Friday good

Hello, friends,

I think this may be my last post.  I had a friend ask me last night if I was going to keep this going after Easter.  At the moment, I think the answer is no.  But I will say that returning after so long to doing some writing, which always requires reflection and centeredness to some degree, has felt very good.  Thank you to any and all of you who have been reading.  A blog is a funny thing -- you don't know who's out there.  But it's the same, really, with any writing and readers, unless you're reading aloud to an audience.

I have not been as disciplined as I'd hoped or intended.  But I don't feel too bad about that.  It was still a discipline and a practice and an opportunity I chose to take for myself.

Today is the day that Christians remember Jesus's crucifixion.  For me, it is such a powerful story that grows in its meanings and dimensions every year.  All the characters are all of us and speak to me differently each time I hear the story.  In high school my youth group performed the passion each Palm Sunday.  It was stylized and stripped down with great live acoustic music and very moving.  I played Pontius Pilate a couple of years and Peter a couple of years.  If I were to do it today, I would suggest and maybe insist on playing Jesus.  Such small-minded casting!  ;)  Jesus was always a guy, and someone with dark hair, usually a person of color.  Anyway.

But I do remember at some point in my youth being taught that the story wasn't supposed to just be one of tragedy and sadness at a good man being killed, but to understand my place in that story, including as one of the people yelling "crucify him!"  That is an uneasy role to truly inhabit, but in adulthood, it makes a lot more sense to me, as does Peter's and Judas' betrayals.  And the story is so political!  That part of it has really expanded for me as I've grown older.  This was in no way an individual experience but very, very collective and all about the politics.  Last Sunday I heard, seemingly for the first time, that Pilate's wife sent him a note telling him not to sentence Jesus -- she'd had a dream telling her that he was innocent.  (Apparently, this detail only shows up in the gospel of Matthew.)  But what a very interesting detail!  Interesting because of the kind-of supernaturalness of it and it's one of the moments when a female character enters into the story.  But one thing I really like about the Bible is that it really seems like just the scaffolding of the stories.  Bamboo, pine, aluminum scaffolding that has been wrapped, soldered together, taped, bound, reinforced, braced, and rebuilt hundreds of times through retellings and translations.  I know there are a lot of religious people who would disagree with me -- "The Word of God" stuff -- but it just doesn't make sense to me any other way.  In the breaking and putting back together, there are just these glimpses of truth or meaning in The Word, whether read or heard, acted or sung, where some kind of sense is made, even if it's nonsense.  That beauty compells me to return to it, to love it, to remain in relationship with it.

So I think about Pilate's wife.  She certainly did live.  And I suspect she had a dream and she told Pilate about it and told him not to condemn Jesus.  But all the details are just for us to imagine!  What was that dream like?  She apparently "suffered much last night because of it", but what was that suffering like?  Was it a terrifying nightmare that she couldn't wake up from?  Or when she woke she knew it was real and not a dream?  Did she do something other than send Pilate a note?  Maybe she screamed at him when she was serving him scrambled eggs and toast or when he was looking for the pin for his toga or taking a piss before heading out for the day.  Was she powerless to override the political power her husband had, but tried to use her personal power?  And what happened that night, and the ensuing nights, after Jesus was crucified?  Maybe she was one of the women at the tomb early on Sunday.  Maybe she refused to have sex with him ever again.  But what was her relationship and interaction with Pilate like?  It's clear that Pilate was torn -- he didn't want Jesus crucified and didn't think he was guilty.  But he also wasn't willing to stand up the the screaming crowds -- he just washed his hands of it, like a good liberal.

Well, ha ha ha!  I just read about Pilate's wife on wikipedia and discovered, hardly to anyone's surprise, that there has been much written about her (Procula/Claudia) and her dream, and they have made their way into about a million pieces of art.  :)

So, this is hardly a conclusion to my writing, but it is a little reflection on the day and how I'm responding to it.

I wish you peace, every one of you, and the joy of the Easter season.

Briana

this morning

This morning I was assigned to serve jury duty at the municipal court.  One of the many benefits of living where I do meant that I could easily walk there from my house -- less than 15 minutes.  The time I needed to report meant that I could sleep later and also take Mallika to daycare beforehand.  Very nice.

It always pays to change your daily routine, the same way that it always pays to change your process or aesthetic as an artist.

It is an incredibly humid day today and one weather report forecasts a high of 98 this afternoon.  But the morning is still tolerable and I walked south toward the hub of government, the law, and business.  These days, there's not a whole lot of difference between them.  I saw a few office workers, a few construction workers, a few homeless people, and a lot of guys in flappy suits making their way in the general direction of the Capitol, and even one with his car key in his mouth as he squinted at the parking meter, the back door of his shiny white SUV open to the sidewalk.  I saw what I thought would make a very good photograph -- the hazy hot air with the Charlie's sign with its new pride rainbow in front of the dome of 1st UMC in front of the dome of the Capitol.

I said good morning to everyone I passed and noted their responses.  I saw the sandwich shop already lining up their shredded lettuce, veggies, sauces, meats and cheeses for the office lunch rush.  I saw the country store that's been boarded up forever and the big graffiti on the inside wall.  I noticed that the TX State Teachers' Association and AFL-CIO offices are right in the middle of all the government buildings for the county and state and the lawyers' offices and bail bondsmen's shops.  People in suits come out of the swinging doors of the AFL-CIO building; one of them is wearing a cowboy hat.

I turn to go west toward the criminal justice center and recall the various times I'd been at the county commissions' court when I was an organizer -- public forums and scheduled meetings, lots of citizen pressure being put on those elected officials, sometimes with success.  Jobs, water, prison, law enforcement, immigration -- those were the primary issues.  The county is an interesting governmental entity, simultaneously high-falutin' in that old-timey Texan kind of way and also very very lowbrow.  The lighting was always bad in there and the main conference room always had boxes stacked up in it.

The criminal justice center reminds me of the night spent out on the sidewalk after the big march to protest the start of the Iraq war, though I admit that I really am beginning to lose track of which war is which and which war is supposedly not a war anymore.  Friends and acquaintances were locked up for civil disobedience and we were waiting and keeping watch.  What I remember best from that night was the verbal and emotional choque between Mohan and an irritated, angry white guy who was walking along the sidewalk.  I don't remember the words exchanged, but I felt how things could turn on a dime -- a blow, a punch, a kick.

This morning as I approached the courthouse entrance, I heard someone outside practicing the piano and knew it was one of the ones that's been put around the city by an arts collective in town.  When I left, I stopped by.  I think it was the same guy practicing.

In the lobby hallway of the courts, a lot of white people waited, a lot of young men -- mostly Latino and Black -- talked to flappy, floppy lawyers.  or, rather, listened to them, and looked over a lot of printed material.  People went in and out of doors a whole lot.

When we were finally called into the court room, the judge, a white woman, sat up on the dias.  Every last potential juror was white.  Every last person already in the courtroom to our right was a person of color.

We sat down and the judge greeted us as if we were at an amusement park ride.  She commented that she knew a lot of us, and then informed us that she had already made it through her relatively short docket and our services were not needed.  She thanked us for our service and we all got up and left.  I walked home.

holy week begins

Mallika and I went to Palm Sunday Mass this weekend to start Holy Week off right.  We even managed to arrive only five minutes late in spite of a temper tantrum in response to Mallika's papa not allowing her to watch another elmo youtube video.

Much later in the afternoon, however, we had her most major tantrum to date.  Oooo wee.  Talk about a tornado, a tsunami and a volcano all rolled into a 23-pound frame and a couple of lungs.  I think we were all still recovering late last night, especially the adults.

What happened was that Mallika had fallen asleep in the car at the end of an afternoon outing and woke up as I tried to put her down to continue her nap.  She most often naps with her papa on the "big bed" (i.e. not her toddler bed) and it's crucial to close the bedroom door to contain what can sometimes be a very physically circuitous route to getting prone on top of the mattress.  So I was in the living room, Mohan and Mallika were in the bedroom settling in, but then Mallika decided she wanted to leave the room.  Then she decided she wanted me.  Then she realized she wanted me to hold her.  And THEN she realized neither of the big people were going to open the door for her.  Crying ensued, as did scraping at and under the door, letting us know what a pitiful captive she was.  None of that is unusual, really, but it typically lasts just a few minutes.  Not the case with yesterday.

The storm just built and built and built to the point where I took the cell phone, stepped out into the corridor, and called Mohan on the land line in order to consult.  Should we open the door?  Should I try to lie down with her?  Were we being cruel?  Was my heart going to shatter listening to her cry, "Amma, hold you!" (meaning "hold me") a million times in a row?  We concluded we should stick with it, mainly because Mallika has developed the habit in recent weeks of throwing a tantrum whenever she doesn't get what she wants how she wants it when she wants it and we really feel it needs to change.  So I was silent and Mohan stayed with her in the room, talking calmly and quietly.  "Mallika, it's OK.  I can tell you're really really upset and angry.  Come lie here with me.  Try to take a deep breath.  You're really upset, huh?" etc etc.  He was great and just kept at it even when the crying became screaming and the screaming became non-breathing.  He told me later her little fists were going and eyes were rolling around -- it was just terrible to see.  It really seemed like it was going to go on forever.

Finally Mohan started on a track of asking her, "Mallika, does your body feel good?  Does it?  Does it feel good?"  She finally started answering, "NO!!!!"  And then he started asking her what her body needed and she managed to regain words instead of screams: "Amma!  Hold you!"  By just asking her over and over if her body felt good, and what she needed, and then encouraging her to let her body relax, she gradually, gradually came back off the ledge.  She even laid down on the bed next to Mohan.  And then the magic thing -- he opened the door, I came in, we both lay on either side of her and I stroked her back and told her how much I love her and that she'd had such a hard time and it was time to rest.  She nodded and sucked her fingers and fell asleep.

Mohan and I were ready for some stiff drinks.

And, like all parents, we've asked ourselves and each other 100 times already if we did the right thing or not.  Yesterday evening and today, Mallika has been a beautifully happy, loving, warm, laughing girl, but who knows?  Man, parenting is something else.  In so many other contexts, making the wrong choice may have high prices to pay, but only with parenting do you see how much power you have over this person you love so much and you so want only what best and right for them.

Peace,
Briana

no one loves a genius child

No one loves a genius child.  Free him, and let his soul run wild.

I just finished watching a documentary about Jean-Michel Basquiat on PBS that ended with this quote.  Not sure where it comes from.  It got my attention, not least of all because of the film's subject.  Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying my own daughter is a genius child.  But I'm also not saying she's not.  Genius is a damning adjective.  It means someone with power has noticed you, assigned you value, and publicized the value they have assigned to you.  Very dangerous, because then they can take it away. 

Being a parent really colors everything I think about.  I think about being Jean-Michel's mother.  I think about being the mother of one of his friends.  I think about being his friend and trying to help him stay alive in spite of it all.  I wonder what his experience really was of Andy Warhol and how Andy looked after him.

The thing about genius is... what is it?  I really don't think that anyone with integrity thinks of themselves as a genius.  They may feel and think passionately, obsessively, in ways they know others are not feeling or thinking.  But having this experience doesn't make someone feel themselves to be a genius.  I think they just think and feel and struggle to find ways to express that and share it with others.

I guess all this reflection is already captured by saying no one loves a genius child.  And, above all, children need to be loved.  The title of genius can rob them of that, as people just become mercenary.  Like the film observed, if you were Jean-Michel, you'd go to a party and people wanted to do drugs with you, get laid by you, just because you were the hot thing.

Watching the film also made me more aware of something that's been percolating more and more for me.  In the brief moments of reflection I steal, in which I am aware of what feels like the strange loss of my former self, mainly in terms of what I "do" (art, politics, parties, travel, New Things, etc) or rather, mainly in terms of what I no longer "do", I've started to understand a different importance to what I used to "do".  OK -- that was a totally confusing and crap sentence, but here is what I mean.  For example, as a teenager, I spent many, many hours on the phone with a very small handful of friends.  We did homework over the phone, we quizzed each other for tests, we discussed essay questions and research papers, and also lots about our parents and other friends and classmates.  Sometimes music, often literature, who knows what else.  What it seems like now is those conversations, and many other childhood/teenagehood experiences and relationships, really did lay the basis for adulthood.  Much of it seemed petty, but it became the rock that my adulthood is built upon.  That metaphor isn't really right.  It's like sedimentary rock for the wild jungle that has grown on top of it.

I guess I was thinking about this because it was so painful to get a glimpse of how much Jean-Michel needed his father's love, support, and approval.  And to see how well he handled the fucked-up racism that came with his fame.  And it just made me think about all of our beginnings and how they both help and hurt us.  I recognized so many of my creative, free friends in Basquiat's story and I can imagine my own daughter growing up to find that she is in some way a "genius child".  I hope I can stop that in its tracks, for her sake and for other children's too.  Because when you say one child is a genius, you are saying others are not, and that starts the whole cycle of valuing some people over others, and that is no good for anyone.

Peace,
Briana

Amma, what happened?

Hi, friends,

I notice that as Lent progresses and work gets crazier, I miss more and more days of writing.  I'm inviting myself back to the practice and the peace of discipline.

Mallika's verbal abilities are expanding like crazy these days.  It's one of the coolest things ever to get to observe.  One of the things I notice is that she can repeat absolutely 100% the same thing over and over again and it is SO CLEAR.  It's just sometimes unintelligible to my adult ears.  It helps to try to repeat it back to her, as sometimes trying to make the sounds she's making helps to figure it out.  When I'm wrong, the girl has the patience of a saint.  "No" and then she tries again.  She occassionally gets frustrated, but never impatient.  Amazing.

One of her more recent and more common questions is, "Amma, what happened?"  Or, "Papa, what happened?"  What is really striking is the variety of things that prompt this question.  Sometimes it's a verbal exclamation from one of us. (And no, never including four letter words, not us!  More like eight or twelve or sixteen letter words that you get when you put a whole string of four letter words together.  Don't worry -- my mom never fails to mention that we're going to need to clean up our language any day now.)  Sometimes it's something she sees or more often something she hears, loud or quiet, near or far, for which she wants an explanation. 

But leave it to the little tyke to ask most often when she notices a reaction from one of us, no matter how small or subtle or private.  A sigh, a catching of the breath, a quiet groan, a sucking of teeth, you name it.  All those under-the-breath things we adults do and almost stop noticing that we do them.  For every one, Mallika asks, "Amma, what happened?"  It's a bell like no other.  It stops my thinking, brings me back to myself, and requires attention and honesty to be able to answer her.  And also makes me think way more profoundly than I usually do.  What DID just happen?

Suffice to say, my little girl is an angel.  I wonder, what happened to bring her into my life?

Peace,
Briana

boiling

Hi, friends,

As nice as it is to steal some humanity from the capitalist enterprise termed work, it is also very nice to write from home where, for a short moment, I'm the only one here!  This really almost never happens, and it is such a particular pleasure.  Hummus, crackers, wine (it's horrible, but still wine), jeans, and quiet solitude for writing!

Earlier today, I got so angry, I felt like steam wasn't only coming out of my ears, but from under my skin.  I really felt like I was boiling!  I'd called Mallika's pediatrician to ask for a Saturday morning appointment.  Mallika's eating in the last couple of days has been nearly non-existent, she says her stomach hurts, and she also had a rash on her back yesterday.  I typically play the role of the "it'll all be fine" parent, but I decided to change my behavior and call up for an appointment.  Tomorrow is really actually impossible -- we have car repairs scheduled, a friend having surgery, another important doctor appointment, non-negotiable work commitments and, well, general craziness.  So I asked for a Saturday morning appointment.

After some phone tag, the Lady On The Line at the office told me who would be in on Saturday, I told her my preferred doctor (not Mallika's regular pediatrician) and Mallika's ailments, agreed to the first appointment of the morning (which is how they schedule on weekends), in spite of the stress and difficulty of getting to the office at such an early hour esp on my day off.  And then was told I needed to wait.  When she came back on the line, she told me that this kind of appointment was more a "consultation" and therefore needed to happen on a weekday.  I was like, "What?"  I'd never heard of such a thing.  But she made it clear she'd been talking to the doctor and the doctor was pushing back, so what was I supposed to do?  I was like, look, she needs to see a doctor and I cannot bring her tomorrow.  And she kept insisting this was a consultation and needed to be scheduled on a weekday.  I just hung up.  No point.  But when I went on line to look at their site to educate myself about their appointment policies, it really seemed like their official policy -- "we see sick kids on weekends" -- applied to Mallika.  So I called back to argue.  Was it that I'd listed too many ailments?  If so, I'd be happy to let the doctor just examine her stomach and ignore the rash.  (When I said this, the steam already started -- what totally fucked up medicine to not consider all the presenting symptoms.)  Lady On The Line told me that was part of it.  Another part of it was Dr. X, which I took to mean this particular doctor she'd been talking to, also didn't want to drag her ass out of bed early on a Saturday to examine my daughter's ailments, even if she only had to look at her stomach and not her back.  When I offered that Mallika's regular doctor had seen her repeatedly for food-related issues, but now we were hearing about a stomachache and very little food intake, that was the final nail in the coffin.  Seems that if there's an on-going ailment, that DEFINITELY means it's a Consultation which means it can only happen On A Weekday.

I scheduled a Monday morning appointment and put down the phone.

And took a little walk, hoping no one would try to talk to me.

Now, God and all Her angels know I deal with insane, maddening bureaucracy every day.  After all, I live in the United States and work at the University of Texas.  What was it about this that set me past my boiling point?

I think it was that I was consciously trying to change my approach to the way I care for my daughter.  There have been a couple of occasions at least where Mohan wanted to take her to the doctor and I didn't think it was necessary and I was wrong.  I wanted to try to right those wrongs.  And I want to take care of my baby who I know is losing weight and not eating.  Something is wrong and I don't know what.  And I want to do what is necessary to find the answer.  That's a major and very important internal change for me.  When I'm really scared or scared of being scared, I typically ignore/smooth things down/get distracted/wait for things to resolve themselves.  So it really seemed like a slap in the face to be told No at that particular moment.

And how will I feel about this if Mallika doesn't eat for the whole weekend?

At this moment, I am so thankful to share the parenting experience with Mohan.  I'll talk it over with him when he gets here and we'll decide together.

Peace,
Briana

routines

Hi friends,

Each weekday during lunch, I walk from my office to Mallika's daycare, pick her up, and take her home to spend the afternoon in her papa's loving care.  I have 90 minutes to make a somewhat hectic (ok, sometimes very hectic) round-trip trek on foot while also making it a point to actually eat something and also at least say hello to my spouse.  However, it's always good to get out of the office, move the bod, experience the weather, etc etc.

The routine is about to change, though, and I suddenly don't feel ready for it.  Most days, starting tomorrow, Mallika's grandpa -- my dear old dad -- will pick her up at lunchtime and take her to my parents' house till the end of the workday.  This is primarily to allow Mohan to wrap up all the final details for filing his dissertation and graduation in May.  And it's also an opportunity for my parents and Mallika to spend more time together.  I am very grateful and very pleased that they've taken on this daily responsibility.  But, oh my, I haven't quite been prepared for the heavy, heavy weight in my chest that comes with realizing I won't see my baby in the middle of the day.  Oh my.  You never miss the water till the well runs dry. 

I can't count the number of times seeing Mallika has saved me, saved my sanity, saved my spirit, because I got to see her, hear her shrieking dance of delight when she saw me in her classroom door, scoop her up in my arms, ask her how her day was, negotiate the very lengthy routine of leaving her school.  This routine was usually:  say bye to the class, visit the babies across the hall, drink two times from the water fountain, make sure I get some water too, say bye to the director, visit the pre-K class where they have a fish tank, a super nice teacher, totally fun toys, a doll house, a baby carriage, a kitchen, and magnetic marbles, then climb the stairs, get the stroller, touch all the nametags, sit on the window ledges outside the door, push the stroller (BY HERSELF, AMMA) down the alley, point out the funny wires protruding from a pipe, check another broken pipe for running water, and finally climb into the stroller for conversation, singing, and direction-giving on the walk home.

We have had lots of conversations on the walk home, and I'm often serenaded by quiet, lively toddler tunes.  My favorite stretch of our walk is beneath the huge live oaks between the Ransom Center and Guadalupe.  They are entirely gorgeous, no matter what time of year, one of the last few really beautiful things at UT.  There are so many wonderful things we see to comment on, and we run into friends and acquaintances with great regularity. 

I am so deeply going to miss this routine with Mallika.  She makes my whole day worthwhile.

Peace,
Briana

no writing

Hi, friends,

Today I am too worn out and depressed to write.  I'll see you on Monday.

Peace,
Briana

late night

Hi friends,

Today is almost over and I am so ready for bed.  But committed to a solid 15 minutes.

Today's topic?  I'm not sure...

This morning I received an email message from a former student who is expecting a baby in May and with whom I have communicated about pregnancy and preparing for childbirth.  I always am so excited and happy to talk with people who are expecting children and am struck by the fact that, at this stage and station in life, being pregnant is consistently happy and welcome news.  In the instances when it's not welcome or happy, I don't know or hear about it.  I am sure that I have friends and acquaintances who have had unwanted pregnancies in the recent past, but I note that there is a definite shift from the teens and 20s when most people I knew were trying to avoid getting pregnant.  Having lived through those years, as well as the experiences of dealing with unwanted pregnancies, it really is a sea change to have all these people I know so able to be publicly happy about their pregnancies.

I remember being in high school and on a lunch hour off campus with my friend Rachel.  I remember it like it was a year or two ago instead of TWENTY YEARS.  Sheesh.  We were at Upper Crust Bakery and there was a visibly pregnant woman in line. I exclaimed to Rachel that I found it so strange to see pregnant women out in public because it seemed like such incontrovertable proof of their having had sex.  Rachel thought I was absolutely loony, but tried to best to get what I was getting at.  When I reflect on that moment and what all was going on with me, it does in fact seem loony, but also entirely sane, given our general US culture and the culture of my upbringing.  I think it also reflects how closely sex and pregnancy were stuck together in my mind.  It was hard for me to imagine having had sex (or, more importantly, been sexual) and having everyone I came in contact with know that fact.  In my high school years, sex and sexuality were so private, secretive, and wrought that they could hardly be talked about.  And I know that's a cliche, but it's also true.  That protruding stomach was much the same as a G-string and pasties, so far as I was concerned.  But even worse, in some ways, since there was evidence of vaginal penetration -- the Real Deal. 

Man, what a culture we live in.

There's much more to say, but it's been 15 minutes and I also can barely keep my eyes open.

Peace,
Briana

parental leave and the big shots

Hi friends,

Well, now, I'm starting to fall off my good practice.  Post-spring break things have been picking up at work, stress is increasing and life is offering many opportunities to get overwhelmed, overtaxed, over-whatever.  I have a stomachache.

And I also have just 15 minutes to write, so I'll keep it small.

On Friday, the conference I attended was for women in business and was hosted by a group called C200 made up of extremely wealthy and influential businesswomen.  At the closing session, one of them offered  early on that she was very concerned about the future of women in business because there was such an unresolved issue of balancing having a family with having a career.  Not a new issue for sure, but yes, certainly still unresolved.

It was a beautiful opportunity for me in many ways.  During the Q and A time (I was sitting in the front row and my boss was moderating the panel), I stood up and told them that I was very glad they'd raised the issue and I was in agreement with them that it needed to be better addressed.  (I didn't explain my position as an academic advisor to MBA students, mainly because I didn't want to talk too long before getting to the point.  I do that a lot and I wanted to practice being more direct.)  I pointed out that nearly every other country in the world had addressed this quite effectively by having standardized, nationalized, paid parental leave in varying lengths.  Had they talked about this as a solution in the US and had they or would they consider taking a stand as an organization in support of national leave?

Well.  As an organizer, we used to evaluate the effectiveness of an action by the reaction it solicited.  And I sure got a reaction.

To be fair, I didn't actually think they would say yes.  But I thought there might be some debate or nuanced consideration.  Not so at all.  No! No! No! No!  And Absolutely Not!  The details behind their vehement no's were varied, but essentially all fell into the category of, "I don't want ANYONE telling me how to run my business, least of all the government!"  This was punctuated by pacing, finger pointing, raised voices, and well, a little bit of emotion, I'd say.

I had lots of thoughts about this, but I'll share just one at the moment.

The most vehement woman was in her 60s and a very high level person who'd been at ExxonMobil for many years.  She offered that having a child and having a career (and everything else in life) was completely about personal choice.  She offered that she had gone into her boss when she was pregnant and said, "If you can afford to give my colleagues two weeks off for vacation, you can afford to give me two weeks off to have my baby."  Her boss accepted her reasonable argument and gave her two weeks off to have her baby. 

Later on at the reception, this woman approached me (another point for Briana on the reaction tally) to say she appreciated my opinions even though we disagreed.  She said she was from Texas and Texans are very individualistic and independent.  I told her I was from Texas too, and gave her a big ol Texas gal grin.  I also offered that I was sure it had been difficult to go back to work two weeks after giving birth.  She cut me off in order to correct me -- no, it wasn't hard at all.  Not one bit.

Talk about reactions.  Hm.  I had one.  It was very internal, but maybe she saw it on my face or in my body -- I'm not sure.  It's not like I haven't heard people (e.g. Sarah Palin etc.) make such claims before.  But I felt so immediately sad, just deeply, deeply sad.  For her child?  For us who are supposed to look to this woman as a leader?  For society?  Yes, all those, but for her too.  Trust me, this lady didn't want me to feel sorry for her -- just the opposite, obviously.  But I did.  I felt so very sorry for her -- that the pain of that early, early separation from her child, of whatever pain had been there to make her feel that these were the personal choices available to her was so deeply buried as to be completely denied -- that's what made me so sad.

It's a big topic, this one, but like lots of social and political things, it's not really rocket science.  It's just that people who weild a lot of power in business believe it is their RIGHT to make decisions about everything and everyone in society.  I'm glad I took the opportunity to at least fight with my tongue and my mind.

Peace,
Briana

bee fear

Hi friends,

Oops!  I missed yesterday completely!  Very interesting how that happened.  Yesterday was generally a rotten day.

This past weekend while we were in Houston, Mallika started saying repeatedly, "I don't like Grandma and Grandpa's house.  I don't like it.  I don't like it."  Not surprisingly, this got her parents' attention.  I asked her some very open-ended questions and figured out that an experience some weeks ago is still troubling the little tyke.  When she is at her grandparents' house, she takes her nap on their bed in a very sweet little set-up of pillows, blankets, and dolls (and sometimes a pooped-out adult too).  Mid-nap one day, she was awakened by a bee that had gotten into the house and was buzzing noisily.  No sting, no fuss from Grandma, nada except something new and unexpected.  Apparently, though, something about it frightened or disturbed Mallika such that, all this time later, she is saying she doesn't like her grandparents' house.

We talked to her about her fear and about bees, but didn't say anything to her grandparents.  However, yesterday she was over there in the afternoon and had a hard time going to sleep and woke up a short time later and definitely before she was rested.  I didn't even really think about it, but when I was giving her a bath last night, I asked why she had such a short nap.  The answer?  "the bee."  Oh!!!  Of course!!!  Silly Amma!!!  So I called my parents, told them about the situation, and suggested that they make a little sleeping place for her in a different room.  My mom commented, "Well, it nearly broke my heart today when she came into my music room when she woke up and said, 'I want to go home.'"  I suggested that the bee memory was probably the reason why.  And today my dad set up a cute little bed on the floor with her blanket and a new book they got for her.  And my mom even covered up the electrical outlets on the wall next to the bed.  Thanks, Mom.

We'll see how things go.

Mostly, this has all been such fodder for reflection for me.  Mallika is rarely scared of anything -- fire and sirens being a couple exceptions -- and this is a first experience that I'm aware of of her being scared of something and that fear hanging around beyond the moment of experience.  But also, I'm calling it fear, and maybe it's not.  After all, a two-year old has a relatively limited vocabulary.  Fear or not, however, I have been so aware of my own reactions.  In many moments I have had the impulse to brush things off -- "oh, it's nothing" or "she'll get over it" or "it's no big deal".  And I've also thought, "she just needs to tough it out and deal with it" and variations thereof.  Initially, when she said she didn't like her grandparents' house, I also got panicky -- "why?! did something bad happen there?!"  Being present to and with a young person is just so instructive.  Here is a "dislike", here is an experience, here is a fear.  The child tells someone that she trusts.  The trusted person does something with what she hears.  And there are a lot of options for that "something" to be all kinds of things that reflect our adult conditioning.

That's why I like Mallika being in my life every day.  I learn so much how to be more human by being with her.

Peace,
Briana

religion

I want to finish that posting about food, but I've got religion on the mind at the moment.  Maybe some of you saw my facebook post today.  If not, here it is --

Out of the blue, my very spiritually inclined child started talking about the Virgin Mary last night. She told me Mary was in our house and that they were talking to each other. When I asked her what Mary was saying to her, she said she was telling her to stop sucking on her fingers!

Honestly, it was pretty hilarious, especially because until that moment, she'd had her fingers up near her mouth where they were kind-of inching their way in.  And it's also like a bit of a slap on the back of the head: am I really hearing what I'm hearing? 

Mallika says surprising stuff all the time, and lots of things that really impress me and tell me that she's got a very sophisticated understanding of what goes on around her.  But the spiritual heebeejeebees really make my hair stand on end at times.  She's said she's seen her Tata (Mohan's dad), which doesn't surprise me too much since my own experience has informed me that there was a direct passing of his spirit to hers.  (I haven't had too many of these very clearly "religious experiences" in life, but that was one of them.)  She also talks about Ganesha a lot, always wants her Appuchi to sing "the Ganesha song" over the phone to her, she insists on saying grace at dinner, and she wants to pray almost as often as she wants to read books or hold her dolls.  It's really something else. 

A few weeks ago she got out the Legos she received as a birthday present, made them into a little structure, placed a flower on the top, brought out her baby wash cloths and placed them on the floor in front, put another on her head, and finished up with velcroing a bib around her neck.  Then she stood on the washcloths and put her hands together in prayer!  We were falling over with laughter and amazement to see her immitation of the way her Appuchi prays.  Mind you, last time Appuchi was around for Mallika to observe her praying habits was almost five months ago! 

Also, completely unprompted by us, she long ago adopted the practice of putting holy ash not only on our foreheads (adults should really do that for children, if we were following traditional practices) but on the foreheads of all the deities on our home altar.  And we've got quite a pantheon -- Virgins of Guadalupe, generic Marys, Ganeshas, Buddhas, Baby Jesus, Lakshmi, Saraswathy, San Martin de Porres, and others.  She blesses them all!  Not only that, but she spends a lot of time exploring the details: Ganesha's mouse, the oil lamps in the corners of the pictures, Buddha's umbrella, etc.  In fact, we have two Buddhas, one with an umbrella and another without, and she is always super concerned about the bare-headed Buddha.  And go figure -- we had a long period of time when San Martin de Porres's NOSE was the object of her most concerned attentions and extra special blessings.

I do think my daughter has something special going on with the spirit world, which I find lovely and important and pretty cool.  A good friend recently reflected that she's come to the conclusion that our religious choices/preferences are indicative of what we need to learn in this lifetime.  Nothing more, nothing less.  So we naturally gravitate to the religion best suited for our particular needs (assuming we have the freedom to do so, of course). For me, being raised in the Catholic church was significantly more positive than negative, which largely explains my adult willingness to continue identifying and practicing as a Catholic.  And I also loved the grammar of the liturgy, the sacraments, and the prayers, not to mention the counter-hegemonic teachings about community, justice, and what it means to be human.  When I grew up, I started to see how much damage the church has done both to individuals I love and respect and, throughout history, to peoples, nations, other religions.  It's hard to look it in the face, for sure.

Mostly I just hope I can teach my daughter well and allow her to teach me too.  There's a lot to learn in life, whatever form or discipline or practice we pursue.

Peace,
Briana

short note

Hi, friends,

I just came across this very, very nice article by my friend Kathy Rowland -- "Ethan and Khairie, I Heart You."  I don't follow the Amazing Race, but for anyone who does (or did back in November), perhaps this has additional meaning beyond the already compelling way Kathy talks about being Malaysian.  Enjoy!

Also, I've noticed that I don't receive any comments on my posts, though many of you have mentioned to me that you're reading my blog.  It's just fine with me to not receive comments, but let me know if you're trying to comment and running into any technical problems.  Thanks.

Peace,
Briana

Houston

Hi friends,

This weekend Mohan, Mallika, and I went to Houston.  Mohan was presenting a paper at a conference and we took the opportunity to get out of town.  Travelling with a toddler always has its challenges, even though Mallika is a super trooper and very accommodating about being in the car, being off-schedule, etc.  LUCKY US.  Maybe the universe gave us a good traveller in order to balance out the poor eater -- we spend a lot of time and energy trying to get calories and nutrients into our girl.  Anyway, we booked a hotel through hotwire and we got a handicapped accessible room.  Nice to have a slightly different set-up than the typical hotel room and it was more spacious too.  However, having everything accessible to someone in a wheelchair also means having everything accessible to someone who's about three feet tall and also can climb and reach like a little monkey.  Craziness. Mohan kept asking me, "Briana, why did you give her ____ ?!?"  (ballpoint pen, hair dryer, lotion, coins, wallet, etc)  Usually, Ms. Mallika had availed herself of opportunities to get her hands on otherwise off-limits things.  But I admit that a couple of times I just gave her items that were less likely to harm her just to keep her away from things that were truly dangerous.  Oh, and the fact that hotel room doors automatically unlock when you open them from the inside?  Bad news for a toddler parent!  Soon after we arrived and Mohan was at his conference, we were playing hide and seek, I was hiding, Mallika was seeking, and I heard the door open and close.  Panic!  When I rushed out the door, however, I ran right into Mallika who was so stunned at having made her escape that she was just standing there looking down the long corridor.  It only now occurs to me that she had opened the door because she was looking for me.  After all, we were playing hide and seek.

One of the more memorable parts of the trip were our two trips to "Chinatown" on Bellaire Blvd in west Houston.  Driving from Hwy 59 on Friday night, the signage on the strip malls shifted completely to Chinese characters in the space of about two blocks and we found the shopping center up on the left.  The place was HOPPING!  Completely packed parking lot, two stories of shops in an enormous complex, neon and fluorescent lights all over the place, and a million people coming and going from eating establishments, karaoke clubs, cell phone shops, grocery stores, and bubble tea joints. 

I got so excited about feeling like I was back in Kuala Lumpur, I immediately started driving like I was too and, well, that didn't work out too well.  Hilarious.  Bellaire Blvd is something like an 8-lane but neighborhood road and the entrance to the shopping center has cross traffic and double left-turn lanes and about 80 million people trying to go every direction, complete with a lot of illegal maneuvers.  I was no exception.  Besides nearly getting into an accident, I ended up having to bypass our driveway (which was all Mohan's fault for yelling at me) and make the whole loop again.  More legally the second time.  Though I must say, following traffic laws also almost got us killed and got us honked at a lot more too.

Also typical to a KL Friday night dinner experience (where people DO NOT wait for Saturday night to really enjoy the weekend), it took us forever to find a parking place before finally arriving at The Banana Leaf Malaysian restaurant.  Yay!  A very small, quaint place with, not surprisingly, a bit of a wait.  We ended up in the back corner, but so happy and excited, it didn't matter.

We ordered roti canai, barbecue fish, hokkien noodles, and kankung belacan.  We nearly died of anticipation, but the enthusiastic restaurant noise kept us semi-conscious. 

So, in case you don't know already, food is the national pasttime of all Malaysians, and the Malaysian diaspora (including those of us who married in) is no exception.  There are many theories about why this is the case in addition to the obvious point that the food is SO DAMN GOOD how could you not talk about it all the time??  One theory is that Malaysians suffered so much during the Japanese Occupation during WWII and had to survive on nothing but sago and other roots and tubers that could escape detection by the Japanese that they're still coping with PTSD by eating as much good food as they can as often as they can.  Nice idea, but heck, a lot of people were occupied during WWII who still have horrible cuisine.  Another idea is that food is the one place where Malaysians are best able to live out a multicultural fantasy.  Though the reality can get dicey at times, particularly where pork and beef are concerned, it is pretty darn cool how everyone uses everyone else's culinary tricks and makes them their own.  And then sit down to share each others' food.  It's all the more substantial as the political reality between the races becomes increasingly divisive, ugly, and violent.

Anyway, so much reflecting on food without actually talking about The Food.

However, this has gone on too too long today, so I'll have to continue tomorrow.  Till then --

Peace,
Briana

Japan

Hi friends,

To tell you the truth, right now I am so terrified, so sad, so angry, but mostly terrified because of what is going on in Japan.  My brain keeps trying to comfort me with all kinds of strategies.  But the fear just comes bubbling back up.  I just feel like our planet and our human existence is so threatened by all these human-made horrors.  I'm thinking principally of the nuclear plants, but also all the violence and weapons being used against people in Libya and so many other parts of the world.  It becomes easy to hate oneself for being human.  How can we do such horrible things to ourselves and one another and to the earth?  It really is overwhelming me right now as I look at Mallika's beautiful smiling face in her school photograph.  If we were living in Japan, I would be so angry right now.  Because we live here, I'm more scared and sad.  I don't know if these emotions do anything to help anything, but I do know that they're here in the room with me as much as the oxygen is -- breathing in, breathing out.  Fear and sadness, fear and anger, fear.  And the fear makes me want someone to blame.

Maybe it's just the news that I happen to catch, but I've noticed so much coverage and so many images of nuclear power plants.  Not really so many of people.  In contrast, I remember lots of images of crushed houses and more domestic things and crying, suffering people during the Haiti earthquake.  I recognize that there was no nuclear meltdown threat going on in Haiti, but that's not the whole story.

I've been thinking a lot about Werllayne Nunes's artist's statement at his show last week where he talked about how poor people of color from the global south rarely get depicted as joyful.  His art does a wonderful, powerful job of countering that important fact.

I also read a friend's facebook post yesterday with a CNN blog about why it is that Japanese aren't looting.  The blogger (Cafferty) published a lot of random people's speculations about the explanation for this phenomenon, and my friend also posted on fb that she thought we in the US had a thing or two to learn from Japan.  I kind-of had to wonder what those one or two things were -- that next time we have a natural disaster we should replace all the Black people with Japanese?  She didn't specify, but given the bloggers' contributors' comments, it's not too hard to reach that conclusion.  Read on...

"Unlike our Katrina disaster, the Japanese don't see this as an opportunity to steal everything in sight. The so-called civilized world can learn much from the stoic Japanese."

"The people of Japan love their country and do what is best for the nation, unlike the United States where we love our country and do what is best for ourselves."

"The Japanese are resourceful, innovative and disciplined people with a great sense of national pride. While they also have criminals and felons, it is not quite in comparison to the sleaze balls we have in our streets. It was disgusting to watch these scum bags loot stores in New Orleans during Katrina when they should have helped their fellow citizens in need. While watching the devastation in Japan is heart wrenching, it is so refreshing to see the civility of people within the calamity they are facing."

And my very favorite:  "Personally, I've always thought it's because they're a more highly evolved race."

When people don't know shit and when they're scared, they look for order, for explanations that make sense to them, for scapegoats. (I'm included in this "people" category too, BTW.)  And all it takes is a little scratch for the rabid racism to come spewing out.  I've seen it happen too many times to count, and this seems to be no different.

Before I sign off, I'll say that I've found yet another cultural anthropologist that I like -- Keibo Oiwa, who has founded the Sloth Movement.  I like.

Peace (and stay alive while you're at it),
Briana

P.S. I'll be traveling tomorrow, so no new post until Monday.

books

Hi there,

OK, I'm ditching the working parents topic.  Too burdensome, no fun, and no energy today to pursue it.  Suffice to say that we're in a particular moment where the burden of having kids and earning a living falls almost entirely to individual parents and to the individuals who love and support them.  One sentence is all this subject gets today.

Much more fun and exciting is that Mohan, Mallika, and I visited the CHILDREN'S section of the Perry-Castaneda Library today!  PCL is a humongous library at UT Austin and has a stupendous collection of books -- one of the best in the country.  It's across the street from my office, and less than ten minutes walk from our apartment.  But until today, I never knew they had children's books.  Not only that, but they have children's books from around the world.  So very exciting!

At lunchtime, I ate my chicken curry, rice, and saag while listening to Mohan read "Under the Banyan Tree -- A Tale from Tamil Nadu" to Mallika.  Even the very beginning was so wonderous.  Muthu and Selvi live in a banyan tree with their eleven children -- Muthu writes plays and Selvi cleans houses.  Whenever Muthu earns a little money, someone borrows it. 

What a radically different and stupendous start for a children's book than what we get in the US!  And it continues throughout the whole story.  The rich people don't turn out to be good, the poor people don't get rich (but they do get fed), good fortune gets shared liberally, the common sense of the public is wrong, and the helpful spirits get acknowledged and thanked.  What a relief to read a story with a different milieu!

My sense is that a lot of people in the US, even people of color, don't get what all the hullaballoo is with the multiculti stuff for kids.  Everyone is always (or usually) happy to sing songs, share "ethnic costumes", and, of course, eat "exotic" food.  But when it's inconvenient or definitely when it challenges the status quo, things can get very hairy super fast.

When I was listening to Mohan read this story to Mallika, it felt like: here is another world, a differently oriented world, a world that is also hers, a world to enjoy and participate in.  When there aren't books -- or food or smells or people or customs or languages or communities or institutions or music or movies -- that are available to people, these other worlds just wither, fade, and die out from being part of our existence.

In the book, there was a bit about how the tree spirits came and oiled the children's hair and gave them crisp, new clothes.  Mohan added in an editorial comment that the children's mother didn't make them wash the oil out of their hair in less than 24 hours.  Fair enough, that comment.  Putting oil -- coconut or olive -- in your hair is a very old and very beautiful south Asian custom and something that Mohan does for Mallika on a regular basis.  For me, who grew up with very fine, very oily hair, and who always felt kind-of white-trashy about it, as well as without this particular tradition of hair care, I have a difficult time liking the way Mallika's hair looks when it has a lot of oil in it.  I've suggested to Mohan that this practice makes more sense for people who have thick, dry, or curly hair hair.  But that doesn't mean it makes no sense for Mallika whose hair is thin, occasionally dry, and only vaguely wavy.  It does, however, mean that it's a point of tension, even if that tension mostly is able to stay in check.

I realize that all parents have tensions about their kids -- one parent likes the frilly pink stuff, the other wants bold colors and sneakers; one parent thinks a strict bedtime is crucial, the other finds it oppressive and unpleasant.  All of these kinds of things are normal and all of them create tension, and much of it is healthy tension.  But in a mixed relationship, I find that these tensions arise a lot around "cultural" practices and when the dynmic is white/non-white, it's very easy for the white to reign supreme.  That's what I understand white supremacy to mean and it's not something I want to practice in my house with my child.  So, though it's not fully and easily resolved, Mohan oils Mallika's hair, I actively work on liking how it looks, and focus on how much love and pride goes into this papa/daughter ritual.

Peace,
Briana

working parents

One of the things I enjoy and appreciate about being the age that I am is the bigger perspective it affords.  It feels like there's just enough years spent on the earth that I can start to see more of the landscape of where I am in it all.  They say that developmentally, that's one of the most dramatic things about children -- that from birth onwards, they are learning more and more about the world around them and their place in it.  Differentiation.  And it IS really cool to observe.  They go from not even really being able to distinguish "me" from "milk" (it's just "need" and "now") to all of a sudden being able to put on their shoes and ask to go outside.  Though it's not as dramatic later in life, I find the same process continues.  My landscape now includes a lot more history and politics than it used to, and this includes the subject of being a working parent.

Now anyone who has been a parent or ever read anything about parenting has some knowledge that ALL parents work simply because parenting is a lot of work all the time.  Like any other job, different people throw more or less of themselves into the experience, whether because of choice or circumstance or a combination of the two.  But it's work no matter what, no question at all.

What I find very interesting is how parenting fits in right now with work for pay and/or work outside the home.  I've read a fair bit about the topic, and certainly talked to a number of people about it, thought about it, and, of course, struggled with it both philosophically and practically.  It's really an enormous topic.  I'm tired just thinking about it.  And not too sure what I want to say.

And actually, I've been writing for nearly 15 minutes, so I think I'll reflect on this until tomorrow and then continue.

In the meantime, I fear to imagine what I would be going through right now if I lived in Japan.  What a nightmare.  Sending them my thoughts and prayers.

Peace,
Briana

where you live

Last night I had occassion to remember again how significant "place" is in building a life -- as a couple, as a family, for a child.  It was a long time ago now, but I do remember, way back when, the very clear sense that living in Mohan's context  --  in Malaysia -- was absolutely crucial to us staying together as a couple.  It may well be that many couples that are international or intercultural don't feel so strongly about this, about living in the other person's culture, but it was really important for us.  Partly, it was because of our own priorities and personalities.  However, it was also because there was a whole bigger dimension of the questions "Who is this person and why don't I understand them???" than just the Mars and Venus dynamic.  Anyway, it's true that, after nearly five years in Malaysia, I did understand Mohan much better because I had daily, first-hand experience of the people and places that had shaped him.  I'm so thankful for that knowledge and also for the myriad ways it also made, and makes, me the person that I am now.

It's easy to forget, though, how much we live an "American" life now.  I should be specific.  It's easy for ME to forget.  I think it's impossible for Mohan.  There is the familiarity that is forever familiar because it's what I knew first in my life and it is therefore still familiar to me.  And also, there is a lot of value in living and investing in wherever you are now.  But when that here and now is largely oblivious to and ignorant of the place that is correspondingly familiar to my partner, it ups the ante for me to take on more personal responsibility.  I don't know if that's the way to put it -- it sounds like Ronald Reagan is talking to me.  So, axe that personal responsibility crap. 

I guess I was remembering what it's like to walk the streets in Kuala Lumpur -- in Brickfields, in SS3, in Federal Hill.  None of those places have references for most of you, I know -- you'd have more of something to imagine if I said Buenos Aires or the French Quarter or the mountains of Tibet.  I was thinking about how I could describe the way the streets in Brickfields smell and, well, it just seemed so stilted and impossible.  Half the things that I could identify -- cooking oil, chicken curry, jasmine flowers, turmeric, diesel fumes, teh tarik, holy ash, rice, sambal belacan -- are just a very small part of what makes the experience of walking down the street.  Even the sunshine and the drains and the trash and the blooming trees have their own smells.  And the memory of those streets are as strong and as easy as if I could walk there right now, as close as my own apartment is to me now.  But when I think that Mallika has never been there to see or hear or smell that experience or any other one at all in Malaysia, my chest siezes and I get panicky.  If I don't take her NOW, she will grow into one of those horrible, irritating American kids who thinks their dad's home country is dirty, stupid, and backward.  Yes, I do worry about that.  But more immediatley, it's also that I want her to know and love that place too, so that it is as familiar to her in the rest of life as Shoal Creek and tortillas and pecan trees are to her now.  Every day that we're here, we are not there.  Most days, that's just fine, just a fact of life.  But sometimes it breaks my heart.

blue eyes

Like all parents, before my baby was born, I wondered what she would look like -- imagined it, fantasized about it, allowed myself to get lost in reveries of little fingers and toes and eyes and nose, amazed that my growing stomach would actually turn into a human child.  (Who could have thought up a more bizarre science fiction concept?)  I wondered if she would look like me or her dad or one of her grandparents or aunts or uncles or like none of us.  And I certainly wondered, often aloud with Mohan, what skin color she might have and how we and others would respond to and treat her depending on her lightness, darkness or in-between-ness.

What I don't think I ever imagined, however, was that my child would end up with blue eyes!  Leave it to the universe to not only constantly surprise me, but to sock it to me with challenges I never would have thought to consider.

Most of you reading this blog have met Mallika in person and you know that her eyes are indeed very striking.  When she looks at you, there is an engagement and a focus that's hard to deny, and many people point to the color of her eyes as the source of this power.  They are striking, they are beautiful, and they add a whole different dimension to her being a mixed-race girl and my parenting of her that strives to be anti-racist.

It's just a little bit, or a lot bit, of a conundrum.  With friends, particularly ones whose politics I share, it's pretty comfortable to just say yes, her eyes are beautiful, and isn't it funny they came out blue?  But even so, I am often aware, especially when there are other children around, that other kids don't frequently receive the kind of complimentary attention Mallika does.  Even if they don't have beautiful eyes, sometimes their hair is gorgeous or their smile is shining or their laugh infectious...  And sometimes their eyes are beautiful.  But brown.  It's just a delicate -- not fragile, but delicate -- balance to maintain in which I honestly recognize a beautiful feature of my daughter and don't deny or minimize it while also striving to honor, comment on, and draw attention to the wonderful physical attributes of other kids.  And the physicality IS important, especially when it comes to race.  Racialized features + young girls = a potent mix.  Sure, I also make it a point to do a lot of positive reinforcement with kids of things like skills, abilities, behavior, character.  But how you look DOES matter and matters a lot, and I feel it's important for me to do what I can to help create a context for kids that doesn't ignore that social reality.  And it's also important to me to valorize physical features that aren't associated with whiteness.

The moments that are viscerally uncomfortable, however, more often are with strangers, but perhaps I'll write about that on a different day.  There's weird crap that comes out when people interact with kids, and people's interactions with my kid are no exception.

On a related note, I have to say I really like how Mohan has handled this eye color thing.  Many women in similar situations have had their husbands/partners question who the baby's father is and/or left them high and dry to raise the baby on their own.  Thank god I never even had to worry about that. I have actually learned a lot about how to handle the blue-eyed thing from Mohan's good-humored approach.  In response to people saying things like, "Where did she get those eyes?!?", he's said things like, "Oh, probably some Portuguese hanky-panky with the Tamils back when they colonized Sri Lanka."  (16th century, before the Dutch, before the British.)  Or even just, "Hey, it's just a great irony of life and my anti-racist politics to have a blue-eyed Tamil daughter!" 

I don't know if it was my intelligence, my intuition, or my good fortune to have chosen such a great husband.  Or maybe I just fell in love with his eyes. 

Peace,
Briana

post-partum dream

Hi friends,

Wow.  I had not expected the momentous outpouring of love I've received from you in response to this project!  It totally feels like I walked into a room of all my favorite people from all different areas of my life and received a million smiles and hugs all at one go.  Thank you so much for the gift of loving encouragement.  It makes me really aware of how fortunate I am to have such wonderful people to share my life with.

And it also makes me all the more able to enter the space of vulnerability needed for writing.

I'm going to get myself a cup of coffee and then launch in!  ;)


Opposite my desk (I work in an MBA program, mind you!) I have a poster that I've had for many years that I still love and look at every day.  It has a photograph of Audre Lorde, hands raised, gaze slightly up, and a smile on her lips.  The quote says, "When I dare to be powerful -- to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid."

I also remember the writing advice, perhaps from Natalie Goldberg: "Go for the jugular."

Plus, at this stage in life, time's a wasting!

(oh, hilarious.  Ready to write now and I get a call from Germany, a call from Mallika's pediatrician, and a call from China all in a row!  There are drawbacks to writing while at work.)

The political and physical dimensions of race and racism shifted to a very different level for me with Mallika's birth.  She was born just two weeks after Obama's inauguration, which had been such an amazing and hopeful moment.  On inauguration day, I remember going over to the Center for African and African-American Studies to watch the ceremonies on TV with a group of people.  While there, I felt my place in history so distinctly -- so many things that had happened to me in my individual life and all the forces, decades and centuries old, that proceeded my sitting there with my enormous stomach, carrying my mixed-race child, and watching and listening while a mixed-race Black man became president. 

However, the significance of Obama's election took on a different dimension when Mallika was born. 

I was still in the hospital and recovering from the incrdulousness that after labor and delivery, there was still more to do -- what? a crying, hungry baby??!! where's my well-deserved nap??!!  I hadn't slept more than maybe 15 minutes at a stretch in at least 24 hours, but when I was finally able to really SLEEP,  I had a very powerful and disturbing dream.

In this dream, I was living and working with a group of people, a small group of people, of all different racial backgrounds, though most of us were young.  We were living in a very bounded space -- somewhat like an office or an office with cubicles.  It was very clear to all of us that this space and our lives within it were very, very vulnerable.  We had to be constantly vigilant, watching for threats all the time, working in shifts to keep doing our work while also protecting our little community.  In fact, as Mohan helpfully observed, it was very much like in the Matrix!  We all knew we were fighting every moment of every day to keep ourselves and each other together.  What was very striking, however, was that even though we knew that we would "lose" people to the outside forces, there was no sense that these losses would be betrayals.  We all fully understood that the pressures we were facing were shared by all and that we were all doing everything in our power to keep ourselves and each other together.

So, we were used to being under siege and having to confront all kinds of threats all the time -- our foes were very strong, very smart, very strategic, and ever-present. 

What happened in the dream is that I received a package addressed to me.  It was a very large, padded manila envelope, addressed to me in somewhat hurried, all-caps handwriting.  I knew that I had to open it and, when I did, I found, to my horror, that it contained a human leg.  And not just any leg.  It was the skin of Obama's leg, and it had been stuffed with ground-up Obama, like a sausage.  They had killed him just to be able to send me this horrifying message: if I was going to celebrate the "mixing" of races, they were going to let me know how much power they had to destroy mixed race people, including the President of the United States.   I held this leg and mourned for the space of a breath the disgusting violence enacted on this man who, after all he had lived, had become yet another victim of violence.  I knew that "they" could see me, though, and they knew exactly how this piece of gory hate mail would effect me.  I also understood that, though I wanted to scream and vomit, it was absolutely essential to take a deep breath, put the leg down, and carry on as if nothing had happened.

I awoke then, and cried out for Mohan who was sleeping on a couch in the hospital room with me.  He came and held me while I sobbed uncontrollably and I tried to tell him about the dream and how disgusting, horrifying, and terrorizing it was.  A nurse heard me and came to check that I was OK -- I must have sounded like a crazy lady.  But perhaps new mothers go through similar emotional or psychological experiences post-partum more often than I'm aware.

I'm sure there are many interprettations of this dream, but what I felt very clearly has stayed with me ever since:  that racial violence is ever-present and that, in giving birth to Mallika, I now occupy a different place in society, a place that requires a certain type and amount of vigilance to protect myself and the people I love.

Writing about this now, I reflect on the fact that, in my dream, silence and carrying on as if nothing had happened was the response I clearly felt was my only option.  Sometimes this may be true, especially when oppression is at its greatest.  But perhaps my waking reality offers the possibility of other responses.

Peace,
Briana

Ash Wednesday thoughts

Hello!

For those of you who aren't familiar with the Christian calendar, Lent is a holy period of forty days prior to the Easter triduum.  The Easter Triduum is Good Friday -- when Jesus was crucified; Saturday -- grief and despair; and Sunday -- when Jesus rose from the dead.  The forty day period of Lent invites Christians to return to their faith through prayer, fasting, reflection, etc in preparation for Easter.  It's forty days because Jesus spent forty days in the desert, praying, fasting, and confronting multiple temptations.

Anyway, that's just a quick summary for those who don't know and wondered.  Some of you may also not know that I'm Catholic, though I also claim to be part of the "loyal opposition" to the Church.  If you're reading this, you know me well enough to know that I have a number of problems with the Catholic church.  Maybe I'll get into some of that, maybe not -- time will tell.  But suffice to say that I enjoy the liturgical calendar and how it helps guide me in life.

So, after thinking in the last day about this writing and about sharing it with you, what I most want to write about is being a parent, particularly being the white, American mother of a mixed-race (and mixed just-about-everything) child.  Parenting is serious business.  Race is serious business.  And a lot of my conscious and subconscious time is occupied by these issues, and I think writing about them would be good for me.  Not like taking my vitamins or eating my green veggies good-for-me.  Just good for me.  More like exercising, eating good food, having good sex, or getting a good night's sleep good-for-me. 

Also, I remember way back in the previous century when Mohan and I first started dating and immediately ran into major issues around race and racism.  I remember running to the college library one Sunday morning and frantically using all my research skills (which included card catalogs and large, vinyl-bound volumes -- yes, I am indeed that old) to try to find something about interracial relationships.  I was desperate and knew I needed guidance from some trusted advisors, i.e. books.  I was livid that I didn't immediately find things that were relevant.  But over the years, many people, as well as books, journals, magazines, and yes, even blogs, have helped address some of those questions and difficulties.  I especially remember one large book I found in a second-hand store in 1995 that was a collection of racial autobiographies.  Some of the people featured there are still writers I come across or seek out, and I remember feeling that these individuals, with their lovely black-and-white photos and their thoughtful words, were part of a community I needed.

To be perfectly frank, that was something like sixteen years ago.  A LOT has happened since then, I have learned a lot, including from many of you.  And, like most knowledge, I also now have some vague sense of how much I don't know and still very much need to understand.  There are many ways to learn.  Writing is one of them.

More tomorrow.

Peace,
Briana

P.S.  I found the book mentioned above: Names We Call Home: Autobiography on Racial Identity by Becky Thompson and Sangeeta Tyagi.

Fat Tuesday

Hi friends!

Today is Mardi Gras and, silly me, I just learned that Mardi Gras actually MEANS "Fat Tuesday" -- ha ha!  I've got New Orleans jazz on the pandora and had pancakes (wheat-free) for lunch along with some homemade apple blueberry sauce.  It's nice to celebrate.

On the way to work I was reflecting on a blog that a friend just started and also on the experience of sharing my writing about becoming a new mom.  The thought wafted through my little brain as I was waiting for the "walk" sign that maybe Lent would be a good time to start my own blog about all the subjects under the sun that I think about and sometimes want to share.

By the time the "walk" sign changed, I decided to follow that wafting thought, if for no other reason than I normally wouldn't follow through.  After all, Lent is a time for reflection and writing seems an entirely appropriate way to reflect.

There is also discipline to Lenten practice, and my discipline is to write for at least 15 minutes each day (for the 40 days of Lent) Monday through Friday on this blog.  I'll do it at work, since I love to find small and big ways to jab back at the capitalist machine, and also since I used to (with permission) pump breast milk for 20 minutes  each morning and afternoon while at work and it didn't hurt my productivity one bit. 
And also because, if you want change in your life, walk into it.

I look forward to sharing with you and invite comments, feedback, conversation.

Peace,
Briana