as she swiped my card, and I had to ask for a lid just to get her to shut up so I could get out of there.  As I walked out, I felt judged and ridiculed by the patrons, knowing full well in my head that no one cared.  But, when that volcano explodes, all rational and logical thought processors in my head shut off. I power walked to my car, where I laid my head upon my steering wheel and tried to breathe before heading home.

This type of social anxiety is what deters me from going out alone to bars, restaurants, movies, and any other place where people traditionally inhabit with friends.  I study a lot at coffee shops, and even then it’s super hard for me to go to crowded ones.  I will literally go out of my way just to find a less crowded one, despite the fact that most of the people at coffee shops are alone trying to get work done.  I wish that I could move away from this anxiety, especially since I live alone in a town where I know no one.  It would be cool to make friends here, but this anxiety stops me from going out and conversing with anyone.

It sucks.

You’ve Got Me Feeling Emotions

Deeper than I’ve ever dreamed of. 

Yesterday was the first day of the Democratic National Convention in my hometown of Philadelphia, and just as I did for the RNC, I watched the ending speech at home because I was in school when the whole thing started.

The first huge difference is that even from the beginning, the speakers at the DNC didn’t try to scare me shitless.  In fact, I’ve never felt so proud to be an American.  I felt together with the people, even though I’m 3000 miles away from the convention.  I felt unified.

And as much as I enjoyed Sen. Bernie Sanders’s speech, which I saw as a clear attempt to unify the party and bring his voters over to Hillary’s side, it wasn’t the best speech of the night.  Sure, it was the most important speech, but definitely not the best.

There were two speeches last night that stood out to me.  Two speeches that were so incredibly uplifting, with one actually making me tear up.  Two speeches filled with deep emotion.  These speeches were by Sen. Cory Booker of New Jersey and First Lady Michelle Obama.

If we’re going to be totally honest here, I have never heard of Cory Booker before.  I’m from Philly, and most people from Philly don’t like New Jersey because it’s New Jersey. The only good things in New Jersey are the shore and Roy Rogers.  So, to no surprise, the person who is Sen. Cory Booker was someone who I didn’t know and didn’t really care to know.

But his speech yesterday changed my mind.

Booker’s speech was filled with hope, love, and unity.  His being was filled with so much passion for this speech, passion that I haven’t seen in years, and definitely didn’t see at the RNC.  He used Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise to create the line that brought his speech together: “America, we will rise.”  He called America a “nation of love,” but also went to call out Trump as a bully, saying, “America, at our best, we stand up to bullies.  And we fight those who seek to demean and degrade other Americans.  In times of crisis, we don’t abandon our values; we double down on them.”  He also says, “Cynicism is a refuge for cowards, and this nation is, and must always be, the home of the brave.”  My favorite part of Booker’s speech was right after he, along with many of the people in the crowd, recited the first verse of Still I Rise:

“Escaped slaves, knowing that liberty is not secure for some until it’s secure for all.  Sometimes hungry, often hunted in the dark woods and deep swamps, they looked up to the North Star and said with a determined whisper, ‘America, we will rise.'”

Booker’s speech was powerful and moving, and like many other people out there, I sure wouldn’t mind if I saw this man on the ballot in 2020.

I have never seen a bad speech by Michelle Obama.  She is simply an amazing speaker, and always speaks with so much heart and emotion.  But yesterday, Michelle’s speech moved me.  It literally moved me to tears.

The First Lady’s speech was not focused on policies like many of the other politicians’ speeches were.  Her speech was focused on our future, and the children who will be our future.  Her speech focused more so on Hillary Clinton’s character than her policies, a much needed view given that Clinton’s character is something so highly in question.  Her speech was uplifting, and she mentioned the bully of Donald Trump without even mentioning his name.  She says of bullies, “When they go low, we go high,” and goes on to say later, “[I want] someone who understands the issues a President faces are not black and white, and cannot be boiled down to 140 characters.”  She unified and uplifted people, stressed that America is stronger together, and to care and love for one another, and to set a good example for the children.

I have never cried during any type of election speech before.  But the line that brought me to tears went as follows:

“The stories of generations of people who felt the lash of bondage, the shame of servitude, the sting of segregation, but who kept on striving and hoping and doing what needed to be done so that today, I wake up every morning in a house that was built by slaves, and I watch my daughters, two beautiful intelligent black young women, playing with their dogs on the White House lawn.”

Even typing this quote brings about a whole slew of emotions.  This quote is so incredibly powerful, so incredibly uplifting, and tells everyone that no matter who you are and where you come from, you can achieve great success.  If you work hard and don’t let anyone get in your head, you can succeed.  And this is what I took away from Michelle Obama’s speech, which was the best speech I have ever seen at any National Convention.

This election is the first election in which I had a hard time choosing the candidate that I support.  My family has always been largely interested in politics, and even in 2000, at the age of 6, I was taught about the political system and the very basic differences of the two major parties of the system, and supported Al Gore.  Since then, I have always been able to side with a candidate, and in 2012, my first voting election, I easily sided with the incumbent because I supported him so much in 2008, the first election that truly moved me.  I didn’t vote in the CA primaries unfortunately, because I never got my mail in ballot got mailed to my old address and I was in Philadelphia at the time of the primary.  But, even at the time of the primaries, I was torn between the Bernie and Hillary.  I do believe that Hillary probably should be in jail, but I didn’t agree with all of Bernie’s policies, as with Hillary as well.  I look back now and know that I probably would have voted for Bernie, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

We are not in a democratic society where the third party is a viable option.  In this day and age, voting for a third party candidate is like voting for the party that you oppose.  I have hope that voting for Hillary is like voting for a third term Obama (can we overlook the 22nd Amendment just for this election?), and I generally agree with a lot of her policies. And it would be incredibly powerful that a woman could be our President, even if it is a looney like Hillary.

But we need to vote.  In this election, it is SO important.

On Lonely Nights

I start to fade.

I like how my post before last was a type of “I’m back” post, and here I am taking another four days off.

I really fucking suck, LOL.

Setting myself up for failure, I need to stop doing that (Yoda much?).

In my defense, this past week has been tough with the lab assignments for class, and more importantly, I feel like I’m going through a writer’s block. Most of my inspiration for my writing comes from the news, social media, and TV.  But, despite all my lurking on Twitter and my success at watching that Republican Cheeto speak for 77 minutes I wish I could have back, I still feel uninspired.  The only thing I can think of greatly contributing to this block is the redundancy of my life.

Everyday (well, Monday-Thursday), I wake up, read (or go on social media, terrible habit I was working well toward breaking), eat and get dressed for school.  I proceed for the two hour Oregon Trail that is my commute from home to school, almost blindly perform my experiment at school, and proceed on the now three hour Middle Passage from school to home (thanks Bay Area traffic).

Okay, the Middle Passage reference may be a little untasteful, but fuck, I never claimed to be tasteful.

Food, homework, and if I’m lucky, a workout, is what consists of my night before heading to sleep and repeating this overwhelmingly brain stimulating routine. -_-

My human interaction consists of the same 10 people four days of the week.  And my weekends consist of my studying either at home or at a Starbucks or Barnes and Noble.

My life is as bland as Jessica from Bob’s Burgers.  And it’s only fitting that I share the same name as the person who would be flour if she were a spice.

And the reason for my overwhelmingly irritating bland life?  My move to the Valley.  The hustle and bustle of the city, plus my inspiring experiences at my old job helped me to stay active mentally and physically.  The lack of excitement and work in my life are causing this mental and physical rut.  I constantly feel tired in all aspects of life.  I’m losing my zest for life, and it’s hurting me so much inside.  I feel like I am stuck, and there is nothing to grasp for to help pull me through this phase.

And from previous knowledge and experiences, if I am losing my zest for life, I am on a clear and narrow path to a very dark and destructive place.  A place where I begin to fail at everything at life, a place where I tend to let the people closest to me down, a place where dark and harmful thoughts are created and easily absorbed into my mind and soul, like unfacilitated diffusion.  And all of these thoughts began because I don’t live in the most ideal space, leading to the writer’s block, which only makes my situation worse.  I can’t do anything about the living situation, especially because of my lack of employment and money.  If I had the time to continue working and making money, I would’ve never moved to the Valley.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m so thankful that my parents have this house and I can live rent free with no worries.  I am so, so, so thankful for that.  Also, I respect all of those that live here and have lived here for ages highly.  However, for a girl like me, this place is not remotely for me.  I loved living in The City, and I wish I could go back.  But The City and the Bay Area in general are incredibly expensive, and I cannot remotely afford to live there.

So, I guess I’ll just have to play the cards I was dealt for now, but hopefully I can deviate from this game quickly, because simply put, I hate it.

So Here I Am, With Open Arms

Hoping you’ll see what your love means to me.

July 19, 1965.

One of the two dates in my life that hold the most meaning to me. A date where we celebrate the birth of a person so special to me that if they didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here writing today.

July 19, 1965 is the day my mother was born.  And this year, my mom is not here; instead, she is in the Motherland spending time with someone who is the driving force behind my existence.

My grandmother.

On July 19, 1965, my beloved, strong, outspoken, kind, and loving grandmother gave birth to her first child, who would lovingly be referred to as Rinku by family and close friends for the rest of her life.

And on July 19, 2016, 51 years after the birth of her first daughter, my grandmom not only didn’t remember her daughter’s birthday; she didn’t know who her daughter was.

In 2011, my granddad called my mom, and told her that her mother, his wife, was beginning to forget things.  It is normal in old age for the brain to function a little slower, but frequent forgetfulness, even of small things, is not normal.  Living in the US, it was hard for my mom, or any of us, to really do anything.  My granddad pleaded with his other two kids, my aunt and uncle, to take my grandmom to the doctor to get checked out, but he spoke upon deaf ears.  They though he was just old and overreacting, despite the fact that my granddad was the most active person in the household he lived in, which included my grandmom, uncle, wife, and their child, and he was still incredibly sharp in his old age.  He still pushed for checkups throughout the next year to no avail.

In May 2012, my granddad had a massive stroke and ended up in a coma for about a week. He was watching a major cricket game, and his team had just won when he had his stroke. He was taken off life support a couple days after my mom had arrived to his bedside.

When I think of the way I want to die, I always think of my granddad.  He literally died because his team had won a major cricket match.  Is that not the coolest thing ever?!  If I died after the Eagles won the Superbowl, I’d die happy.

But I digress, that’s not the point I’m trying to make.

My grandparents were married for 60+ years.  In a family full of unhappy arranged and love marriages, my grandparents were ones to stand out, to show love and affection all throughout the 18 years I was exposed to their marriage.  I crave a love as deep as theirs.

However, because of this deep love, my grandmom broke.  And coupled with the memory problems she was experiencing, she did not, and has not, fully recovered from my granddad’s death.  She constantly asked where he was, and cried hysterically after being informed each time of his demise.

During this busy trip to the Motherland, my mom took initiative and took my grandmom to the doctor, because she was physically in the presence of my grandmom and was able to see what my granddad was talking about.

My grandmother has Alzheimer’s.

Her progression has been a little faster than normal, most likely attributed to the fact no one would regularly give her the pills she needed to take.  My granddad’s death was also such a traumatic event that also sped up the progression of the disease.

Talking on the phone with her for the months and years following his death was like talking to a broken record: she repeated everything, and would eventually start crying because of her frustration over her mental health.  She was aware of her forgetfulness and memory loss.  And this greatly upset her. And my uncle and his wife would get mad at her forgetting, as if she had control over what was happening to her.

Her disease was progressing, and for years, I pushed to go visit her.  I needed to see my grandmom before she forgot who I was.

Finally, in December 2014, I got to go to the Motherland to see her.  And upon seeing her, I was relieved that she knew who I was.  She had trouble remembering my name, but I couldn’t give less of a fuck: my grandmother still knew I was her eldest granddaughter.  In the three weeks I was there, she said my name once, and by the end of my trip, she had forgot my name completely.

In fact, the day after my mother and I left, she had forgotten we even came to visit her.

I cried hard and hugged her close on the day we left, because I knew the next time I saw her, she wouldn’t know who I was.

Sure enough, one year later, when my dad and sister when to go visit her, and my sister FaceTimed me with her, she had no recognized me at all.

And now, 7 months after this FaceTime call, my grandmom doesn’t know who her eldest daughter is.

Physically speaking, my grandmom is in tip top shape, but while she has physical health on her side, she lacks severely mentally.  Hearing that she didn’t recognize my mom, her daughter, at all deeply saddened me.  My grandmom is the most amazing person on the planet, an idea I’m sure we all share in our respective lives with the people especially special to us.

And amazing people, especially my grandmom, in my case, shouldn’t have to go through this pain.  The pain of dying confused and alone, despite having the support of all of your loved ones.  The pain of dying with no memory of your life, of not knowing who the fuck you are.  I see and hear what my incredible grandmom is going through, and don’t wish this upon even the most disgusting and despicable human being on the planet.

My grandmom is nowhere near the same person I knew and loved growing up.  But she is my grandmom, and I love her despite her unknowingness of me, and love her because she is still the most amazing person in the universe, with or without her memory.

I love you, Dida.

 

What You Want Me To Do, I’m Sorry

I’m back. 

This past weekend, I took the 5.5 hour drive down to Southern California to go to Harry Potter World at Universal Studios.

I guess I also went to visit my sister.

LA is a cool place, and there are a lot of exciting things to do there, but I don’t really wanna live there.  Most of the people I’ve met from LA are incredibly shallow and superficial, and I ain’t about that life.

I mean, don’t get it twisted, I like me some Nike’s too, but shit, the world doesn’t revolve around looks.

*Robert Freeman voice*: All the money I spent on them damn Nike’s?  You better just do it.

The Boondocks is one of my top 5 favorite shows, I can’t help the references.

And not to mention that damn traffic in LA.  Like, no.

But it is nice to get out of The Bay every so often, and even if it’s a mini vacation to LA, it’s refreshing to get away from the stresses of being home every so often.  It has been my dream ever since I was little to travel around the world.  I’ve been blessed in life to have gone to many different places around the country, and have also had the opportunity to go outside the country.  These opportunities left an urge to travel imprinted in my soul.  Since 2008, money has been tight in the family, and with three kids in college, my parents have neither the time, nor money, to go on extravagant trips to the Caribbean or India as we did growing up.

So I want to take the monetary burden on myself, and travel when I can.  I don’t have the time or money right now, considering I’m still taking a class and am definitely in no financial position to be traveling, but in the near future, I want to be able to go to a place I’ve never been.  Embarking on the solo drive to LA has reignited my travel flame, and I want it to continue to burn.

That is why I haven’t made a post in the past couple days.  I’ve been enjoying my time away from home, and wasn’t on my computer the whole weekend.

And I enjoyed every minute of it.

But I think I’m ready to get back on this grind.

I Crossed the Limelight

And I’ll, let God decide.

I promise this isn’t gonna become anything preachy.  I’m not about that life.

Two days ago, I prayed for the first time in a couple months.

Growing up, my parents raised my siblings and me as Hindu.  We went to all the pujas; they were all held at local high schools and were more of a socializing, who’s-better-than-who type of event.

Very religious.

But as a kid, I’ve had a lot of doubts about religion.  I didn’t really believe that God existed, because if there was a God, why was a I constantly bullied?  Why did innocent people die? Why was George Bush President?

But I did, and still do, believe in some type of higher power.  There were, and still are, too many things that happen in the world that are not explainable by science.  And this is coming from someone whose life has revolved around science for the past four years. There are elements of Hinduism that I do believe in, the biggest being Karma, an idea that has been engrained into my soul for my whole life by my parents and grandparents.  I try to live my life by putting out positivity as much as I can.  I’m not perfect, but I do try.

But, because I’m more of a spiritual person, I’m not big on praying, and only really partake in it when my parents are visiting or when I’m with them.  I feel bad for not praying and doing the daily puja, especially because I promised my mom that I would do it everyday since she and my dad moved to Denver.  But it’s hard to do something that I don’t fully believe in.  I feel like when I participate in the puja with my parents, I am mocking a religion that they and so many others are so highly devoted to.  My dad and his side of the family are especially religious, and it would deeply affect him if I told him my feelings.

But, when I think about it, isn’t it really hurting the both of us when I do it just for show?

Two days ago, I was doing a lab report for my final class of my undergraduate education, and was clueless about many of the questions that I had to answer.  This predicament made me frustrated, and my thoughts quickly escalated.  What have I learned in the past four years?  Did I choose the right major?  And the question on my mind everyday:

What am I going to do with the rest of my life? 

My mind began to race, my heart started beating quickly, and a sense of doom and death began to overwhelm me: I was having yet another anxiety attack.

I quickly shut my laptop, and at 1:15AM, I went on a 20 minute walk outside.  I had the ever familiar out of body feeling; I felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare.  I felt so detached to everything.

I came home and showered; told myself to suck it up, get through this class, and figure things out after.  But in the shower, I decided I was going to just sit in front of the prayer area of the house.

So, after bathing, I went and sat.

And something happened.

I was just looking at all the pictures: Maa Kali, Maa Saraswati, Ram Thakur, my dead grandparents; and it hit me like an 18-wheeler barreling into my 5’5″ frame.

I bawled.

I haven’t cried since January, when I found out I would have to graduate late.  And before that, I don’t even remember the last time I cried.  Point: I don’t cry.

I used to cry all the time at the most trivial things when I was younger.  I was known for being the big cry baby of my family.  Ask any of my family members.  But since my depression and anxiety kicked in in high school, crying makes me exhausted, makes me feel empty and drains all the emotions out of me.  These feelings have caused me to detach from people, just so I can avoid this empty feeling.

I hate it.

But sitting in front of all the pictures of Thakur brought up all the feelings that I had been pushing down for so long.  And I cried; I wept for 40 minutes.

And I prayed.

In an episode of The Boondocks, Huey Freeman says, “I’ve never prayed before.  I don’t even know who I’m praying to.”  And this exact thought crossed through my mind.  It’s funny how we go to God in our times of need, but tend to forget to go when times are good.  I am quite guilty of this too, so I’m not judging anybody.  I’m definitely in no position to judge anyone’s relationship with God, really.

But my faith has been tested since I was a kid.

However, something different happened after this weeping/prayer session.  My normal emptiness and lethargy episode followed, but my mind cleared up.  I felt as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders.  I don’t know if I should attribute it all to prayer or the release of tears, but I felt a good type of different.

I went back to my lab report with a clear head and was able to finish it.  I made a promise to myself to keep my promise to my mom, and pray and perform the puja everyday.  I still don’t know who I’m praying to, and still consider myself more of a spiritual being than religious, but I’ll take the direction since my life has no direction right now.

Or, at least I don’t know the direction.

And if the prayer helps, and if whatever is up there listens, I’ll continue down this path.

So This Here Is the Victory Lap

And I’m leaving, that’s how you’ll get me back.

He didn’t need a “Mamba Day” type of event to signal the end. He didn’t need to announce it himself.

Shit, he’s not even supposed to be at the press conference on Tuesday that concerns his career choice.

He left quietly like the silent assassin he was on the court.

Yesterday, Tim Duncan announced his retirement from the game of basketball after playing 19 seasons with the Gregg Popovich and the San Antonio Spurs.  And I might have looked like the crying Jordan face upon waking up to this news.

My real introduction to the game of basketball came in 2000 when I was 6 years old.  I fell in love with Allen Iverson and his crossover magic.  This man, barely six feet tall, with his incredible handles, inhuman leaps over guys that towered over him, his electrifying smile, and don’t-give-a-fuck personality, stole my heart quickly.  And still has it; he is my favorite basketball player (and is the wallpaper on my computer).

But in the background, there was this quiet giant that had this incredible hook shot, and was so humble about his success.  So quiet, so mysterious, and just like that, I was cast under the spell of Tim Duncan.

In general, my favorite people in basketball are the big men, the hulk-like beasts that charge to the rim and create all the contact in the world and slam that ball in the basket like their life depended on that one basket (AI did this, despite his size).  And though lanky, this 6’11” beast of a man managed to play both power forward and center with such success, and helped me love this man and the game even more.

There’s something exciting, yet so predictable in Timmy’s game, and although looked down upon by some as “boring,” this type of play brought incredible success to not just Duncan, but the San Antonio organization as a whole.  Master the fundamentals and win: it’s a pretty simple concept.

I marveled at his game when he slammed a ball into the basket, lazily hooked the ball over players’ heads, and swatted away a ball with what looked like no effort at all.  This type of play is what makes basketball exciting to me, the plays in the paint, not the far-out threes that some “pansy” players rely on.  Seeing Duncan progress and prosper in a game that he excelled at only made me fall for him more.

He was also the first player I chose to be on my Backyard Basketball team when the second edition came out on PC in 2004.  And he was always on my team (so was the kid in the wheelchair that could dunk from the backcourt, #diversity).

Tim’s talent and quiet work ethic ended up inspiring me in my real life.  He was shown me that even the quiet and nerdy kids can attain great success.  He, as well as my beloved AI, inspired me to play for my club team.  Although I stopped in 8th grade to focus on my passion for dance, playing the game helped me gain an undeniable respect for the people that play the sport seriously.  But quietly, I worked hard at dance to be the best in my group.  He taught me that humility is important, and working hard at something you love can bring incredible success your way.  He showed me that mastering the basics can get you far in life.

Despite the fact that The Answer’s flamboyant personality and play drew me into a game that I love so dearly, The Big Fundamental displayed a quiet sense of humility both on and off the court that I related to more in my own personality.  He showed me that great success and respect comes to those who work hard and diligently, to those who show loyalty and appreciate others, and those who stay true to themselves.

So, with that, I only have one thing left to say:

Thank you TD.

Everyone is Special

This, I know is true when I look at you.

Society glorifies a certain type of beauty.  Slender bodies of smooth, fair skin with pin straight hair the color of straw without a lick of frizz.

And I possess none of these things.

Growing up, my extended family always made fun of my looks.  They poked at my chubby build, my frizzy “Maa Kali” hair, my thick unibrow that sat over my eyes, and my dark skin.

Coupled with the fact I didn’t look like what society considered beautiful, it’s not surprise that I had shitty self-confidence.  It sure didn’t help the volcanoes that started to erupt on my face when puberty decided to join the game of life.

I was ugly, point, blank, period.  And no one failed to remind me.

I was bullied throughout middle school and high school for being the chubby, pizza face girl with the huge ball of frizz on her head and ugly teeth.  And I believed every word they said.

So, I would spend hours and hours a day, researching tips and products to buy to make my face clear and fair, my hair less frizzy and straighter.  I started to do pilates at home to get a flat stomach.  I started to get the caterpillar above my eyes threaded.  But, I had to live with my ugly teeth until 10th grade.

On a family vacation to the Motherland in 8th grade, a new “lightening” skin cream called Fair and Lovely came on to the market.  I already knew the Motherland praised fair skin too, but it hurt; no where in the world was I considered pretty.  Desperate to silence the condescending and humiliating jokes from my lighter complected family members, I bought the cream.  I was basically the female version of Sammy Sosa.

A hair product also came out that promised to tame frizz and straighten hair with no heat.  Since my mom refused to let me straighten my hair, this product was added to my arsenal of harsh products that I slathered on my hair everyday.

When I came back to the States, I added both products to my everyday regime.  I continued to slather on that chemical filled cream on my face on top of all the harsh chemical laden products that I already put on my face.  I put products mean for straight hair on my curly ball of frizz in the hopes that they would straighten my hair out.  At this point, I was in 10th grade, and my confidence was at an all time low.  I was miserable; I felt uglier than ever and I was exhausted from putting all this shit on my face and hair.  So, one day I decided to say, “Fuck it.”

Everything happened in steps.  First, I stopped putting the bleaching cream on my skin.  It took about a year to get my skin back to its normal color in a safe way, but my skin hasn’t been the same since I started using that stuff; my skin is incredibly sensitive now because of that crap.  So, I started the trial and error game of finding sensitive skin products for my skin.

Next, I decided to stop trying to get my hair to be straight, and just let it be its curly self.  It has taken me years to find the correct hair care regime.  Since 2011, when I started this curly hair journey, my hair has gone through multiple texture changes.  In the beginning, I still used super harsh products, but that changed over the years.

As far as my weight, I grew 5 inches taller and leaned out a little, but realized that I was never going to be stick skinny.  This was extremely hard for me to accept, and until about a year ago, I still hadn’t come to terms with this fact.  And on a trip back to the Motherland in 2015, I heard it again: “You’re fat Jess.  Lose weight.”  But this time, I decided to shut their voices out.  I love my family, but fuck that, I’m going to start to love myself.

I decided to stop being beautiful by society’s standards and start being my own type of beautiful.  It’s still a process; after constant tear down for more than a decade, it’s hard to build confidence.  But, I’m progressing slowly, and in the time being, I try to focus the shine on my intelligence, knowledge, and personality.

Today, I got good control over my skin, which is back to its older color since moving back to the sun.  My hair is big and curly, and I fucking love it.  My teeth are fucking perfect; white and straight after two and a half years with braces.  And, I learned to love the big booty and thick thighs that captivate others, and I try to make them shine.

I may still have confidence issues, but young Jess would have never expected to be where I am right now, and I’m sure she’d be pretty happy that I’ve gotten where I am.

 

Your Position is Pivotal

I’ve never been the greatest judge of character.

I befriend people that are known to be bad people, and when they fuck me over, no one except me is surprised.  But, because I don’t judge very harshly, I befriend anyone I really want to, regardless of the way they look or act.

Now, let me describe to you how I grew up.

Most of my formative years were spent in a suburb 20 minutes outside of Philadelphia.  It was mostly white, but there were a decent few handfuls of black people and a sprinkling of Korean people.  Because of it’s proximity to Northeast Philadelphia, socioeconomically, the area was a mix of affluent people to working class people, which brought about a huge socioeconomic diversity in a town that was not incredibly racially diverse.  But, I ended up feeling comfortable around the likes of these racial groups.  When I moved back to the Bay Area in 2010, I was surrounded by Asians (I include Indians in this group, against my own discretions) and Latinos, groups that I never had substantial experiences with.  But, I grew used to it eventually.   Then, I lived in San Francisco for four years, and was exposed to all types of people.

Moral of the story?  I grew to be pretty comfortable around pretty much every color of people.

Now on to the real story.  Trust me, it all comes together in the end.

Living in the city has introduced me to regularly walking alone.  Whether it be walking to the train, car, store, or anywhere really, I’ve grown accustomed to the lone stroll.

And, because I’m used to people of all colors and am a terrible judge of character, I never care to cross the street when people are approaching me.

And there are plenty of times when I should’ve crossed the street, because as a woman, I’ve been followed by my fair share of questionable men.  Most of the time, they would stop following me after a block, but some would keep following me until I got to the train or any other destination.

These incidents open another can of worms about sexism and equality for women, but I’m not going to talk about that today, it’s not the point of the post.

The point is, in spite of these experiences, I would never cross the street.

I don’t cross the street for anyone.  I would say I don’t cross against better judgement, but let’s not forget my lack of judgement.

In May, I moved out of the clamorous city and into the too tranquil lands of suburbia.

On the days I don’t feel like going to the gym, which has been the case lately, I’ll go on a 3 mile nighttime walk.  I don’t usually encounter a lot of people, but when I do, I don’t think anything of it.

However, on two of my past walks, I encountered a scenario I have never been victim to.  A person approaching me crossed the street.

Mind you, I live in a predominately Latino community, and as a brown person, I blend in with everybody.  And just look at me.  Even with my serious RBF, I am not an incredibly intimidating person.

What do I wear, you ask?  Usually a colored hoodie or crewneck and running shorts.  It’s nighttime, I want to be seen by cars.

And two times in consecutive days, I’ve had people cross the street on me.  The first instance was an older teenage boy who was definitely not white.  The second was a white couple, stereotypical blonde hair and the whole she-bang.

I have never had people cross the street on me.  I have never experienced that kind of racism before.  I felt humiliated and mortified that people would even think that I would hurt or endanger them.  And almost immediately, my feelings changed to hatred and anger.  Why would anyone remotely label ME as a threat to their safety?  ME?!?! I am not a violent person, and I would never, ever think to hurt anyone (unless the situation called for someone to get knocked the fuck out).

But ignorant people see me in my mocha colored skin, big and curly hair, hoodie, and running shorts and think of me as a threat to their lives.

Don’t get me wrong, as a brown POC I’ve experienced racism in other venues, especially the “random” bag checks and pat downs at the airport.  But I have never had someone cross the street on me.  Ever.

But let’s be real, this doesn’t happen often to lighter complected brown people as often as it happens to darker complected people.  We’re talking the black people, especially men, who are dressed in their hoodies, T-shirts, and jeans.

If I felt humiliated and angered by the couple times it has happened, to me, I can’t even imagine how black people feel when it happens to them, disproportionately more often than anyone else.

I wonder what goes through the other person’s head when they think to cross the street. What do they see in people when they deem them as dangerous?  It it the color of their skin?  Is it the way they are dressed?  It it the way that they walk?  Or is it a combination of all three?

I guess I’ll never really know, since I suck at judging people.

I wonder how black people feel, or really any other POC that has had this happen to them. Do they feel the same way I did, or do they accept the fact that it just is simply that way, like my experiences at the airport?  When I am stopped at the airport, despite the fact I’m being searched extra because of the color of my skin, I’ve come to begrudgingly accept the fact that this is going to happen.

Plus, I’m not trying to draw any extra attention at the airport than I already am.

I guess I’d rather see these racist peoples’ faces than let them hide behind a mask like the people of the KKK, but it hurts to see the blatant disrespect toward a person just because of the amount of melanin in their skin.

It hurts.

 

Searching for a Purpose

To be totally honest, I don’t even know why I’m doing this.

I’m at a crossroads in my life; finishing my undergraduate career at the end of the summer and beginning my life as a freshly graduated and incredibly confused 22 year old.

At the age of 22, it’s hard for me to even fathom that I’m supposed to have my life figured out, to have a roadmap drawn out to live the rest of my life comfortably.  I’m usually one to thrive under pressure, but this pressure is debilitating.  The weight of it is crushing me. The expectations that people have of me and the view that I need to have my shit together right out of college is draining, both physically and mentally.  So many of my fellow graduating classmates known exactly what they are doing with their life, whether its going to further their education or join these prestigious Bay Area companies.  And I’m sitting here totally clueless about my future.

I have a passion for reading and writing, the latter of which can be greatly improved upon.  But what can I really do with this passion and my science education?  It’s not to be mistaken: I love science and biochemistry.  The workings of the human body is pure art.  Have you ever seen a map of the metabolic pathways?  It’s incredible: these pathways that keep us alive paints an intricate picture with incredible beauty.  This picture drives me everyday.  This pathways continue to function because I have a purpose in life.  The issue is that this purpose remains unbeknownst and unclear to me.  This summer class I’m taking may have ended up being the biggest blessing in my life: it’s buying me time to figure myself out, and learn what it is that I want to accomplish with my life.

All I really know is that I want to help people, whether it be physically or mentally.  I crave a career that benefits others, that educates others, that inspires others.  Maybe that means taking the obvious path and sticking with the sciences, potentially pursuing a career in nursing or pharmaceutical medicine.  Or maybe that means I take the road less travelled, the road unpaved but leading to a career that may bring me more happiness than a science related career.  What that career is; I don’t know, and it distresses me to live in this darkness.

It terrifies me to think that in a couple weeks I will officially be a college graduate with my BS in Biochemistry, and I have no idea where I will be.  I await what life hurls at me post-degree, when the warm blanket of education with be lifted off of me, leaving me in the cold to face the elements of adulthood with no protection.  I pray to whatever higher power exists that some type of realization comes to me, an epiphany-like thought telling me what to do next with my life.  I need to make my parents proud, to show them the countless sacrifices they made for my siblings and me will bear fruit, and we will be successful.  They faced incredible hardships coming to a foreign country where they knew no one, and worked day in and day out to create a life for their kids that contained minimal hardships and struggles.  I’m so incredibly grateful for my parents, and I need to succeed for them, and for me.

So, I’m doing this.  I’m working out my issues by doing something I love.  Writing.  I might not be the best at it, but it helps.  The thoughts in my head run like the metabolic pathway in full speed, and writing helps me process them like the body processes glucose.

Nerdy, but what can I say?  I’m a science major.