So.... Manoj has indicated he is interested in getting the US citizenship. Woot! I am happily researching the process and SO excited for this. I have been asking him for YEARS about this but for a variety of reasons, he hasn't expressed interest.
Predictability, Team Chaos had opinions about the matter.
Me: Daddy's going to become an American, Anju!
Anjali: NO!!!!
Me: Why not?
Anjali: Because I want him to still catch us.
Me: Um, Daddy will still play tag with you even if he is American.
Later......
Me: Daddy going to become an American, Arun! What do you think about that?
Arun: Will he become White? Because I like him better when he is Brown.
Me: Um, Americans come in all colors. It doesn't matter what color you are, anyone can become an American.
We're living the Dream over here, folks.
Showing posts with label Mixed Pickle Marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mixed Pickle Marriage. Show all posts
May 24, 2012
May 21, 2012
Sensitivity Training, We Needz It
Scenes From a Car, Somewhere Deep in the Heart of the Soul-Sucking Suburbs Of Olathe KS
Manoj: So did you hear the news that more minority babies were born than majority babies last year? Your clan is losing power.
Me: Whatever. Besides, you're in the same boat -- your clan is getting diluted.
Manoj: What?
Me: Yeah, you're Real Brown, but all these Fake Browns popping up all over the place are going to take over.
(I gesture pointedly toward our own little mixed pickle in the backseat. She is sometimes known as "Anjali".)
Manoj: Seriously, you're losing your White power.
Me: Yeah, and you pledged your troth to a White girl. Be careful of what you say.
(At this point, I realize that apparently, I've been reading WAY too many romance novels. Fortunately, Manoj doesn't notice my dorky use of language. Which is why I had to marry him, of course. )
Manoj (laughing): Yeah, that's true.
(Manoj pulls into the parking lot of the Mexican panadería. We are going to a Mexican couple's house for dinner and in Manoj's mind, we should take Mexican pastries to a Mexican couple's house. Keeping in mind, the Mexican couple is serving NON-Mexican pasta and pizza for dinner. IT ALL MAKES PERFECT SENSE, AMIRIGHT?)
Manoj (speaking to Anjali's friend in the backseat): Stella, do you want to go to a cool place that sells cheesecake? It's a Hispanic place. Do you know what "Hispanic" means?
Stella (Hesitantly): Um....no??
Manoj: It's Brown People.
Stella: Um.... okay??
Anjali: My daddy is from INDIA but he likes Kung Fu Pao chicken which is from CHINA. It's CHINESE food.
**********
Manoj parks the car and then takes the girls into the panadería for some pay de queso and other pastries. I opt to stay in the car and immediately pull out my Moleskine and my pen so I can frantically scribble what just happened because holy cow, that was one conversation that needed to be recorded for posterity, future therapy or, in a pinch, lawsuits.
Manoj: So did you hear the news that more minority babies were born than majority babies last year? Your clan is losing power.
Me: Whatever. Besides, you're in the same boat -- your clan is getting diluted.
Manoj: What?
Me: Yeah, you're Real Brown, but all these Fake Browns popping up all over the place are going to take over.
(I gesture pointedly toward our own little mixed pickle in the backseat. She is sometimes known as "Anjali".)
Manoj: Seriously, you're losing your White power.
Me: Yeah, and you pledged your troth to a White girl. Be careful of what you say.
(At this point, I realize that apparently, I've been reading WAY too many romance novels. Fortunately, Manoj doesn't notice my dorky use of language. Which is why I had to marry him, of course. )
Manoj (laughing): Yeah, that's true.
(Manoj pulls into the parking lot of the Mexican panadería. We are going to a Mexican couple's house for dinner and in Manoj's mind, we should take Mexican pastries to a Mexican couple's house. Keeping in mind, the Mexican couple is serving NON-Mexican pasta and pizza for dinner. IT ALL MAKES PERFECT SENSE, AMIRIGHT?)
Manoj (speaking to Anjali's friend in the backseat): Stella, do you want to go to a cool place that sells cheesecake? It's a Hispanic place. Do you know what "Hispanic" means?
Stella (Hesitantly): Um....no??
Manoj: It's Brown People.
Stella: Um.... okay??
Anjali: My daddy is from INDIA but he likes Kung Fu Pao chicken which is from CHINA. It's CHINESE food.
**********
Manoj parks the car and then takes the girls into the panadería for some pay de queso and other pastries. I opt to stay in the car and immediately pull out my Moleskine and my pen so I can frantically scribble what just happened because holy cow, that was one conversation that needed to be recorded for posterity, future therapy or, in a pinch, lawsuits.
September 14, 2011
Paint Box
Pink Floyd, Relics 1973
I have mentioned in a long ago post, Love, American Style, that my Indian is a Special one (and he's mine, can you believe it?) He is a Syrian Christian Malayalee, born and raised all over the state of Kerala. He came to America to build a new life and has worked his ass off toward that goal. And unapologetically so. He is not particularly sentimental about his heritage -- after all, he IS Indian, there is nothing that can really be changed about that and there is certainly nothing to be proved.
We are both adamant that our children are 100% American and in Any Colour You Like, I wrote about we also actively discuss skin color (I have found that for some folks that is Too Much Talk, for others, that is Not Enough Talk. Unlike Charlie Sheen, I NEVER WIN.) For all the cynicism and politically driven separations currently in our country, we do love living here and fully intend for this to our home. And in that sweet, precious idea of what it means to be American, there is a place for my husband. He can be both Indian and he can be American (someday!)
With Manoj having a Catholic background, I struggle with the figuring out what to celebrate culturally in light of what is archetypically "Indian". Diwali holds few emotions for him. The same goes for Holi. Those are Hindu festivals and while he did join in the celebrations as a kid with his friends, they were not something that his family actively celebrated. Once, he mentioned that what he loved most about Diwali and Holi was that he got out of school for the day (which leads me to ponder if this is not how Jewish folks feel about Christmas in America.)
However, in Kerala, there is festival in the fall that is uniquely Keralite and seems to transcends religion. It is called Onam and it celebrates the harvest.
While I doubt that we will be hosting snakeboat races in the backwaters of our jacuzzi tub, parading elephants on our sidewalk, or busting some kathakali moves in our living room, it did seem that even this here White Girl could muster up the skills needed in order to create a pookalam. A pookalam is essentially a carpet of flowers that you arrange in front of your house. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing.
Gentle Reader, has that stopped me yet? .
First, I drew an awkward, lopsided decoration with sidewalk chalk.
Emphasis on the "lopsided".
Then, I bought a dozen roses from the grocery store and pilfered a flower arrangement left over from my sister Maureen's wedding.
In Grand White Trash Tradition that would make my daddy proud, I realized as I was posting this snap that Arun was NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR in this photo. A quick photocrop later and the authorities were thwarted. Yet again.
I have mentioned in a long ago post, Love, American Style, that my Indian is a Special one (and he's mine, can you believe it?) He is a Syrian Christian Malayalee, born and raised all over the state of Kerala. He came to America to build a new life and has worked his ass off toward that goal. And unapologetically so. He is not particularly sentimental about his heritage -- after all, he IS Indian, there is nothing that can really be changed about that and there is certainly nothing to be proved.
We are both adamant that our children are 100% American and in Any Colour You Like, I wrote about we also actively discuss skin color (I have found that for some folks that is Too Much Talk, for others, that is Not Enough Talk. Unlike Charlie Sheen, I NEVER WIN.) For all the cynicism and politically driven separations currently in our country, we do love living here and fully intend for this to our home. And in that sweet, precious idea of what it means to be American, there is a place for my husband. He can be both Indian and he can be American (someday!)
With Manoj having a Catholic background, I struggle with the figuring out what to celebrate culturally in light of what is archetypically "Indian". Diwali holds few emotions for him. The same goes for Holi. Those are Hindu festivals and while he did join in the celebrations as a kid with his friends, they were not something that his family actively celebrated. Once, he mentioned that what he loved most about Diwali and Holi was that he got out of school for the day (which leads me to ponder if this is not how Jewish folks feel about Christmas in America.)
However, in Kerala, there is festival in the fall that is uniquely Keralite and seems to transcends religion. It is called Onam and it celebrates the harvest.
While I doubt that we will be hosting snakeboat races in the backwaters of our jacuzzi tub, parading elephants on our sidewalk, or busting some kathakali moves in our living room, it did seem that even this here White Girl could muster up the skills needed in order to create a pookalam. A pookalam is essentially a carpet of flowers that you arrange in front of your house. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing.
Gentle Reader, has that stopped me yet? .
First, I drew an awkward, lopsided decoration with sidewalk chalk.
Emphasis on the "lopsided".
Then, I bought a dozen roses from the grocery store and pilfered a flower arrangement left over from my sister Maureen's wedding.
In Grand White Trash Tradition that would make my daddy proud, I realized as I was posting this snap that Arun was NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR in this photo. A quick photocrop later and the authorities were thwarted. Yet again.
We laid out the flower petals according to the design.
Unfortunately, we ran out of flowers. The nearby Rose of Sharon was quickly relieved of some leaves and flowers. Fortunately, it did not complain.
Overall, it was so much fun doing this with this Arun and Anjali. Next year, we will buy far more flowers, but we will definitely still include the Rose of Sharon. I loved that we used flowers from our own yard.
As we worked on the pookalam, Arun excitedly exclaimed, "I'm half-Indian today!" And I told him, "You're half-Indian every day. But you are 100% American. You can be BOTH. Isn't that cool?"
His beaming smile said it all.
As we worked on the pookalam, Arun excitedly exclaimed, "I'm half-Indian today!" And I told him, "You're half-Indian every day. But you are 100% American. You can be BOTH. Isn't that cool?"
His beaming smile said it all.
January 13, 2011
When the Tigers Broke Free
Pink Floyd, The Final Cut 1983
Listen up, yesterday's post was tongue-in-cheek -- a sarcastic romp via a superhighway of parody. If you would like to read an actual thought-provoking response to the Amy Chua article, then I highly recommend poking over into Faiqa's place, where she talks about her own experiences growing up in a household set with high expectations.
Do I think all Indian men are spoiling their kids rotten? Nope. Do I know a mega ton of Indian parents who have spoiled their children in the early years, only to crack the educational and behavioral whip in the later years? You betcha. And that was sort of my point. Kind of.
Yes, it is true that I believe Manoj to be way too lenient with our kids. It is most certainly true that he rolled his eyes at Arun's chore chart and that he snorts (with vigor!) at my suggestion we get Arun on a soccer team. We do disagree a bit about how best to raise our kids, but we find our common ground. The chore chart still hangs, whereas Arun has yet to join a soccer team (and probably never will, because we agree it would be fun, albeit not important.) However, I would not be surprised if later on, my kids are shocked to learn that their IIT, Ivy League educated father will not back down when it comes to academic achievement. Will an "A-" or a "B" be good enough for Manoj? Time will tell.
Better enjoy those raw sugar packs now, kiddies. The end is nigh.
Some of Amy Chua's article did not surprise me - I went through a "Chinese author" spate of reading a few years back and have read everything Amy Tan has written, in addition to some other Chinese authors. Kitchen God's Wife, anyone? Her descriptions of Chinese Mothering were fairly spot on, from what I have read in the past.
However, a few things DID surprise me about Amy Chua's article. First, I knew Chua from a previous book, World on Fire so I was mildly surprised to see a professional such as herself reveal such personal, intimate details of her parenting style, perhaps not realizing how awful some of them would make her appear. Or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point, to stir controversy.
I was also surprised to the extent with which her husband disagreed with her, yet she still continued when some of her actions. Yikes.
And while I was not surprised at the blanket outrage towards the article, I was surprised how few folks gave any credence whatsoever towards some of the things Chua had to say. In fact, Faiqa's post is incredibly valuable in this because she does validate, in part, a small piece of what Chua was trying to achieve while still expressing concern in Chua's method of delivery. And one important bit really concerned me - all parents do not want the same things for their children. I know some folks truly believe that participating in a sport activity is critical to their child's development (personally, I do not.) Also, I read a blogger who is going to pack her kids up in an RV for a year and travel the country. While I am actually excited to read about their adventures, I would not want this for my own children. However, I do not judge her for this because those are her children and she wants different things for them. Different does not mean wrong.
Or superior, for that matter.
When Manoj and I argue about disciplining our kids, he asks me "Why are you so hard on them?" My answer is ALWAYS this:
"Because if I don't expect 100% from them, no one else will. No one else cares about their success like I do."
Oh sure, my kids will come across teachers here and there who form a vested interest in their success, but seriously - the world at large will not weep too many tears if my kids end up academic and/or professional failures.
I do not talk about my paternal grandmother much here. I really should, because most of my readers have no idea how incredibly central she has been (and still is) to my life. She spoiled us with toys and clothes when we were young, but she had strict behavioral and academic standards -- we were expected to follow them. She also helped pay for part of our college education, so there were some financial strings attached as well (which was absolutely fair because it was HER money.) Growing up and through my 20s, I desperately wanted her approval and I never felt like I got it. Finally, when I was 30, I understood. She loved me but I had to accept the fact that I would never completely be the sort of person she wanted me to be. And that it was okay because she still loved me. Now that I am older, I appreciate that she did not coddle me and tell me something was okay, when it really was not.
Most importantly, I also appreciate that she was my grandmother, which is a slightly removed relationship from a parent. I cannot imagine living in that sort of environment with a parent.
Chua's article (and book? which I will never read) provides some good topics for discussion, I wish more folks would loosen their defenses, hop off the mind-numbing bandwagon, and really think.
Okay, I need to publish this and get back to work. This Prairie Dog Mother really needs to research how to get past Mugley's Mound in Donkey Kong Country.
Listen up, yesterday's post was tongue-in-cheek -- a sarcastic romp via a superhighway of parody. If you would like to read an actual thought-provoking response to the Amy Chua article, then I highly recommend poking over into Faiqa's place, where she talks about her own experiences growing up in a household set with high expectations.
Do I think all Indian men are spoiling their kids rotten? Nope. Do I know a mega ton of Indian parents who have spoiled their children in the early years, only to crack the educational and behavioral whip in the later years? You betcha. And that was sort of my point. Kind of.
Yes, it is true that I believe Manoj to be way too lenient with our kids. It is most certainly true that he rolled his eyes at Arun's chore chart and that he snorts (with vigor!) at my suggestion we get Arun on a soccer team. We do disagree a bit about how best to raise our kids, but we find our common ground. The chore chart still hangs, whereas Arun has yet to join a soccer team (and probably never will, because we agree it would be fun, albeit not important.) However, I would not be surprised if later on, my kids are shocked to learn that their IIT, Ivy League educated father will not back down when it comes to academic achievement. Will an "A-" or a "B" be good enough for Manoj? Time will tell.
Better enjoy those raw sugar packs now, kiddies. The end is nigh.
Some of Amy Chua's article did not surprise me - I went through a "Chinese author" spate of reading a few years back and have read everything Amy Tan has written, in addition to some other Chinese authors. Kitchen God's Wife, anyone? Her descriptions of Chinese Mothering were fairly spot on, from what I have read in the past.
However, a few things DID surprise me about Amy Chua's article. First, I knew Chua from a previous book, World on Fire so I was mildly surprised to see a professional such as herself reveal such personal, intimate details of her parenting style, perhaps not realizing how awful some of them would make her appear. Or maybe she did know. Maybe that was the point, to stir controversy.
I was also surprised to the extent with which her husband disagreed with her, yet she still continued when some of her actions. Yikes.
And while I was not surprised at the blanket outrage towards the article, I was surprised how few folks gave any credence whatsoever towards some of the things Chua had to say. In fact, Faiqa's post is incredibly valuable in this because she does validate, in part, a small piece of what Chua was trying to achieve while still expressing concern in Chua's method of delivery. And one important bit really concerned me - all parents do not want the same things for their children. I know some folks truly believe that participating in a sport activity is critical to their child's development (personally, I do not.) Also, I read a blogger who is going to pack her kids up in an RV for a year and travel the country. While I am actually excited to read about their adventures, I would not want this for my own children. However, I do not judge her for this because those are her children and she wants different things for them. Different does not mean wrong.
Or superior, for that matter.
When Manoj and I argue about disciplining our kids, he asks me "Why are you so hard on them?" My answer is ALWAYS this:
"Because if I don't expect 100% from them, no one else will. No one else cares about their success like I do."
Oh sure, my kids will come across teachers here and there who form a vested interest in their success, but seriously - the world at large will not weep too many tears if my kids end up academic and/or professional failures.
I do not talk about my paternal grandmother much here. I really should, because most of my readers have no idea how incredibly central she has been (and still is) to my life. She spoiled us with toys and clothes when we were young, but she had strict behavioral and academic standards -- we were expected to follow them. She also helped pay for part of our college education, so there were some financial strings attached as well (which was absolutely fair because it was HER money.) Growing up and through my 20s, I desperately wanted her approval and I never felt like I got it. Finally, when I was 30, I understood. She loved me but I had to accept the fact that I would never completely be the sort of person she wanted me to be. And that it was okay because she still loved me. Now that I am older, I appreciate that she did not coddle me and tell me something was okay, when it really was not.
Most importantly, I also appreciate that she was my grandmother, which is a slightly removed relationship from a parent. I cannot imagine living in that sort of environment with a parent.
Chua's article (and book? which I will never read) provides some good topics for discussion, I wish more folks would loosen their defenses, hop off the mind-numbing bandwagon, and really think.
Okay, I need to publish this and get back to work. This Prairie Dog Mother really needs to research how to get past Mugley's Mound in Donkey Kong Country.
January 12, 2011
The Trial
Pink Floyd, The Wall 1979
I have always had a nagging sensation that I was not quite good enough as a mother. Something was lacking, but I could not put my finger on it. Something....something....something.... What could it be, I always wondered? I mean, I know I can do better but how?
Well, thanks to Amy Chua, I now know that a Chinese mother is superior. And last I checked, I am most certainly not Chinese. Way to take the pressure off, right? Thanks, Amy!
Cue the Greek chorus, folks.
Despite my maternal deficiency that resides in my white skin and mid-western breeding, I do have a significant trick up my sleeve. That is, when I am not busy driving my kids to harmonica lessons, arranging playdates for them, or playing Super Mario Bros with them.
However. Lest you think that I am rending my garments and bemoaning my mid-western culture, 'tis not a problem, Gentle Reader. Ah yes, while I am most certainly a lost cause, there just might still be hope left for my own precious progeny. Perhaps.
You see, I have a Cobra Daddy.
Cobra Daddy? What's that, you say? Well, they come in an assortment of flavors and colors! They generally hail from the sub-continent of Asia (Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and in a pinch, Sri Lanka). For myself, I chose a delightful varietal from Kerala, India, in a lovely sepia tone with smoky hints of mocha that resulted in some pretty darned cute kids. I also went "Catholic with an Anglo last name", which downplayed a chasm of cultural issues for us. Try it, you might like it!
So, what makes a Cobra Daddy special? Oh trust me, Gentle Reader. When your Cobra Lover morphs into a Daddy, the transformation is spectacular! Don't forget your sunglasses. Our house is now like a constant rave around here sans glowsticks and the goddamed disco ball. Which leaves Guess! Who! to fill the role that can only be referred to as the Enforcer (hint: Me!) But that's okay, because as long as the kids don't cry, then we are totally cool.
You see, that is the #1 Article of Faith by which a Cobra Daddy lives:
Children shalt not cry. Ever.
Want to sleep in your parents' cozy bed, little fella? Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will whisk you out of that crib faster than you can shoot that pacifier outta your mouth. Speaking of pacifier, what the hell, woman? Give me the real stuff, you lactating loser. Cobra Daddy to the rescue! By the way, little fella, you look a little cramped. Perhaps, Cobra Daddy should move to the other room.
Don't want to pick up your toys? Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will tell your mama what a relentless nag she is.
You want to wear the sparkly, satin party dress in 15 degree weather, baby girl? Just cry quietly and before you know it, your Cobra Daddy will be fumbling with the sash.
You want ice cream at night, just before bed? You want a West Highland Terrier instead of a Labrador Retriever? You want 10 packets of raw sugar, just before dinner? You want to watch Shaun the Sheep for the 5th time in a row? You want Ovaltine in your milk? Just CRY, goddammit. CRY. Cobra Daddy has your back. No worries, dude.
Chore charts? Cobra Daddy rolls his eyes.
Acting classes? Cobra Daddy cackles.
Soccer? Cobra Daddy snorts.
Dance? Cobra Daddy shrugs.
Art classes? Are you fucking kidding the Cobra Daddy?
I wonder what would happen in a Parental Thunderdome between a Tiger Mother and Cobra Daddy?
I'd pay good money to see that show.
I have always had a nagging sensation that I was not quite good enough as a mother. Something was lacking, but I could not put my finger on it. Something....something....something.... What could it be, I always wondered? I mean, I know I can do better but how?
Well, thanks to Amy Chua, I now know that a Chinese mother is superior. And last I checked, I am most certainly not Chinese. Way to take the pressure off, right? Thanks, Amy!
Cue the Greek chorus, folks.
Despite my maternal deficiency that resides in my white skin and mid-western breeding, I do have a significant trick up my sleeve. That is, when I am not busy driving my kids to harmonica lessons, arranging playdates for them, or playing Super Mario Bros with them.
However. Lest you think that I am rending my garments and bemoaning my mid-western culture, 'tis not a problem, Gentle Reader. Ah yes, while I am most certainly a lost cause, there just might still be hope left for my own precious progeny. Perhaps.
You see, I have a Cobra Daddy.
Cobra Daddy? What's that, you say? Well, they come in an assortment of flavors and colors! They generally hail from the sub-continent of Asia (Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and in a pinch, Sri Lanka). For myself, I chose a delightful varietal from Kerala, India, in a lovely sepia tone with smoky hints of mocha that resulted in some pretty darned cute kids. I also went "Catholic with an Anglo last name", which downplayed a chasm of cultural issues for us. Try it, you might like it!
So, what makes a Cobra Daddy special? Oh trust me, Gentle Reader. When your Cobra Lover morphs into a Daddy, the transformation is spectacular! Don't forget your sunglasses. Our house is now like a constant rave around here sans glowsticks and the goddamed disco ball. Which leaves Guess! Who! to fill the role that can only be referred to as the Enforcer (hint: Me!) But that's okay, because as long as the kids don't cry, then we are totally cool.
You see, that is the #1 Article of Faith by which a Cobra Daddy lives:
Children shalt not cry. Ever.
Want to sleep in your parents' cozy bed, little fella? Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will whisk you out of that crib faster than you can shoot that pacifier outta your mouth. Speaking of pacifier, what the hell, woman? Give me the real stuff, you lactating loser. Cobra Daddy to the rescue! By the way, little fella, you look a little cramped. Perhaps, Cobra Daddy should move to the other room.
Don't want to pick up your toys? Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will tell your mama what a relentless nag she is.
You want to wear the sparkly, satin party dress in 15 degree weather, baby girl? Just cry quietly and before you know it, your Cobra Daddy will be fumbling with the sash.
You want ice cream at night, just before bed? You want a West Highland Terrier instead of a Labrador Retriever? You want 10 packets of raw sugar, just before dinner? You want to watch Shaun the Sheep for the 5th time in a row? You want Ovaltine in your milk? Just CRY, goddammit. CRY. Cobra Daddy has your back. No worries, dude.
Chore charts? Cobra Daddy rolls his eyes.
Acting classes? Cobra Daddy cackles.
Soccer? Cobra Daddy snorts.
Dance? Cobra Daddy shrugs.
Art classes? Are you fucking kidding the Cobra Daddy?
I wonder what would happen in a Parental Thunderdome between a Tiger Mother and Cobra Daddy?
I'd pay good money to see that show.
December 6, 2010
Any Colour You Like
Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon 1973
I have always said that kids do, indeed, notice the color of one's skin. They just do not assign a value to it. Ah yes, it is up to us adults to instill that in our children. Start 'em early, that's what I say.
To be sure, Gentle Reader, when your mother is obviously 10 shades paler than your father, you tend to notice. When your mother has a sense of humor that is obviously 10 degrees more wicked than your father's, you notice. And then, you take notes.
When all else fails, we find comfort in humor, right? And yes, Manoj has learned to be somewhat wicked in his humor. I suppose living with me for all of these years would break even the most purest at heart. This would be the spot where I openly admit we enjoy teasing our children that we are going to give them to new families (in addition to the idle threats involving transactions with roving bands of gypsies.) And, to be fair, we mix up the colors of the mama and daddy pair. Sometimes, both parents are brown, sometimes both white. Sometimes mixed, with a switcheroo on the particular ethnic pairings. Always, our kids giggle, because they know we are teasing. And as Anjali emphatically declares "NO, I want a white mama and a brown daddy."
Manoj and I will not know for a long, long time if we are doing the right thing when it comes to discussing race, color and ethnicity with our children. But I do know that I want the dialogue to be open, because that is the most important piece in all of this.
This morning, Arun and I were at breakfast together. I love these meals, just the two us while Anjali is at school. As Arun dug thoughtfully into his pancake, he struck up the following conversation:
Arun: Mama, is India where all the brown people come from?
Me: Um. Not really. There are brown people everywhere. And there are even white people in India.
Arun: Really? Cool!
At this point, I realize this might be a good place to start a small, watered-down discussion of racism.
Me: Also, did you know that there are some people who don't like other people just because they are brown. Can you imagine? Not liking someone just because they are brown?
Keeping in mind that "not liking someone" is serious, not-be-trifled-with business to a 5 year old.
Arun's eyes grow big.
Arun: Really?! Do some people not like white people because they are white?
Me: Yes, that happens, too. And someday, Arun, you might hear someone say something not nice about Daddy or brown people. What do you think you would say if heard someone say that?
Arun: That it is stupid.
Me: Yes, it IS stupid.
Arun: Well, what about Daddy's friend, Tom? He is brown. Do some people not like him because he is brown?
Me: Sure, I bet someone out there is really jealous of his awesome tan.
At this point, I start laughing. At all of it. My 5 year old boy's sweet, pure innocence and the fact that a man with a kick-ass tan is still considered "white". And let me be clear - stupid is not a bad word in our house. It is not allowed to be directed towards people, but it allowed to be directed towards actions and ideas. The thought that someone would denigrate someone based on skin color IS stupid. I am not going to lie to my kid just to appease the Word Police who would have all of us ban a perfectly good word from our vocabulary.
I ended the conversation by telling Arun that he is both white and brown. Sure, my boy could have probably passed for a White Man With A Damned Fine Tan, but no - instead, we saddled him with his phonetically-challenged name thus permanently stamping his differences. This morning, I did not make a big deal about his Mixed Palette Status, I just casually mentioned it and he did not question it. We finished our breakfast and moved on to bigger and better topics. Namely, which flavor of bubblegum he would get to purchase as we checked out. He is 5 years old, after all. There will be plenty of other opportunities for me to explain the far more serious ramifications of racism.
And in the meantime, I will continue to secretly hope those things will not exist down the line.
I have always said that kids do, indeed, notice the color of one's skin. They just do not assign a value to it. Ah yes, it is up to us adults to instill that in our children. Start 'em early, that's what I say.
To be sure, Gentle Reader, when your mother is obviously 10 shades paler than your father, you tend to notice. When your mother has a sense of humor that is obviously 10 degrees more wicked than your father's, you notice. And then, you take notes.
When all else fails, we find comfort in humor, right? And yes, Manoj has learned to be somewhat wicked in his humor. I suppose living with me for all of these years would break even the most purest at heart. This would be the spot where I openly admit we enjoy teasing our children that we are going to give them to new families (in addition to the idle threats involving transactions with roving bands of gypsies.) And, to be fair, we mix up the colors of the mama and daddy pair. Sometimes, both parents are brown, sometimes both white. Sometimes mixed, with a switcheroo on the particular ethnic pairings. Always, our kids giggle, because they know we are teasing. And as Anjali emphatically declares "NO, I want a white mama and a brown daddy."
Manoj and I will not know for a long, long time if we are doing the right thing when it comes to discussing race, color and ethnicity with our children. But I do know that I want the dialogue to be open, because that is the most important piece in all of this.
This morning, Arun and I were at breakfast together. I love these meals, just the two us while Anjali is at school. As Arun dug thoughtfully into his pancake, he struck up the following conversation:
Arun: Mama, is India where all the brown people come from?
Me: Um. Not really. There are brown people everywhere. And there are even white people in India.
Arun: Really? Cool!
At this point, I realize this might be a good place to start a small, watered-down discussion of racism.
Me: Also, did you know that there are some people who don't like other people just because they are brown. Can you imagine? Not liking someone just because they are brown?
Keeping in mind that "not liking someone" is serious, not-be-trifled-with business to a 5 year old.
Arun's eyes grow big.
Arun: Really?! Do some people not like white people because they are white?
Me: Yes, that happens, too. And someday, Arun, you might hear someone say something not nice about Daddy or brown people. What do you think you would say if heard someone say that?
Arun: That it is stupid.
Me: Yes, it IS stupid.
Arun: Well, what about Daddy's friend, Tom? He is brown. Do some people not like him because he is brown?
Me: Sure, I bet someone out there is really jealous of his awesome tan.
At this point, I start laughing. At all of it. My 5 year old boy's sweet, pure innocence and the fact that a man with a kick-ass tan is still considered "white". And let me be clear - stupid is not a bad word in our house. It is not allowed to be directed towards people, but it allowed to be directed towards actions and ideas. The thought that someone would denigrate someone based on skin color IS stupid. I am not going to lie to my kid just to appease the Word Police who would have all of us ban a perfectly good word from our vocabulary.
I ended the conversation by telling Arun that he is both white and brown. Sure, my boy could have probably passed for a White Man With A Damned Fine Tan, but no - instead, we saddled him with his phonetically-challenged name thus permanently stamping his differences. This morning, I did not make a big deal about his Mixed Palette Status, I just casually mentioned it and he did not question it. We finished our breakfast and moved on to bigger and better topics. Namely, which flavor of bubblegum he would get to purchase as we checked out. He is 5 years old, after all. There will be plenty of other opportunities for me to explain the far more serious ramifications of racism.
And in the meantime, I will continue to secretly hope those things will not exist down the line.
May 24, 2010
Love, American Style
Update: Tongue totally entrenched in cheek, I do refer to some of the usual stereotypes bestowed upon Indians. It may seem that I am saying all other Indians fulfill those stereotypes whereas my preciously perfect Manoj does not. Do not get sucked into the sarcastic vortex, folks. I know loads of Indians who would defy every stereotype you have ever heard. Please do not think I was being serious.
Since I have had ample time to lie around doing nothing, I sifted through my stats last week. I was curious to see how folks get here and why they even bother clicking around. Some folks are trying to figure out whether they should knit English or continental (continental all the way, baby. Seriously, it is the most efficient method.) Still, other folks appear to be arriving here under the mistaken Google Juice that they will learn something about multicultural marriage. And I suspect they have been greatly disappointed. Oh sure, I truck out my marriage for purposes of Making Points or Providing Punchlines, but for the most part, I do not dwell on the particulars that come with a Masala Marriage. There are several reasons for this. Some are simple, some are not.
Foremost? Manoj has been pretty clear in that he does not want me discussing intimate details of our marriage. Period. End of story. Full stop.
However, even if Manoj was comfortable with me discussing our marriage, it is so much more complicated than that for me. At this point in my life, I am not sure where I would begin. My grandpa married an Indian woman before I was even born, so the sub-continent of Asia has always been sort of "around" for me. In 1989, at the age of 18, I began dating a Pakistani boy (Muhajjir ethnicity). For the next 4.5 years, I studied Urdu, I followed Islam, I giddily wore the shalwar kameez with sparkly jewelry and I went to Pakistan in 1993 for 6 weeks. Ultimately, in 1994, we broke up for reasons not really related to anything multicultural but rather that we were two young kids who were grossly immature and quite simply, not meant for each other. What was particularly excruciating was that I not only lost my first serious,"thought-I-was-gonna-marry-him" boyfriend, but I also lost a family. Oh, how I loved his mother and father. They were good people.
After that relationship, I meandered. I finished school, concentrated on my so-called career. I tried dating Americans, but that did not really pan out. I was in a weird place and I did not know where I belonged. I realize that is probably more about me than anyone cares to know (all 3 of you still reading by now), but my past is very important to my relationship with Manoj. I always tease him that I came "trained", but the truth is that there was little left to surprise me by the time I met Manoj in the fall of 2000.
I knew right away that Manoj was going to be different and we determined within a few months in our relationship that we were serious.
Manoj is from the same state as my Indian step-grandma (Kerala) and is the same religion. So yes, that helped. And I already knew many things about Manoj before our first date, simple because of my experiences with dating desis. In short - I already knew much of what to expect should it get serious. For example, the responsibilities that many Indians feel towards their parents. I knew that if I were to marry this boy, we would be sending cash (and loads of it, potentially) back to his parents or that we may be at the whims of requests for loans from cousins, etc. I knew that if I were to marry this boy, that he would never grasp the importance of the holidays and traditions with which I grew up (yes, he will decorate the Christmas tree with me, but he does not enjoy it.) I knew that if I were to marry this boy, he would never understand many of the silly things that make up the person that is me - why we should celebrate Valentine's day, why Ferris Bueller is not just a silly movie, why the 80s XM station is a permanent fixture on our car radio, why John Hughes is an icon for me, why as a little girl, I dreamed of being Laura Ingalls Wilder, why the remake of Electric Company is not as good as the original, why I loathe 100% polyester to the very core of my soul, why I know the plotline to every single Brady Bunch episode and more importantly, why it is important that I know those very plotlines.
I knew all of this going in. And those are just the silly things in our cultural differences.
Even more complicated is that being married to Manoj is a little different than being married to just any old desi. Yes, folks - I got me my very own special Indian boy. He is from a very small, tiny ethnic group (Syrian-Christian) which is a sub-set of another very small, tiny ethnic group (Malayalee) in a very small, tiny province (Kerala) (Read: Malayalees are from Kerala, but a Malayalee can be a Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or a Jew. Yes, even a Jew, although most of them emigrated to Israel ages ago.) Sure, Manoj celebrated Christmas as a kid, but they went to church, then came home and had a family dinner. The end. No Santa, no tree, no tinsel, no candy canes, no presents, no shopping malls. And sure, he understands some Hindi, because he had to take Hindi courses in school - just like we learn a foreign language here. Sure, he celebrated Diwali and Holi as kid, but only because they are huge holidays in India, the holidays do not really mean anything to him personally. And sure, he does not eat beef but only because he is watching his diet (believe me, he never turns down a nibble when I have a steak.)
But. Manoj does not speak with a lilting accent, he does not bob his head, he drives more cautiously than my grandma, he has no issues spending money, he wears tailored suits and he has an Anglo last name (most folks assume I did not change my name when we got married.)
Overall, I do not feel our life is very "Indian" or multicultural. Or maybe it is and I have been in this for so long, I can no longer see it after over 20 years of being in it I keep an Indian kitchen and our parenting is very Indian, in many respects. That is about it and I cannot take the blame. Manoj has simply not been interested in sharing too much with Team Chaos. For example, he has been adamant that our kids would learn Spanish or Chinese before they learn his mother tongue of Malayalam. And while this fall, I am hoping to celebrate some parts of Onnum, the harvest festival celebrated in Kerala, I am not optimistic about doing it alone. Realistically, we live in Kansas and some parts are not practical (snakeboats? elephants?) and if Manoj is not on board, what's a white girl to do??
So.... yes..... I am not sure how much we have the Indian thing going on in our house. I cannot imagine what I would write about even if I did try to document that part. Besides, there are already some excellent blogs out there doing this, so admittedly, I do not even feel a great pressure or desire to do so myself. (Hat hip to the likes of Gori Wife Life who are doing a stellar job in this area)
And...and.... I am not sure what else. Manoj moved to America because he wanted a new life here. With his educational pedigree, we could easily move to India and live very, very well. But we choose to live here, in a country that we believe in, a country that we love, a country to which we want to contribute.
At times, I feel a little guilty, as if our children are being subjected to some great disservice by being denied their "Indian-ness". At times, I do wish Manoj was more sentimental about his home and his past because I cannot be the sole provider of their Indian heritage. However, I married a man who is constantly moving forward and rarely stops to dwell on the past. I simply have to comfort myself with the fact that our kids are quintessentially American.
And hopefully, that will be good enough.
This layered varietal is grown in the midwest region. Complex notes lean towards Asian-Indian, with a particularly strong density of Syrian-Christian, Malayalee extraction. Smaller notes of Irish, Scottish and Native American flavors can also be detected. Its bouquet is strong and highly dependent upon the timing of its most recent bath. Pairs nicely with pizza.
Since I have had ample time to lie around doing nothing, I sifted through my stats last week. I was curious to see how folks get here and why they even bother clicking around. Some folks are trying to figure out whether they should knit English or continental (continental all the way, baby. Seriously, it is the most efficient method.) Still, other folks appear to be arriving here under the mistaken Google Juice that they will learn something about multicultural marriage. And I suspect they have been greatly disappointed. Oh sure, I truck out my marriage for purposes of Making Points or Providing Punchlines, but for the most part, I do not dwell on the particulars that come with a Masala Marriage. There are several reasons for this. Some are simple, some are not.
Foremost? Manoj has been pretty clear in that he does not want me discussing intimate details of our marriage. Period. End of story. Full stop.
However, even if Manoj was comfortable with me discussing our marriage, it is so much more complicated than that for me. At this point in my life, I am not sure where I would begin. My grandpa married an Indian woman before I was even born, so the sub-continent of Asia has always been sort of "around" for me. In 1989, at the age of 18, I began dating a Pakistani boy (Muhajjir ethnicity). For the next 4.5 years, I studied Urdu, I followed Islam, I giddily wore the shalwar kameez with sparkly jewelry and I went to Pakistan in 1993 for 6 weeks. Ultimately, in 1994, we broke up for reasons not really related to anything multicultural but rather that we were two young kids who were grossly immature and quite simply, not meant for each other. What was particularly excruciating was that I not only lost my first serious,"thought-I-was-gonna-marry-him" boyfriend, but I also lost a family. Oh, how I loved his mother and father. They were good people.
After that relationship, I meandered. I finished school, concentrated on my so-called career. I tried dating Americans, but that did not really pan out. I was in a weird place and I did not know where I belonged. I realize that is probably more about me than anyone cares to know (all 3 of you still reading by now), but my past is very important to my relationship with Manoj. I always tease him that I came "trained", but the truth is that there was little left to surprise me by the time I met Manoj in the fall of 2000.
I knew right away that Manoj was going to be different and we determined within a few months in our relationship that we were serious.
Manoj is from the same state as my Indian step-grandma (Kerala) and is the same religion. So yes, that helped. And I already knew many things about Manoj before our first date, simple because of my experiences with dating desis. In short - I already knew much of what to expect should it get serious. For example, the responsibilities that many Indians feel towards their parents. I knew that if I were to marry this boy, we would be sending cash (and loads of it, potentially) back to his parents or that we may be at the whims of requests for loans from cousins, etc. I knew that if I were to marry this boy, that he would never grasp the importance of the holidays and traditions with which I grew up (yes, he will decorate the Christmas tree with me, but he does not enjoy it.) I knew that if I were to marry this boy, he would never understand many of the silly things that make up the person that is me - why we should celebrate Valentine's day, why Ferris Bueller is not just a silly movie, why the 80s XM station is a permanent fixture on our car radio, why John Hughes is an icon for me, why as a little girl, I dreamed of being Laura Ingalls Wilder, why the remake of Electric Company is not as good as the original, why I loathe 100% polyester to the very core of my soul, why I know the plotline to every single Brady Bunch episode and more importantly, why it is important that I know those very plotlines.
I knew all of this going in. And those are just the silly things in our cultural differences.
Even more complicated is that being married to Manoj is a little different than being married to just any old desi. Yes, folks - I got me my very own special Indian boy. He is from a very small, tiny ethnic group (Syrian-Christian) which is a sub-set of another very small, tiny ethnic group (Malayalee) in a very small, tiny province (Kerala) (Read: Malayalees are from Kerala, but a Malayalee can be a Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or a Jew. Yes, even a Jew, although most of them emigrated to Israel ages ago.) Sure, Manoj celebrated Christmas as a kid, but they went to church, then came home and had a family dinner. The end. No Santa, no tree, no tinsel, no candy canes, no presents, no shopping malls. And sure, he understands some Hindi, because he had to take Hindi courses in school - just like we learn a foreign language here. Sure, he celebrated Diwali and Holi as kid, but only because they are huge holidays in India, the holidays do not really mean anything to him personally. And sure, he does not eat beef but only because he is watching his diet (believe me, he never turns down a nibble when I have a steak.)
But. Manoj does not speak with a lilting accent, he does not bob his head, he drives more cautiously than my grandma, he has no issues spending money, he wears tailored suits and he has an Anglo last name (most folks assume I did not change my name when we got married.)
Overall, I do not feel our life is very "Indian" or multicultural. Or maybe it is and I have been in this for so long, I can no longer see it after over 20 years of being in it I keep an Indian kitchen and our parenting is very Indian, in many respects. That is about it and I cannot take the blame. Manoj has simply not been interested in sharing too much with Team Chaos. For example, he has been adamant that our kids would learn Spanish or Chinese before they learn his mother tongue of Malayalam. And while this fall, I am hoping to celebrate some parts of Onnum, the harvest festival celebrated in Kerala, I am not optimistic about doing it alone. Realistically, we live in Kansas and some parts are not practical (snakeboats? elephants?) and if Manoj is not on board, what's a white girl to do??
So.... yes..... I am not sure how much we have the Indian thing going on in our house. I cannot imagine what I would write about even if I did try to document that part. Besides, there are already some excellent blogs out there doing this, so admittedly, I do not even feel a great pressure or desire to do so myself. (Hat hip to the likes of Gori Wife Life who are doing a stellar job in this area)
And...and.... I am not sure what else. Manoj moved to America because he wanted a new life here. With his educational pedigree, we could easily move to India and live very, very well. But we choose to live here, in a country that we believe in, a country that we love, a country to which we want to contribute.
At times, I feel a little guilty, as if our children are being subjected to some great disservice by being denied their "Indian-ness". At times, I do wish Manoj was more sentimental about his home and his past because I cannot be the sole provider of their Indian heritage. However, I married a man who is constantly moving forward and rarely stops to dwell on the past. I simply have to comfort myself with the fact that our kids are quintessentially American.
And hopefully, that will be good enough.
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