I’ve always looked back on my middle and high school years fondly. Whether it was puberty, wondering if my crush liked me back, going overboard with my deodorant, or the pure existential dread of figuring out exactly where I fit in this world, I would happily relive my experience any day.
I jest.
My teen years were a constant rush of emotions. I grew up in Iselin, New Jersey, a town with a high concentration of South Asian immigrants. All of my friends were desi, so I was used to seeing other brown faces both in and out of school. But just as I started middle school, we moved to a mostly white suburb in Connecticut. Suddenly, my large desi circle whittled down to just a handful of South Asians. My identity as a South Asian, an immigrant, and a minority was laid bare. High school compounded those feelings, mixing familial pressures to study hard and get into a good school with peer pressure to be cool and avoid becoming the kid who sat by themselves at lunch. It was the first time I felt like an outsider. I began to question who I was and where I belonged. And my puberty-induced acne wasn’t helping either.
There are shards of that vast, existential uncertainty that I still feel to this day. “We Were Hiding” captures my adolescent experience and all the nuances it contained.
I was hiding behind used Gameboy cartridges of Spyro and Crash Bandicoot,
Behind reruns of “Yu-Gi-Oh” I was only allowed to watch on Saturday mornings because the evening news wasn’t on.
I was hiding inside 7th-grade algebra books my father bought me during my 6th grade school year,
Within two spoonfuls of Crocin my mother would feed me at the slightest sign of a fever so I would not have to miss school again.
I was hiding behind early-onset puberty mustaches that Tommy on the bus would ask why I didn’t shave,
Behind drops of coconut oil drenched locks tucked away beneath a beat-up New York Yankees baseball cap,
Behind vermillion swastikas my father would place in our newly purchased car that I would later erase,
Behind cheap plastic tiffins of matri and khakra my mother would offer Madhav and Shyam whenever they would come to play.
Mr. Goggins from Forest Hill Dr. would hand me king-size candy bars on Halloween and speak to me in retroflex consonants,
He said that was the scientific term for it.
I hid behind a “thank you.”
Mrs. Northrup, who always drove the other kids to the bus stop, would tell me that I smelled like chili powder and rice.
I hid behind the wish instead she would say I smelled of saffron and jaggery.
I would hide behind Shyam when my mother would make stereotypical remarks about Gujjus being this and Gujjus being that.
Shyam would hide behind me when his mother did the same for Marathis.
The two of us hid behind Madhav when his mother would ask us plainly, “doctor or engineer?”
Madhav was a troublemaker. “Lawyer!” he would cry.
Madhav hid behind her when his father would come late from work and offer him sharaab.
Some nights he would stay with us; I didn’t mind because he would bring his Nintendo.
One night during a sleepover, we watched Pamela Anderson movies because no one was there to cover our eyes.
The next weekend, we danced to Bollywood item songs as our fathers gossiped about telecom and COBOL, and our mothers discussed our academic lives,
No one kissed on the lips so it was okay.
In seventh grade, Madhav became friends with two strange boys we didn’t know. I was hiding in the other lunch line when he used the n-word in front of them.
I was hiding behind awkward smiles and shrugged shoulders when the strange boys asked me to sit with them too,
They also thought I smelled like chili powder and rice. They didn’t like how Shyam smelled.
I was hiding behind a tattered “Mission Accomplished” yard sign in the garbage bin sitting by the driveway where the bus would come.
I thought Shyam was hiding in Mrs. Northrup’s car when he stopped coming to the bus stop in the mornings,
He wasn’t there.
The day after Bin Laden was killed, a stupid boy offered me his condolences at school.
I told Madhav and Madhav told one of the strange boys, but the strange boy just laughed because he “liked risque jokes,” so Madhav told Shivani, who did not seem happy about it. “Let’s give this boy a piece of our minds!” she cried.
But Madhav protested.
“What if my parents found out?” he quivered. “They already make me do an hour of extra homework every day. Now they’ll take my Nintendo away.”
Shivani too relented,
She went to Kumon twice a week and was afraid her parents would make her go even more.
So we hid.
We hid behind the fear of not being able to play Spyro anymore,
Behind the chance of not having to flip through more 8th-grade trigonometry books in our 7th grade school year.
We hid behind abstract defeatist beliefs,
A lost youthful resolve,
Behind middle school nihilistic sentiments, where rewards that entailed risk were rewards not worth it at all.
One night after college, I ran into Madhav at the local bar. He said he was back in town helping his mother finally leave the apartment. We drank and talked about the lives we had lived here. About how much things have changed. How much things were easier before. As if we had the wisdom to know.
Madhav asked me about the stupid boy. We didn’t give him a piece of anything. I never had any other exchanges with him, I said. He’s a practicing social therapist now, I think.
NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.
“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.
There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
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.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
February 1, 2023March 7, 2023 3min readBy Varsha Panikar
Photo Courtesy of Varsha Panikar
“After so Long” is a poetry film created for Simha’s EP, which is streaming on Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon Music. The poem was collaboratively written by Simha, a U.S. native, and Jae, who is based in India, during the 2020 lockdown. “After so Long” was recited by Simha and their parents. In 2022, I directed and produced the film through my studio, Star Hopper. “After so Long” premiered on Nowness Asia in March 2022.
This film is a worldwide collaboration among trans and queer south-Asian artists from the United States, India and Canada. It was recorded, shot and filmed during the lockdown of 2020 and 2021.
Jae:
Awake at 10 am but out of bed at noon,
I want to be here where I lose myself in these sheets
Glancing through half-shut eyes
At the gold pressing past my window
The glimmer remarks on the ledge of my bed
But the voices are so loud
Like dust collecting in the corner of my room
I am unaware to why I’m still here
With the chilling doubt of the breeze…
I’m swept into lucidity After so long
Dad:
Mil rahi hoon mein aaj iske saang barso baad,
(Today, I’ll be meeting them after so long)
Koi paata nahi diya tune
(But with no destination sight,)
Kya karu?
(What should I do?)
Kaha jau?
(Where should I go?)
Shayad agar mein chalne lagoon,
(Perhaps, if I keep walking)
Inn yaadon ki safar mein
(Down this road of memories)
Mujhe samajh mein ayega,
(I will find out)
Yeh rasta kahaan jayega,
(Where this road leads)
Inn aari tedhi pakadandiyon pe baarte hi jaana hai,
(Through the twists and turns of this winding roads, I must keep going on)
Mujhe mil na hain aaj uske saath,
(I wish to meet them today)
Barso baad.
(After so long)
Simha:
I feel like I’m retracing my footsteps
From these concrete stretches
To broken cement walls
Chips and cracks forge their way for new designs
I see the old abandoned buildings
That once held the warmth of bodies
Now just hold memories
Supporting the nature’s resilience
In vines and moss
After so long
Mom:
Dhoondli shishe mein jaaga leli hai
(These isty mirrors have offered refuge)
Bikhri hui laatao ne,
(To these scattered vines)
Zameen pe uchi ghaas pe
(Amidst the tall grass stretching from the ground)
Lehrati kamsan kaliyaa
(The swaying little buds)
Bheeni bheeni khushboo bikhereti
(Spreading honeysuckle scent through the air)
Phir wahi mausam,
(I lose myself in reminiscing, the same season)
Wahi dil,
(The same heart)
Baarso baad.
(After so long)
Phir bhi mein chal rahi hoon aaj
(Still, I keep carrying on today)
Khudko khudse milane ke liye
(In the pursuit of my higher self)
Inn galiyo se guzarna hain aaj
(I must pass through these streets today)
Chaalte chaale jaana hai aaj
(I must keep going on today)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor paar
(Someday, we’ll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)
Kabhi hum milenge kisi mor pe
(Someday, we’ll meet again, somewhere on this road)
barso baad
(After so long)
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
