The continuing vilification of Taslima Nasreen

I’ve heard from at least a couple of prominent Indian litterateurs (a poet and a novelist) that Taslima Nasreen tends to avoid the South Asian tables at conferences to sit with the firangs. I remember that the poet seemed to see it as a personal affront and an indication of Nasreen’s lack of respect and affection for her South Asian brethren. The novelist, whom I knew much better, said it with a lack of judgment and perhaps just the smallest glimmer of a smile—no wonder I love him still.

So now that Nasreen has decided to live in France or Germany for lack of cardiological care in India—it’s caused a big upset among those who read (and watch) South Asian literature: What? Like there aren’t any good cardiologists in India? Does she know that people come to India for heart treatments from all over the world?

Before everyone jumps on her case, however, I think it makes sense to read her statement, which sounds like a reasonable response to Indian bureaucracy and its botched rescue attempt.

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Because there should be Truth in esteem-building

That evening when they were working on cheering me up.

Big A: You are a sweet, kind person. You are considerate. You are an excellent driver.

Li’l A: [Probably taken aback by the uncharacteristic overstatement—esp. of my driving skills]

Even though you’re not a very good navigator…

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Messing with Mud

I’m picking up Big A from the train station (like a good little suburban frau--but I’ll rant about that in another post). There’s a line of cars idling at the curb (as usual) and I pull up to the curb (as usual too), except this time there’s insistent, loud honking. There’s a black Infiniti behind me and after another bout of enraged honking, it pulls up alongside me and the irate guy inside tells me that he’s been waiting “ten FUCKING minutes” for the parking space way ahead of me (and, really, too far away from him).

I wasn’t planning to park, but I can see why he is indignant so I’m ready to ignore the cussing; the easy apology is on my lips-although I haven’t been able to say anything yet, except may be look confused and then apologetic. Which, clearly, is the proper cue for him to yell--YOU! GET OUT of here NOW. And for his elderly father sitting next to him to shake his fist at me. The apology withers on my lips. And then the parking space that they so clearly want and I have no interest in clears.

I pull into it.

I know it was a cheap move. But here’s the thing--I’m brown, female, weigh 115 lbs, have two kids in the back seat, and no matter how much Deborah Tannen I read, I can’t seem to kick the smiley face and the head bobbing. It’s safe to say I’m non threatening. And here’s another thing--I was already beginning to pull out of their spot when they began yelling at me.

Of course they pull up alongside again, madder than ever. But I think I know what to say. I tell them that they were unnecessarily rude and that if they had asked me nicely instead of yelling, I would have been happy to give them the parking space. (I’m going HA! at myself now--what was I thinking?!? :) But clearly they didn’t have the same kindergarten teacher I had. The father in the other car says, You are a dirty woman! TRAMP, you get out of here! A woman walking on the sidewalk overhears him and says, "Hey, what’s all this “dirty woman,” “tramp?” *You* get out of here before I call the cops." I register the funny-sounding old-timey-ness of the insults, but my hands are shaking nevertheless from the implied hostility and I can only say, “No. If you talk to me that way I won’t move.”

The driver-guy smiles at me rather benignly and says, “You can suck my cock.” For one brief, blinding moment I wish that I hadn’t pulled into his space. I feel filthy. And ashamed. I have kids back there--my daughter is pre-verbal, and my son has never heard that precise string, but knows what each of those words mean. The very ineffective words, “You’re such an idiot” are bubbling out of me, but the other people have already gone. My kids and I sit in perfect silence for the twenty seconds it takes Big A to get to the car. I haven’t spotted him as I usually do, so he decides to walk over to my window and pulls a scary face as I turn towards him. That’s when I start crying.

My husband begins to apologize. (Long after I’m over this, I think this is the part that will continue to shame me--that he thinks I’m such a ninny that something like that can set me off.) Then there’s the blessed relief of hearing his livid anger and then I’m trying to give my anger words.

I see the Infiniti driver in my head, but I can’t repeat his words back--obviously I want the idiot nowhere near me or my vagina. So I think to reuse insults. Pimply fat slob, I think. Loser with a tiny dick. But it’s unsatisfactory. I have nothing against fat or bad skin or laziness or tiny penises or a lack of success. I’m not so much angry as disquieted because I think what happened to me was unfair.*

My father would say (my mother is fiery and might have egged me on) that it’s best not to engage with psychotic idiots because whether you mess with mud or mud messes with you, *you* are the one who ends up messy. But I’m glad I stood up for myself. Glad my son saw. My children, more than most, will have to find a way to deal with prejudice--something usually lacking in my small world of nice people.

I have a hunch that the people in the other car have already forgotten about this--that this would be an ordinary occurrence to them--just another incident that reinforced their prejudices against my gender and may be my ethnicity too. But I know I will keep returning to this embarrassing nidus in my head: How should I have reacted? Retorted? Was I standing up for myself in a Gandhian way or was I just being super fucking annoying? Did I even thank the woman who tried to defend me?

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* The people in the Infiniti probably think that it was unfair to them too. But just before they pull away, the father gets out and goes into the train station. No luggage, no nothing. As far as I can tell, it wasn’t that important for them to grab the parking space either.

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A Sappy Scene [just don’t read the parenthetical statements]

So… Road Trip!! Our first with our cuddly little, sweet-smelling [when she hasn’t spit up and has a clean diaper] baby. We’re so excited [also terrified].

It was so much fun [except that two hours into it, Baby A had had ENOUGH]. Li’l A and I were singing “Ten Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed” to the baby [to distract her]. Big A was all big Daddy-O and driving us home and trying to listen [to Nas on the stereo at whisper-volume]. After the ninth monkey fell out of bed [for the fourth time], Big A sang along [except he sang: Jesus CHRIST! Is she retarded? The doctor said NO MORE MONKEYS jumping on the bed!!].

We fell about laughing like maniacs [we were on the cusp of a communal nervous meltdown]!!!

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(Action replay) Hipsters re-jump the couch

There’s yet another proclamation of the death of the hipster in the current issue of The New Yorker. Hari Kunzru’s story, “Raj, Bohemian” is so unempathetic and superficial that it’s so ironic, so meta… Man! You know?

There’s a veritable parade of transplants, trust-fund babies, and all the minimalist, alt, indie, eclectic creeds. It doesn’t help that all of this list has rapidly become assimilated by the mainstream and, actually, is already so infiltrated by it, that it’s positively putrid with ennui. [Can you tell I’ve been reading Zizek again?]

There is, obv, no Kunzru hate for hipsters. But his disdain [zing] actually cuts more. That may be somewhat deserved by the post-hipster, perennially unhappy sellout Misshapen species. But what about the fuzzy, farm-share ascetics and Etsy aesthetic types we actually know? I thought it was a good read but a flawed story. Or vice versa. May be *you* can tell.

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SNORKELING

Everyday for breakfast
She had spoonfuls of sky
Nothing close or nearby
Ever seemed same again.

So in another land,
In some softly alien sea
They consent to band
In lithe experimental ties

With elongated limbs,
And buckled lungs,
Talking of walking water
Minus primness or miracle

Finding the sea suddenly
Small as a lapping pet,
Animated in assault,
Circling them for treats.

Then too soon, in ten or so days,
Their rules and goodbyes unsaid,
They fly; the red of an airline blanket
Flowers, in her lap, like a miscarriage.

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Life with vagina

If you’re female and have ever wondered what your letters of wreck recommendation looked like, take at look at this article:

Letters written for female applicants were found to differ systematically from those written for male applicants in the extremes of length, in the percentages lacking in basic features, in the percentages with doubt raisers (an extended category of negative language, often associated with apparent commendation), and in frequency of mention of status terms. Further, the most common semantically grouped possessive phrases referring to female and male applicants (‘her teaching,’ ‘his research’) reinforce gender schema that tend to portray women as teachers and students, and men as researchers and professionals.

GULP!

And if you ever wondered how you’d fare if you ran for high office—president say--read this:

For decades, researchers have been probing bias -- how it arises, how it changes, how it fades away. Their work suggests that bias plays a more powerful role in shaping opinions than most people are aware of. And they suggest that the American mind treats race and gender quite differently. Race can evoke more visceral, negative associations, the studies show, but attitudes toward women are more inflexible and -- to judge by the current dynamics of the presidential race -- ultimately more limiting.

Gendered minority certainly runs deep :/.

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