by Subrina Singh

This post was originally published on our partner website India.com:

Since childhood, I recall my parents instilling the value of education into my brain. At the impressionable and young age of five I received a doctor’s set for Christmas. But, I never really understood what it meant to be a doctor. There was an association with being a doctor that was so prestigious and that is something that I had been taught since before I had even started school.

When I started school the question of, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” would arise and I would reply “a doctor,” never fully grasping what a doctor did.

I had visited the doctor and understood what a check up was, but there was a larger picture at hand. I remember the years of elementary school that I would reply confusingly, “a doctor superstar,” wanting to be a singer and a doctor, all in one. The truth being, I wanted to be a singer, but I felt pressured into also saying a doctor.

My parents were not doctors, quite the opposite actually. I grew up with my mom at home and dad at work. My dad is mechanic and went to trade school. Neither of my parents went to college.

For a time, this puzzled me that these two people stressed education and being a doctor so heavily but neither had been through the experience themselves. As I grew older I understood, like many immigrants, my parents wanted everything for their children that they did not have—education being one of them.

I once asked my parents why being a doctor was so prestigious.

“Doctors are like Bhagwan (God) they have the power to bring life into the world and cure the sick,” my mom said.

This is a common desi belief. But it was not enough to convince me to become a physician.

I wanted to want to be a doctor, but science and math were not my forte. I was in high school, trying to convince myself to still be a doctor, but I did not take one science A.P. course, despite myself persuasion.

I did not know what I wanted to pursue, but I knew it was not medicine. Still, I worried about disappointing my parents.

When I started college at Stony Brook University in Long Island, N.Y., I was certain that being a doctor was not for me but even telling my parents was nerve-racking. The day I told them they asked, “So if you are not a doctor what will you be?”

It was such an odd question to ask with the many professions that existed, and the endless possibilities for my future.

I was fortunate that at Stony Brook University I found my niche and calling for my career, my true passion was for South Asian studies.

Still, it was assumed by many that I was becoming a doctor merely because I was a South Asian. It was the stereotype that I could not kick despite my dearest efforts.

I recall one time entering the advising center and the women at the desk suggested that I may be in the wrong office because there was a special office for those students on the pre-med track—assumptions are terrible.

As impressionable, young, empowered South Asians, the opportunities are endless.

I would like to think that I did not fall into a stereotype because I was pressured into it but because I am following my dreams.

And like, Walt Disney said, “All dreams can come true if you have the courage to pursue them!”

Subrina Singh is a passionate young writer. After completing her degree in all things Indian at Stony Brook University, she is now pursuing her Master’s Degree at Columbia University. More recently, she has become committed to using her experience with mental illness to help better the mental-health awareness within the South Asian community. Subrina enjoys writing, reading and drinking Starbuck’s Passion Tea Lemonade while singing Bollywood hits of the Golden Era. Follow Subrina on Twitter for her reactions to Pretty Little Liars every Tuesday night!

By Brown Girl Magazine

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I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.

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My Friend

The turbulent sea of a ticking clock,
A constant chime of chores
Unfolded laundry, unpaid bills.
For unplanned surprises, Life’s infinite stores

An achy neck, a heavy head,
A forever strong of burdens
Fleeting as they may be
Yet as real as my scribbling pens

In this world of lonely battles
Filled with competing souls
It’s you, my friend
Your comforting words, long strolls

Your phone calls, your laughter,
You listening when I’m remiss,
Your steady support,
The source of all my bliss.

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By Mars D. Gill

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Photo by VAKS-Stock Agency via Shutterstock.com

“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.

Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.

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Take what you want//Take everything

I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.

A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.

It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.

Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.

I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.

I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.

She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.

I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.

I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.

Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.

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