When the question is about my ethnicity, the responses I get range in nature from slight head nods to outward enthusiasm to the highly offensive. Here are a few examples:

“I love Indian food! I love Indian culture. That’s so cool.” An enthusiastic response.

“Wow, you’re pretty for an Indian!” Yeah, that’s a very informed thing to say. No, it’s not.

“You don’t look Indian. Are you sure there’s no white mixed in? Somewhere?”

“DOT, not feather, right?” Yes, I have seen “Good Will Hunting.” You’re hysterical.

“I have a friend who is Indian. Do you know him? His name is Sunny Patel.” Um, no. Oh wait, you’re Italian? Do you know Bob Russo? Yeah, didn’t think so.

“Do Indians really eat monkey brains?” Thanks for starting that rumor, Indiana Jones. No, as a matter of fact, a good portion of India is vegetarian.

“Oh, you’re name is Kiran (pronounced kee-rin)! Do you mind if I call you Karen instead? Kiran is too complicated.” No. I’d prefer you call me nothing at all.

“You just don’t look Indian,” said with a head tilt, skepticism laced in the answer. This obviously from an expert on physical traits of Indian people.

“Wow. Your English is really good. I can’t even hear an accent.” The only accent I am guilty of having is the slight Jersey one, courtesy of the state I spent my childhood in.

I don’t get upset any more. In the past, I was a little firecracker about a few of the comments above. I would get angry or defensive and rail at the ignorance of the comments. Sometimes I would express how pissed off I was directly to the person, but oftentimes afterwards, where I would think of all the witty ways I should have replied.

There were times in my life when I wasn’t so comfortable being different from my friends, different enough to be receiving this question. I am sad to admit this to you now, but there were times when I was  actually happy when someone told me that I “don’t look Indian.” It seemed safer to be identified as something else. Something less, I don’t know…

Foreign.

Last weekend, we packed up the kids and drove up from Northern Virginia  to visit family in NJ and NY. Our Au Pair, Heather, came with us. She isn’t very familiar with Indian culture (she’s from Wales) and so I spent a lot of time explaining small things to her along the way to help her navigate a little easier. There was a lot to tell her, but I still don’t think I prepared her nearly enough.

While I am American, I genuinely do consider myself to be blended in my identity – sort of a citizen of both worlds. Walking into my parents home is a reminder of how influenced I am by the culture.

Let me walk you through a normal scene.

Imagine opening the door and immediately being embraced by your parents who have been calling you since you left home to find out where you are in the journey (usual answer “We’re stuck in Delaware”). They mostly do this so they can time when the food should be ready, because they want it to be just perfect when you get there. You can smell the aroma of the chicken curry and the lingering hints of the masala (spices) my mother used (Turmeric? Garam masala?) and immediately head into the kitchen to see what other goodies Ma made. Through the corner of your eye you can see the colorful pictures of the Hindu gods which grace the wall. Some put up thoughtfully, others placed on other walls haphazardly. Your mom asks you to eat some prasad that she brought home from the temple. To eat it is like receiving a blessing from God. You pick an almond out – usually part of the mix. Prasad is considered sacred, so once it has been presented to the Gods and a prayer ceremony (puja) is performed, to decline an offering is frowned upon. Most importantly, none of the prasad can be thrown away or wasted. As you enter the family room, you  can detect the smell of the sandalwood incense my mother had burned earlier.

There are so many other things which assault my senses, bringing me back to the world I was raised in. And it’s comfortable to me. None of it seems foreign because it’s what I know. We usually settle on the couch, ignoring the buzz of the Bollywood videos playing on ZEE-TV (THE Indian channel for most Indian-Americans) which is pretty much on all the time when I go home. My mom asks me if I want her intoxicating chai. I decline and ask for a coffeee instead.

It’s odd straddling two culture like this sometimes. Marrying a non-Indian also accentuates the differences within cultures. However – this is what the immigrant experience entails. Usually the children of the first and second generation will be raised the way I was.

While most people who know me realize I am Indian in ethnicity, I think seeing me in my home surroundings is always a bit of a shock to them. It’s an eye opener, that’s for sure. It’s like I gain some kind of unspoken street cred. New Delhi style.

Here are some pictures of my grandparents, which both hang prominently in my parent’s family room, slightly crooked and much higher than eye level. These are decorating guidelines my parents do not care to know or abide by. I only saw my now deceased grandparents once every few years. They were my largest tie to India, and once they were gone, some part of my connection to India loosened a bit.

My maternal grandparents, Nana and Nani.

My paternal grandparents. “Dada” and “Dadi”

I love how my grandfathers look in the “Nehru” jackets, named after the influential politician Jawarharlal Nehru, father of Indira Gandhi. I see a little bit of myself in each of their faces, but I inherited most of my features from my mother’s side.  I look at my Dadi and all I see is my own father’s face. Although, his eyes are definitely my Dada’s. Nobody is smiling, because taking pictures in my family is a big deal, and showing your teeth is considered “unattractive.” Too “proudy” as my mother or aunties might say.

I’m a girl from Jersey who teased my hair in gravity defying hair styles. My hometown is close to Bruce Springsteen’s and Bon Jovi’s. I love pizza and bagels and I miss how in New Jersey, when someone cut you off, you usually got that little hand wave in the rear view mirror. Nobody seems to do that in Virginia.

NJ – that’s part of where I am from.

But do you see those people in the pictures above with their stoic expressions, posing at the  portrait studio? That’s also where I am from. It’s a big part of me that doesn’t go away. It’s not just the music or the food or the nuances of culture that make me hold on to that. It’s memories of climbing guava trees barefoot in the summer as I played hide and seek with my cousins. It’s memories of the smell of the early morning dew when I woke up in my father’s village. It’s holding my Nana’s hand as he took me to the market to buy me some lemonchus (candies) from a vendor in a wooden stall.

It’s so much more than I can say in one post.

I don’t really know yet if I clearly know where I am from. There is a quote from author Hugo Hamilton that hits on some of my feelings on this question.

“Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind. Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it’s not a place on the map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you visit, full of books and films you’ve been to. I’m not afraid of being homesick and having no language to live in. I don’t have to be like anyone else. I’m walking on the wall and nobody can stop me.” (From The Speckled People, A Memoir of a Half-Irish Childhood)

For me, where I am from is not a place on the map. It’s the collective stories, events and people in my life who have shaped that. It’s a combination of nowhere and everywhere, I like to think.

I think most of us are from there.

Where are you from?

The post Finding Myself on the Map appeared first on Masala Chica.

If you are reading this, I don’t want to make assumptions about how old you are. I’d like to think you haven’t stumbled upon my blog before you are a teenager, but the fact that you can read at 5 1/2 and that you constantly play with my iPhone and iPad are not working in my favor.

I am not bragging about the fact that you can read earlier than I thought you would. In fact, it just makes me sweaty, frantic and a whole lot of panicky because I thought I had way more time to clean up my language and to make this blog a place of positivity and light. You being an early reader increases the chances that you might stumble on the place where Mommy genuflects on some of her biggest insecurities and vices.

But you are here and so I guess I should say, “Um. Welcome?” Because I have always taught you to be hospitable. And to take your shoes off when you walk into someone’s house, because you never want to be the one tracking in dried up mud or dog poop onto white carpet. People might say it’s okay and not to worry about it, but they are most likely lying and you will kind of always be on their shit list (no pun intended) after that.

Despite teaching you some very valuable lessons, there are some things I haven’t taught you that well at all. You may not realize it so much now, but I think one day, you will call me out on it and I won’t have anything to say in my defense. You see, I am starting to realize that I have done you a huge disservice and it makes me a little sad.

I am 37 years old as I write this. I know that might seem old to you when you read this and there was a time where I would have thought the same thing. 37 was where you went to die once your life stopped being fun. You encountered it as you approached the twilight years (your 40s) and Spanx became your best friend. 37 wasn’t a number I was particularly looking forward to, and it came upon me much quicker than I expected.

Do you know how many months are in 37 years, Shaila? 444 months. That’s a LOT of months. Do you know of those 444 months, how many I was actually satisfied or content with what I saw in the mirror?

Zero.

Yes.

None.

How does that happen? You know, I don’t really know what to tell you, honey. I know that there was a brief period in the summer before fourth grade that I thought I was remotely passable, especially when your Nana and Nani got me that wicked denim jacket from Sears.

Other than that, I never really liked what I saw.

When I was younger, I always wished I had shiny, straight hair. I also wished I looked like my other friends, which basically meant being white.

When I got to High School, I accepted my curls. For two minutes. I spent the rest of the four years wishing I was taller and thinner. Prettier. Less meaty.

Less, GOSH.

Less me, maybe?

In my twenties, my thighs were too big. My waist not small enough. My arms? Never quite right.

In my thirties, they were even more NOT right. Not only that. People were finding new things to “fix.” Some women even started talking about surgeries like vaginal rejuvenation to make their hoo-hoos prettier after childbirth. Your own Mommy looked down and said, “Oh great! another thing to add to the list!”

Yes, Shaila. People apparently have pretty ones and NOT so pretty ones. That is the society we live in, baby.

And for whatever reason, even knowing how messed up it all is, I have bought into all of it.

No, I didn’t blow your college fund on vaginal rejuvenation.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s just that, do you know that since I was 15 years old, there has not been ONE SINGLE DAY of my life where I have thought, “My weight is perfect. I look perfect”?

There has not been one day that I haven’t compared myself mentally in some way to another woman, in terms of my size, in terms of my appearance.

NOT. ONE. SINGLE. DAY.

Do you know what that makes me realize as I sit here today and I write this? At 37 years old. With a 5 1/2 year old daughter?

That I have wasted a whole lot of fucking time. So much fucking time wishing I was something other than what I was.

Excuse my language, dear.

But fuck, it makes me really, really sad.

I found this picture of your father and me the other night. It’s a picture of the two of us from when we were dating, before we were even close to being engaged.

I look back at this picture and I think how happy we look. How young we look.

How stinking skinny we look.

But do you know what I remember thinking during that vacation?

“I really wish I had lost those last five pounds before this trip.”

Yes.

I wish I could rewind things and go back and shake myself and say, “Love THIS. Enjoy THIS moment. It goes by too fast. You look fine. DAMN fine. But even if you didn’t? Who cares?!!!”

I wish I could, but you know what else? I need to shake myself now. Here. Now. Really hard. Because I still can’t seem to make that leap between unrealistic expectations that I will never, ever be able to fulfill and just accepting myself.

What the hell kind of message am I sending to you, my only daughter? I ask myself this as I have this realization. I tell you every day how perfect you are. How beautiful your heart and your mind and you soul are. So, why do I expect you to believe me when I never stopped, not one of those 13,510 days, to believe in myself just a little more?

Not ONE day, honey.

Not for 37 years.

I saw this quote by Kate Winslet the other day and it made me realize that she still doesn’t know that she is supposed to be my best friend. That’s another post for another day, dear. But for now, let me just share what it said:

“As a child, I never heard one woman say to me, ‘I love my body.’ Not my mother. Not my elder sister. My best friend. No one woman has ever said, ‘I am so proud of my body.’ So I make sure to say it to Mia, because a positive physical outlook has to start at an early age.”

There are so many messages I send you every day. One of those messages has never been that Mommy feels comfortable in her own skin. The message has always been that Mommy needs to change some things. But don’t worry! She’s getting there!

444 Months, Shaila.

444 months.

I never get there. Ever. It’s a race that just never ends.

I need to stop running it.

For your sake.

And for mine.

Love,

Mommy

P.S. If you ever come home with diet pills, I promise not to yell at you. Most of all, I promise I will not steal them from you and add them to my stash, because your daddy could tell you how I used to keep diet pill companies in business. But we will have to talk. And both of us may not like what I have to say about it.

And I have a lot to think about before that day comes, so just go easy on me, dear. Stick to Beverly Cleary and not my blog for a while, ok? I love you too much to scar you that much just yet.

Let’s save that for when Mommy gets that vaginal rejuvenation.

The post The Day I Liked My Mirror appeared first on Masala Chica.

A few years ago, I wrote a post about how good friends know what to say to each other in tough situations. They know the difference between being painfully truthful and kindly, gently delivering a message. Other times, they might even tell little white lies to help you get the message. Well, I called it lies, but I realize now what I meant was not necessarily lies… more like, omission?

What do you mean? I want someone to tell it to me straight, you might think. Yeah, I say the same thing, but when it comes at me too fast, too hard, I realize I’m not always ready for it. Let’s just walk through a few scenarios and see how this might work.

Scenario 1: Your house is a big, hot mess. It’s not dirty, necessarily, but it is NOT neat. At ALL. You thought you would have more time to straighten up before you friend came by for tea. But she’s not just on time, (who does that?) she’s 30 minutes early. You open the door, greet her and say, “Gosh, I’m so sorry, I haven’t had a chance to clean up! It’s kind of a mess around here.”

Your friend has a few options here.

1) She can tentatively walk through the door and say, “You’re right. This place is a mess! You let your kids live here?” She can wrinkle her nose as if the nose hairs in her teeny, pert little nose are offended. She might then go over and dramatically wipe some dirt off a table with her index finger.

The same finger you want to use to poke her in the eyes with.

OR

2) She can stride right in and wave her hands dismissively and say, “What mess? Seriously? You call this a mess? You should see my place!”

She will say this to you even if you know for a fact that her place is spotless.

OR

3) She will hug you, roll her eyes and and say, “Who cares? And I’m not really in the mood for tea. Here’s some wine instead!”

Now if you are one of my friends, the way you would most likely react upon entering my house is 2. There might be a little of 3 mixed in, but only if it’s after 5 PM.

Scenario 2: You haven’t had time to hit the gym. Your jeans are telling you that things are getting a little out of control and while you haven’t gained a lot of weight, your body has seen better days.

Particularly your abs. And your thighs. Oh and also, that wobbly part of your upper arm, along your tri…

Whatever.

You meet your friends at a restaurant and admit to them that you haven’t been working out. That things between work travel AND the family AND the house AND your in-laws visiting this week AND your car breaking down AND …  Well. They get it.

Friends can use this opportunity to really let you know how they feel.

1) “There is really no excuse for anyone to NOT do cardio for at least 20 minutes a day. That’s what Jennifer Aniston says,” Your one friend says while dipping her gluten-free, dairy-free, taste-free cookie in her herbal tea. She also makes sure to flex her arms to show you how toned they are. Also she might show you her abs, because she’s been doing boot camp at the gym.

2) “You’ve got a lot on your plate. You’ll get back in there. Just let things slow down and make it and yourself a priority.” They nod understandingly. One might even pat you on the back.

Just because. It looks like it needs patting.

3) “Oh. That’s sad. Do you want some chocolate cake?”

I think my friends would probably lean more towards answer 2. With a little bit of 3 sprinkled in, because everyone knows that sometimes? Everybody just needs a little chocolate.

Look, it’s not like we don’t know your house is a mess in Scenario 1. And its not like we didn’t notice the few extra pounds in Scenario 2. But you know what else a real friend notices? They might see the tiredness around your eyes as you are struggling to keep it all together. They might notice that you’ve lost your usual confident stride. They might notice that when they ask, “How are you?” and you say “Fine” that “fine” doesn’t really mean fine.

That today, “fine” might mean, “Hold me. Please?”

Friends GET it.

When I wrote that post a few years ago, one of my friends got upset with me. She thought I was questioning her integrity, when in fact, I was applauding her kindness and empathy in so many, many situations where her answers could have been so much less kind. I think what I’m calling “little white lies” is more about employing tact and some sensitivity. Using our words more carefully with each other.

Not every thought needs to be uttered; not every piece of advice needs to be given. Even sometimes when we think we know best.

I think about whether my answers to the scenarios would have changed between the time I originally wrote that post in 2010 and today and I don’t really think they would. If anything, perhaps I would be and also expect a little more softness now than I did then. A little more compassion. Because life hasn’t always been kind and my friends and I have all been through so much more than we ever expected in three years. Life has gotten harder. We didn’t know it would. It just DID.

I feel like a lot of times I hear people saying things like, “Look, I say it how I see it.” Or maybe, “I like to keep things real.” And that’s great. Good for you for being in touch with your feelings and having the confidence to get it out there. But sometimes, I think saying “I say it how I see it” is just an excuse to be rude. Hard. It lacks empathy. Humanity.

And ironically, you often STILL don’t see it.

I’ve come to realize that while my eyes can “see it,” if my heart and my hearing and my touch aren’t all part of the observation too, I’m missing a whole lot of IT, whatever IT is.

Saying it like you see it involves ONE sense. Sight. And ironically, when it’s used alone, I think it can make you a little blind.

In my life, I have come to realize that the meme below, while funny, just isn’t always necessary. In fact, it’s just a whole lot of noise sometimes that nobody else needs.

I have been that girl above. Especially the hair. I can TOTALLY see my hair doing that sometimes. The point is, I still won’t be quiet about a lot of things. But when it comes to my close friendships, I choose to tread lightly and with care. I owe it to the wonderful women in my life to give them that love and that courtesy.

If my friends are receiving judgment, let it be known that it won’t be from me.

XO,

Kiran

The post How honest are your friends? appeared first on Masala Chica.

Lots of Jordache.

I think the year that I started to remember with clarity was around 1981. I was five.

That year, my mother took me to India to visit family. It was the first trip that I actually remember, although I had been there before. Going to India was no easy jaunt across the ocean. It was a long flight to New Delhi, with a never ending connection at Heathrow, a bustling place where my mother and I lost our way around for a while. Luckily, my mother was eventually able to steer us to the Duty Free to load up on Dunhill cigarettes for my grandfather during that break, so we got something accomplished before boarding the second leg.

Minutes seemed like hours on those flights and there were no conveniences of iPads or cell phones, heck any wireless form of gadgetry, to distract me along the way. By the time we were greeted in New Delhi, I was beat and could barely stand on my feet in the line for Immigration. But I shouldn’t have bothered to blink because whatever break we had was brief. We would then jump onto an overnight train to take us from New Delhi to a smaller city, Patna, which is closer to my parents’ childhood towns. Actually, there was no jumping involved, but there was some form of bribery that had to take place before we were able to buy tickets.

Par for the course, I would come to learn.

From Patna, it was another 1 1/2 day journey to my mother’s hometown. To my father’s, another couple of hours. These latter legs were on rickety, stifled trains, where men hung on to the train by the sides or sometimes sat on the top. These trains chugged over beautiful rivers and mountains that weave their way through the state of Bihar and I would look through the horizontal iron bars on the windows at the women washing their laundry on rocks by the river as the train passed by.

By the time we made it to close family, I was in shell shock. Nothing quite prepares you for India when you see it the first time. Nothing prepared my five year old self for the things I would see, both beautiful and heart-wrenching. The coolies, who transported our luggage on top of their heads, on a wrapped scarf running at top speed with luggage I would struggle to roll on a cart today. The rickshaw drivers, who drove carriages full of people attached to the back of their bikes, their sinewy legs straining under the effort.

The beggars. Of all ages. Children. The elderly. Some without limbs. Some blind.

It was overwhelming. And scary. Kind of lonely. I didn’t speak much Hindi at the time, so I was surrounded by voices and a language that was painfully unfamiliar. When we went shopping in Patna, I didn’t understand why my mother argued with salesmen that were her brothers, not realizing at the time that she was engaging in the common Indian act of haggling and although she called the men “Bhai” and they called her “Behen,” both sides just wanted to get the better deal. These were not, in fact, my uncles. Which is a good thing, I guessed, since by the time we were done with those deals, I don’t know how brotherly they felt towards my bargain hunting mother.

Even at five, it was a shock to my little soul to realize that a good deal of the world lives in poverty. And I was shocked to see all the indifference. It didn’t make sense to me at all. Why was nobody helping these people? Look at that little girl with the torn dress, holding her little sister on her hip. Look at that man without any legs who is scooting himself with his arms to make it across the street. People would walk down the street and pass by a child who was crying on the side of the road. Why is nobody helping them? I wanted to cry, as our rickshaw drove past them. I saw dirty children, babies, being balanced on their mothers’ hips as they thrust their change jars into the air, begging.

I know now that you have to have seen a great number of people begging in your lifetime to not even flinch. I have to tell myself that because I can’t believe it’s in our inherent nature to ignore a small hand reaching out for help, asking you to please, please help them? I remember being so angry, even then at the people around me who could not look at or acknowledge the beggars. Indifference had made them blind.

I burst into tears frequently and was always pleading with my mother to let me give them some money. But there was never going to be enough and we only had so much to give. I was never in India long enough to get to the point of indifference. I wonder if I ever will.

My family actually thinks my sensitivity to poverty is a bit … much. It’s not that they don’t care. It’s just that they have accepted. They harden their shells when they land on that side of the world and they can enjoy beauty in the other things that are around them. I think this is called having a thick skin. But my skin is not like that. It bruises easily and my heart beats wildly and without apology on my sleeve for the whole world to see. I have tried to hide it and have willed my skin to thicken, but some things I can’t change about me.

I empathize with my family too though – after traveling with me for extended periods of time, it must becomes quite annoying to look over and see me with tears running down my face. Again.

“Stop crying,” my mother would say to me.

“Bu-ut, bu-ut, I ca-an’t,” I would sob. I was 5 then.

“You can’t give them anything. This is totally organized. It’s a racket,” my sister said, pointing out the ringleader as I was doling out money to two little boys, who were working me over “Slumdog” style.

“Bu-ut, bu-ut I can’t NOT do anything,” I said in between tears. That was the last time I was in India. I was 22 then.

I still don’t think I can. NOT cry.

NOT do anything.

I’m 37 years old. I have been on this planet for thirty-seven winters. And summers. I like to think I am a little older and wiser now at 37 than I was at 5. But the further I am from India, the further the harsh reality of that poverty seems to me. The longer I wait to go back, the less clear the eyes of those children become.

In a way, I think I am avoiding that part of India the most.

It’s strange what you remember from your childhood at different stages in your life. My daughter, Shaila, is five and I can’t help thinking about how different her first five years were from mine. Sometimes I look at her face and the face of the young girl on the street begging for change in my memories becomes Shaila’s. And I want to cry. Because I AM grateful. That Shaila is here and she is mine. But I am NOT grateful for what has become of that child on the streets in India. The many children on the streets. For that child, and so many others, I am sad and ashamed all at the same time.

Coming back to live my life felt like a crime. I felt like I was complicit in something terrible. The five year olds I played with in America talked about Barbies. The five year olds I had seen in India had no food.

It was a heavy burden to carry at that age.

Even as a child, even at five, I knew that I could have had a very different life. That my soul had swept into my neat little, temperature controlled life while someone else’s was begging on the streets of India.

That trip to India is when I started remembering.

When I was five.

Kiran

The post Five appeared first on Masala Chica.

A post on why I want my children to have their heart broken. The lovely Shell from Things I Can’t Say is graciously hosting a post from me today.

Go check it out.

And have a great weekend!

The post Don’t Go Breaking Their Hearts appeared first on Masala Chica.

And she’s definitely not telling me that my first novel can be in the Oprah book club.

I am almost positive that one of the voices is my own.

I’m just saying. There are many, many voices. They seem to speak a lot and often at the same time. Individually, each might have something really beautiful and meaningful to say to me. But I can’t hear the beauty. All I hear is this cacophonous yelling.

There are times when I can ignore some of the voices. And there are times when I can lower the volume on all of them. Coincidentally, this only seems to happen when I watch The Real Housewives on Bravo TV, and I am quite certain it is because it’s one of the only places where all the other screaming voices can even drown out the ones in my head.

Most of the time, I make a decision about which voices I want to turn on or off. I am realizing that the funny thing is which voices I choose to ignore.

I turn down the voice of my high school teacher, Mrs. Lehraupt, telling me that she believes I’m a talented writer.

I turn down the voice of my seventh grade teacher, Mr. Grohowski, who I can remember looking me in the eyes with his kind blue ones saying, “Kid. You’re going places.”

I turn down the quiet reassurance of my husband’s voice, when he tells me that he does believe I can write a book. That he believes I can create a successful business.

I have muted my sister’s voice saying that she believes in my ideas.

What I hear is the voice of Mrs. Williams telling me that I’m not very good. Especially not at being a third grader. I hear her words of anger as she yells at me again for not standing in the line the right way, though I could have sworn I was. I hear her yelling at me that my pants don’t really match my shirt. In all fairness, she never really said that last part, but in third grade, I wasn’t very good at coordinating my clothes, so I am sure she was thinking it.

I hear my father, who speaks with the heart of an immigrant who could not afford risk and could not afford to chase dreams saying, “You dream too big.”

I hear my husband, John’s voice and my sister’s voice, but not the positive things they have said to me. Instead I hear, “Are you going to see this through? Kiran, you never seem to finish things.” I don’t see the reassurance and encouragement in their eyes which they have shown time and time again. Instead I see that brief moment, that flicker of doubt that they could not cover up fast enough.

I hear Mrs. Buckley yelling at me in rage in the middle school hallway when I couldn’t get my books out of my locker before the bell, with an anger than didn’t seem to fit the crime as she spoke to me with clenched teeth, “Who do you think you are?”

You’re not doing it right.

Your dreams are too big for you.

You can’t see things through.

Who the HELL do you think you are?

That is what I choose to hear. Somewhere in the background, Oprah is jumping up on a on a couch really athletically and she’s yelling, “Where’s your car now, bitch?” which just seems mean-spirited and really out of character for her.

Whatever. I still hear it.

Why? Why do I choose to focus on these thoughts.

I know that I am not alone in sometimes allowing the wrong voices to influence me. I recently the heard Jon Acuff, the author of The New York Times Bestselling book Quitter, speak at a conference. Jon is an amazing, inspiring speaker and an accomplished author. He shared that in spite of this success, in spite of the fact that he has 209 beaming, admiring, praising five star reviews of his debut book on Amazon, the comments he remembers are the ones that accompany the handful of one star ratings that he has received.

Here is a man who the rest of the world would define as successful. As highly accomplished. As amazing. What he can repeat verbatim to the audience, however, is Lori Ann from San Antonio’s biting comment.

“I wouldn’t even donate this book, because I wouldn’t want to be responsible for another person wasting their time reading it.”

Let me be clear. Lori Ann’s words are not a testament to his work. Acuff has been applauded by peers and is a sought after public speaker. Go read the more than two hundred plus five star comments.

You know and I know that this one comment is not a testament to his accomplishments.

He’s a New York Times Bestselling author.

He has hundreds of readers who believe his book is the best thing since sliced bread.

Yet.

He knows that comment. Verbatim. Every single word of it.

He hears a stranger from San Antonio’s voice. Despite all the voices he should be hearing, he hears this charitable (or non charitable) woman’s voice.

Incredible, isn’t it?

I guess what I realize is that we all dealing with our voices. Some of us are better at it than dealing with others. Me? I really need to work on it. I am trying to figure out what voices need to go. I am trying to figure out which fragments of conversations need to be banished.

FOREVER.

Most of all, I am trying to listen to the one voice which I seem to have been ignoring for so long.

My own.

It has a lot to say.

To Mrs. Buckley and to Mrs. Williams: “Get lost. And why, WHY did you ever teach children? For the love of all that’s holy.”

To my father, “I love you, Papa. But I choose to dream big. That’s how I roll, you see.”

To my husband John and my sister: “You are right. I have quit in the past. But I believe I can do this. I need you to remember the words from that Journey song. No, not “Any Way You Want It.” No, not “Separate Ways.” Yes. That one.”

To myself: “Let’s DO this.”

For the first time, the voice I need to hear is loud and clear.

The post Voices appeared first on Masala Chica.

- Khalil Gibran, “The Prophet”

*****************************

“Last morning, I peed my pants.”

“Last morning, I got a boo boo, Mommy.”

“Remember? Last morning, Shaila hit me.”

These are all things my three year old son, Nico, can say on a given morning. You would think that “last morning” might mean yesterday, or the day before yesterday morning. But no. Last morning can really be any morning that happened in the past. Heck, it might even be an afternoon or an evening.

We have a lot of stories about “last morning” going on in this house. “Last morning” basically is a sum of all our yesterdays; it’s where the accidents of our past took place and where we lay our mistakes to rest.

I look at my own past, kind of how Nico does. A lot of memories of yesterdays seem to jumble up together. I don’t often remember the order in which all the memories take place but they sometimes stumble upon each other when I look back at them, forming a mosaic of “last morning” type of scenes.

Last morning I had a baby named Shaila. (Granted that morning was almost six years ago now. Just stick with me on this one).

Last morning, I suffered through terrible post-partum depression, which lingered on when I had my second child, Nico, two years later.

Last morning, I started to question the marriage that John and I built together.

Last morning, the questioning grew stronger.

Last morning, John and I wondered if we were quite right for each other.

Last morning, John and I separated.

Last morning, I went and bought a house.

Last morning, John and I realized that we wanted to work on our life together.

Last morning, I had to “return” the house, just two weeks before going to closing.

Last morning, I lost some people I really cared about. Only a few of those lost actually were to death.

Last morning, I cried. Shit. I cried a lot of mornings.

Last morning, I laughed. Some mornings it was easier than others.

Last morning, I drank too much wine. In my defense, it was really in the last evenings.

Last mornings were hard.

Last mornings are now just a series of my yesterdays.

The past few years have been hard for me. Hard meaning things hurt, I hurt, I have been through things I didn’t expect and I have felt a sucker punch or two (or three) that I wasn’t quite prepared to handle, last morning. Heck, I don’t know if I am prepared to handle them THIS morning. I know I feel things hard. Even before I started writing this blog, I always seemed to accessorize my most often mismatched outfits with my heart positioned right on my sleeve, where everyone could see it.

Maybe even poke at it a little.

“Kiran’s… sensitive,” is how my closest friends might describe it. The friends who have been there for me on my last mornings and continue to be there for me might describe it as something else outside of my own hearing. If they are honest, the words “impulsive,” “constantly searching,” and “dreamer” might be a part of their description as well. I know they love me, but I think I confuse them. I think we handle our last mornings differently. I would say they do a better job than me.

They would probably agree.

The last mornings of my recent past where I started to juggle a full time job with motherhood, marriage with my own independence, family with my need to still be my own person were tough. I imagine that they are for a lot of mothers and fathers like myself who have felt their last mornings implode on themselves. I also know that there are many who handle it all with much more grace and wisdom than I have been able to manage, across all my last mornings.

My last morning were not always joyous and no, they didn’t always fit into a nice little package that I yearn to re-open on rainy days.

I feel like they belong in my past, where they will stay.

Still. Regardless of the challenge I might have felt in the most recent years of my life, there were so many gifts I got last morning.

Last morning, I had a beautiful daughter named Shaila.

Last morning, I was blessed with an amazing son named Nico.

Last morning, I rediscovered my marriage.

Last morning, I realized how lucky I am to have many of the people in my life who have chosen to stick around.

Last morning, I realized how lucky I am to have my parents, and John’s parents, alive and a part of our lives.

Last mornings, while challenging, were also really quite amazing.

And I need to remind myself of that. Whether it’s Nico tattling about his sister when he talks about his last mornings or whether its me, trying to make sense of a few years full of last mornings I once had trouble navigating. Last mornings pave the way for a new today. And maybe an even more amazing tomorrow.

Kiran

The post Last Mornings appeared first on Masala Chica.

Anyway, I had to go under general anesthesia before the Doctor could operate. I was a little nervous, more about going under the knife and the pain I might feel afterwards than about my lack of consciousness. The Anesthesiologist was a sweet and lovable looking Indian man, with kind green eyes, and he assured me that everything would be fine. I allowed myself to be comforted by him and went under quietly and without a fight.

When I woke up, John was sitting beside me.

Me: It’s done?

John:  Yeah, it took no time at all.

Me: Did I poop on the table?

John: No, not that I know of.

Pooping on the table has been a big concern of mine since before I had kids. I always heard about women who went into labor and had a bowel movement while trying to push out the baby. This terrified me since and I was having no part of it, as long as I could control it.

The nurse came in and gave me some grape juice. I was quite capable of putting the straw in myself but instead I allowed John to unwrap and stick it in the little juice box hole.

I’m not stupid. I was going to milk as much as I could out of this hospital visit.

The Doctor came in mid-sip.

Doctor: You did great. Everything went well and you shouldn’t have any complications. Any questions?

Me: Did I poop on the table?

Doctor: Um. No. You didn’t.

Me: Good. Well thanks for everything!

Doctor: (Turning to John) You have the discharge instructions. Make sure she gets a lot of rest the next few days. (Turning to me) Now you can go back to writing your blog. Any questions?

Whoa, there, Doc. Back the heck up.
How did he know about my blog? I must have looked at him funny.

Doctor: Doctor X is looking at it right now. It’s good stuff.

And he turned around and walked out.

John: You told him about your blog?

Me: No. (shaking my head). Maybe they looked it up?

It made total sense to me that while I was under, quietly drooling out of the side of my mouth and being busy not pooping, that the following conversation could take place:

Nurse: Who is this incredible woman on the table in front of us, with the questionable taste in nail polish color?

Doctor X: I don’t know. But I sense there’s a story. Maybe we should Google her.

Upon Googling me, they would find that I was, in fact, the proud writer of a blog.  I still found this rather odd, but completely within reason.

At that moment, Dr. X walked into the room.

Doctor X: Hey Masala Chica! Love your blog. It’s great.

Me: How did….?

Doctor X: Oh. Well, you told me all about it while you were asleep.

John: Oh no. You didn’t.

Me: Oh shit.

Until this point, I didn’t know you could have conversations with people when you were under. Who knows what else I confided in him?  Did I tell him about how I successfully delivered two children without pooping on a table? Did I inform him about my undying love for Jon Bon Jovi? That the one fashion trend I miss most of the eighties was the banana clip?

Please be cool again!

What else had I shared with him?

I wonder if I asked him to “like” me on Facebook? To follow me on Twitter?

God. Please. No.

I’m embarrassing enough when I am conscious. I write this blog when I’m conscious. Well, mostly anyway. What is the unconscious me capable of saying?

I guess I’ll never know.

XO,

Kiran

P.S. My friend, Vanita, from The After Bedtime Blog, blog and website designer extraordinaire, is offering some specials for friends of Masala Chica. She is amazing, reasonably priced already – but she is willing to throw in some additional deals this month for you wonderful people. She is helping me with SEO and fixing up my blog right now and is a GODSEND. Call her. She is the woman for you.

The post My Doctors Read My Blog & Bring Back Banana Clips. appeared first on Masala Chica.

Broken.

I used to think that you could fix anything. That emotional cuts could heal, that a painful past could be left to reside in its yesterdays. I have learned with time that it’s not so easy to compartmentalize the good and the bad in your life. That old memories have a way of inviting themselves into your life when you least need them. That things you think you are over, that you have tidily found a place for in the farthest corner of your mind, can tip-toe back to the front. Demanding that you acknowledge them and stop throwing them into the back of the attic to be hidden once more.

I used to be good at hiding things away. At applying salve to my emotional wounds and covering my cuts with enough Hello Kitty band-aids that I thought they would only leave some small scars as proof.

I was doing ok. I did heal. But I still hurt. The band-aids didn’t take away the bruises and the fractures that had set in, beneath the surface. But I somehow managed. I imagine I was a bit like a functioning alcoholic or drug addict, walking a tenuous line between healed and wounded. Sometimes something would set me over the edge and I would lash out – with anger, with sharp words, with a venom I didn’t know I had in me.

All that hurt had lead to a great deal of anger. And insecurity.

I can’t say that I’ve fully dealt with it. These things are a process. There are no automatic fixes or miracles that can exorcise the ghosts of my past. Trust me, I know. I’ve tried.

I wish I could hold this person that I love, who thinks they are broken and say, “This is nothing. You’re strong enough. You’re better than this. You can still fix yourself.” I know that I can’t though. It’s not allowed and it’s not welcome.

So I watch from afar. And there is nothing worse than watching someone you love, someone who has spent their whole life hiding painful things from the past in the attic realize that the roof is going to give out. All of that pain is seeping through the walls, straining to be acknowledged. Neglected for years, it comes out, demanding attention.

Actually. I take that back. There is something worse than watching someone go through that painful realization.

It’s watching the light go out in their eyes.

How do you fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed?

Can you?

XO,

Kiran

The post I Will Try to Fix You appeared first on Masala Chica.

I was bold but shy. Inquisitive but reserved. I was going to own that joint even though some days I was too scared to even step into the room.

I was a badass. 5 going on 6.

Kindergarten, bitches.

The thought of going intoxicated me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to jump up and down in excitement or crawl in a corner and hide. It was my first shot at independence. My first break at being an individual.

What if they found out I couldn’t tie my laces? The only way I could even remotely pretend to was with those damn rabbit ears and everybody knew that was just a pre-schooler’s way of faking it.

Despite the fear, I don’t know what catapulted my little scrawny legs into that room, where my wise and loving teacher, Mrs. Zimms, used her patient ways, her words of kindness and her strength of character to build us up.

I look back at that shot. And I know I wouldn’t have learned to aim so well if I hadn’t been given it.

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime

I loved my shot. I loved that I was given such a great introduction into education by a woman who made me believe I could do anything. I wish every child had the same chance and the same opportunity that I had.

I also wish every adult had the chance to look back at a goofy picture of themselves like the ones below and smile at some silly memory of his or her childhood. A memory of a time when learning was fun, bullies didn’t yet exist and it was okay to be innocent.

Taking this trip down memory lane, however, brings me to something more fun. A contest where you can earn more money than I ever conceived of fitting into my piggy bank in Kindergarten.

But the beat goes on: da-da-dum da-dum da-dah.

To participate – just match the picture (with the assigned alphabet) to the blogger whose blog is listed below. What’s in it for you? Other than some fun (and it’s fun, promise), you can win an awesome $300 Amazon gift card. You can also get to know some of the bloggers listed here, if you don’t already.

Our milkshakes bring all the boys to our yards

Enter your answers on this form.

Participating bloggers, in alphabetical order:

Angela of Angela Amman

Angie of Angie Kinghorn

Deborah of Ask Doctor G

Robin of Farewell Stranger

Poppy of Funny or Snot

Leigh Ann of Genie in a Blog

Greta of Gfunkified

Jennifer of Jennifer P. Williams

Tonya of Letters for Lucas

Kiran of Masala Chica

Laura of Mommy Miracles

Natalie of Mommy of a Monster (and Twins)

Brittany of Mommy Words

Jessica of My Time as Mom

Kimberly of Reflections of Now

Tracy of Sellabit Mum

Elaine of The Miss Elaine-ous Life

Sarah of The Sunday Spill

Galit of These Little Waves

Kristin of Two Cannoli

Arnebya of What Now and Why

Kristin of What She Said

Alison of Writing, Wishing

Terms and conditions apply:

• You must be 18 years or older to enter.
• This contest is only open to residents of USA and Canada.
• This contest is open from March 11 – 15, 2013 (closes at 9pm Eastern).
• Visit the link above, where you will be able to enter your guess for each blogger pictured. (All information will be kept private.)
• The person to correctly match all the faces with their blog will win a $300 Amazon gift card. The two other closest guesses will each win one $80 Amazon gift card.
• If more than one person correctly matches all the faces with their blogs, we will randomly pick a winner via random.org.
• If no one guesses all the faces correctly, the winner will be the person who made the most correct guesses.
• This is not a sponsored post. Prizes are paid for out of the participating bloggers’ own pockets.
• You CAN enter more than once!
• Winners will be announced week of March 18.

“Name That Kindergartner” was inspired by the ”Name That DIY Blogger” contest, over at My Blessed Life. 

Kiran

The post Kindergarten Rules appeared first on Masala Chica.