The Facts Of Life Remain The Same

Quote of the Day:
"The facts of life and death remain the same. We live and die, we love and grieve, we breed and disappear. And between these essential gravities, we search for meaning, save our memories, leave a record for those who will remember us."
- Thomas Lynch, "Bodies In Motion And At Rest"

Yesterday, dad's test results came back.

The doctor wanted him to call.

Sister 3 mused, "Don't they usually call you in if it's bad news?"

We were in the car after dinner and as she pulled into the parking lot, searching for a space, I hesitantly said, "I don't know. It's just…well, both of dad's parents died of cancer…"

But that was like the wrong thing to say.

We're not supposed to talk about stuff like that out loud — 'cause it's like it'll come true or something.

I remember watching that episode of Six Feet Under where Nate dies and my mother said, "He can't die!"

And I remember thinking, "Why not? Everybody dies."

I don't even know why I'm thinking about this.

Sometimes, it's like it's better to try and prepare yourself for bad news — I mean, you don't live your whole life with disappointments and not feel like you need to try and brace yourself for more. Because that's the thing about life, isn't it? There's always more heartache and pain and disappointment.

But…even when we try our best to prepare for it, there's no point…'cause the thing about pain is that it hurts every time.

The capacity to hurt is seemingly endless.

Anyways...The test results were negative.

Breathe a sigh of relief…though…it's like most people don't want to talk about stuff like that 'cause they think it's being pessimistic. But who knows? Maybe pessimism's just this boat I've jumped onto and I can't find any way else to float through this sea of life. Okay. That was a really corny metaphor, but you get what I mean, right?

It's sort of like…well, when dad found out I'd signed my organ donation card and he got all pissed off at me — like I was tempting fate or something. But the thing is, death and illness and pain are all facts of life. Nothing ever really prepares us for it, even if we're really open-minded about it. But you know what? I don't believe in pretending that it's never gonna happen to me or someone that I love, either. That's the coward's way of dealing with things, I think.

A Suitable Boy

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A Suitable Boy
I think most of us who are caught straddling that in-between world of being born Canadian but born to immigrant parents understand this --- well, those of us who still feel strongly tethered to our culture, that is. That's why I found the latest Modern Love article from the NY Times to be especially interesting --- it was the most interesting one they've run lately, in my personal opinion.

I'm not Indian, but to a certain extent, I find the Chinese are sort of on the same wave length --- though, I seriously doubt my parents would actually put up an ad in China advertising for a husband. On a totally unrelated note, I was watching this National Geographic Explorer thing about adopting from China and one of the things they chose to focus on was the huge gender imbalance that was going to turn into a major problem by the time these kids grew to be of marriage-able age. One of the main concerns was the rise of kidnappings, forced marriages and prostitution and increased violence towards women.

In any event, in the interests of good reading material:

Mom, Dad, Let Me Find My Own Husband
By SARITA JAMES
MY Suitable Boy was seven years older than I with a gentle Superman wave of hair at his forehead and broad shoulders that defied the reedy build of our South Indian heritage. The son of a family friend, he often visited us in our northeast Indiana town, a few miles east of the Dan Quayle museum. Affable with dinner guests and handy with sports scores, he was adored by my parents. And I realized quickly, despite my parents' denials, that they wanted me to marry him.

"Did you see what a fine job he's done dicing my tomatoes?" my mother would say, tilting the cutting board until the juice began to drip.

"Suitable boy" is a term used by Indian families to describe a strong marriage candidate — someone who comes from the right religion, region, community and family background. Within my circle of American-born cousins, however, we used the term only to tease each other about our parents' marriage schemes.

Our family was both Indian and Catholic, which was a rarity anywhere, much less in the American Middle West. I was still in high school but, given the scarcity of suitable boys, my parents wanted to start their search. And yet, rare as my suitable boy may have been, I did not want to marry him. I found him to be boring and close-minded — he read very little, claimed he could never have a gay friend and did not see why Indian wedding dowries were problematic. Because I felt my family's quiet pressure in his presence, I questioned his perennial attendance at our gatherings.

Do you think we could have just the family visit for Thanksgiving this year?" I asked my mother after two years of his visits.

"But he's a bachelor," she said. "It's our duty to host him." And again he came.

When I was a sophomore in college, I happened to be home when my suitable boy called with big news: he was leaving for India in a month to get married. His parents had located two young women for him — an engineer and a fashion designer — and had booked the church hall to celebrate the union of his choice.


AFTER the call, I began skipping around my mother's bedroom with the thrill of emancipation.

"If you had been friendlier on his last visit, he might have married you!" my mother scolded. "You should have come tobogganing with us! You're such a foolish girl."

My mother's resentment made me stop skipping. When my father came home from work, he also looked disappointed.

Were they right? Had I thrown away my future by studying for final exams instead of tobogganing with my suitable boy? I did find him immediately more likable once my parents broke their lengthy silence on their intentions for us. And it was true that he had adapted well to my family over the years, cheerfully participating in our misguided activities.

One summer weekend he had come along with us on a fishing derby. It was a hot afternoon, and we waded through muddy, mosquito-infested waters to reel in hundreds of little fish. We realized only at the awards ceremony that prizes were given based on the total weight, not the number, of fish. While my mother continued to look wistfully at the first-prize motorboat, my suitable boy and I laughed and released our little catches.

"I imagine I would like to move back to India someday," he said to me as we were walking back to the car. "Could you see yourself ever living there?"

"I'm not sure," I said. From my summer visits there, I remembered first my grandparents' friendly faces, but then also the pollution and the helpless feeling of being a foreigner. I looked at his eager face. "Perhaps."

At Harvard, men were starting to ask me out on dates but I demurely refused. My parents had warned me that the dating scene was full of bad men who would marry and then divorce me. I doubted that the situation was really that grim but was unsure of myself. And now the only eligible Indian Catholic in the Midwest was getting married to someone else.

The next week we unexpectedly saw him at a graduation party for one of my Ohio cousins, and he confided his anxieties surrounding his upcoming wedding. When I walked into the kitchen, my aunts were discussing his marriage plans and bemoaning their daughters' lost opportunities.

As we were leaving, I ate one last chocolate-covered strawberry and looked up to notice him watching me attentively. I smiled back. Before we climbed into the car, I saw my father put his hand on my suitable boy's shoulder, and I experienced a sudden regret.

When we arrived home, I told my parents that I would marry him. My parents were startled and pleased by my announcement but concerned that it was too late. I felt confident; after all, the wedding invitations could not have been sent without the name of his selected bride.

My parents called my suitable boy that night to propose, and, after quickly checking with his parents, he gave me his answer: he would love to marry me. His parents asked only that he see the other two women, as a formality to avoid offending their families. In the meantime we could start getting to know each other and planning for our future.

I called him every day from a pay phone outside the cafeteria at Caltech, where I had begun a summer research internship. It was the start of our relationship. He was 26 and I was 19.

"I should tell you about this girl I once liked," he began tentatively. He had bought a college classmate gifts and lent her money, but she had turned him away.

"I've been kissed before," I volunteered.

"You?" he teased. "Who did you find in Indiana?"

I told him about Paul, who had kissed me good-bye on the rooftop of the San Francisco Hilton after a high school science convention. I explained that I'd been too surprised by Paul's French kiss to move my own tongue. I suspected my suitable boy wasn't zealously conservative, but I hadn't been sure; I was relieved when he laughed.

After a week of daily calls, I began to imagine our married life together. Would I be ready to trade in a graduate degree for motherhood if required?

On a more pressing note, would we really sleep with each other for the first time on our wedding night? It seemed quite drastic for two people who barely knew each other, although I knew my parents had met on the day of their arranged marriage and that my brother had been born within the year.

Before my suitable boy left for India, he promised to give me a call when he arrived. As I warned him to be careful riding his motorcycle through Bangalore's dangerous traffic, I felt the thrill of playing the romantic lead in a school play.

I anticipated introducing him to Matt, one of my witty gay friends in Cambridge, and thought how they would become instant pals before I revealed Matt's sexual orientation. At that point, my suitable boy would feel deep shame and admit in a rousing soliloquy that his homophobia had been wrong. I was excited and poised to fall in love.

But my suitable boy didn't call me when he arrived. In fact, neither my parents nor I heard from him or his family until a week later, when his parents notified us by phone that he was engaged to the engineer. I was stunned. Instead of calling me to explain, he e-mailed me:

Dear Sarita,

I am so sorry for what happened. I wish I had gotten married to you. Matters were taken out of my control. I want to apologize profusely both to you and your family. Unfortunately, I can never explain what happened.

A second e-mail message, posted five minutes later, read:

Dear Sarita,

I regret my indiscretion in that first e-mail. Could you please delete it? Please trust that my apologies are sincere.

I FELT a deep emptiness that I had difficulty explaining. I cared about him but I had not been in love. I knew my vision for our shared future had been naïvely optimistic. What hurt most, I realized, was my broken trust in my parents' guidance.

A few years later, I learned that a large dowry had been exchanged as part of his wedding. Most of it had been passed along to his sister's bridegroom when she was married the same year. Not only had the suitable boy let me down, he had also perpetuated the injustices of the dowry system.

"If only his parents had known we would have gladly paid a dowry," my mother lamented, to my irritation.

Over time our two families, which had been close for generations in India, began an awkward reconciliation. One year, my suitable boy's father sent a Christmas card. The next year, my father sent one without receiving a reply. But I never saw my suitable boy again.

My junior and senior years of college passed quietly. Immersed in my academics and extracurricular activities, I chose not to explore relationships with the men I met, and my parents, too, left it alone.

Once I graduated, however, my marriage returned as a family priority.

"I met this recruiter from Microsoft who's going to call you," my mother said one evening.

"Recruiter? But I already have a job, Mom."

"Well, you may have a job but you don't have a husband! He's Indian Catholic, so please just have a career chat and see where it goes."

My parents continued their husband hunt for another year, culminating in a marital ad they secretly ran in a major Indian newspaper. It included my vital statistics — "5-foot-6, 22 years old, slim, pretty, Ivy League-educated girl" — along with their personal e-mail address for responses.

When one of my cousins recognized the e-mail address and tipped me off, I called my mother in frustration. I was impressed by my parents' audacity, but I asked my mother to take down the ad and call off the search.

I couldn't let my parents arrange my Indian marriage from Indiana. I would have to find my own suitable boy. Or perhaps even an unsuitable one.

Sarita James is a freelance writer and strategy consultant in New York.

"Stuck" At Home

See, the thing is, even though I went to journalism school and even worked in journalism for about three years, I'm not really a big fan of reading the local paper --- or watching the local news for that matter.

But it's not like I'm some yahoo hick who doesn't know what's going on in the world. I like my NY Times and watching the BBC World News --- though, more for the posh accents and the strangely expressionless, stone-cold faces of the pasty anchors as they recite the latest disasters striking the various parts of the world.

The trouble with having zero interest in local news is that sometimes, something like the TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) wildcat strike happens and you're just completely in the dark about it. Unless you turn on the radio and happen to hear that there's no point in heading out to the bus stop, 'cause you'll just be standing around there for what seems like hours.

I used to have these moments of indecision when something like that would happen. Do I stay or do I go? What if a bus comes around the corner just as I walk away? That sort of thing.

I wonder why they call it a wildcat strike? Speaking of cats...there's one in my backyard right now. It's this black cat that roams around the neighbourhood. I have no idea who it belongs to, seeing as the neighbourhood isn't what it used to be. I remember the kids on our street used to actually hang out together, riding their bikes up and down the streets, running in and out of each other's homes.

Nobody does that anymore.

We retreat into our homes and we stay there. We don't make eye contact, we don't say hello, we aren't all that neighbourly.

Hell, when my friend's uncle's house burned down, none of his neighbours called the fire department. They just stood there, with their gobs wide open, staring in disbelief.

Yeah, yeah. Maybe they were shellshocked or something, but I tend to chalk it up to sheer stupidity. Like, what if the fire spread and their homes burned down, too?

Anyway, I guess there was really nothing stopping me from taking the GO train downtown, but you know what? I didn't really feel like it. It's not like I have some completely important job that I need to do.

I'm not exactly saving lives here.

You know, for awhile, right after I graduated and after I decided journalism wasn't for me, I felt really...I dunno. Lost, maybe? Like I didn't have any direction and didn't know where I wanted to go in life. It was like, I didn't feel important, which can be a really horrible feeling.

I wonder if other people think about stuff like that? Like, what their place is in the world...sometimes, it just makes you feel really small.

China's Lost Girls

You know what struck me about the little girls who were interviewed in this National Geographic Explorer episode? They were so...poised. I'm not even sure if that's the right word for it. There was just this maturity and almost a hidden sadness about them --- a dignity that's missing from most children. They were so self-possessed in the way they calmly discussed their feelings about being abandonned and then adopted.

Lisa Ling discussed the growing gender imbalance in China and how kidnappings and forced marriages and violence against women were real fears for the future when this generation of children became adults and were of marriage-able age. It was already starting now and she even interviewed this woman who'd been kidnapped and sold for the equivalent of less than $450 US to a violent, sick, older man who repeatedly raped her and who, when she was rescued, was forced to leave behind her son.

Watching this episode made my eyes sting with tears.

There was one woman who spoke of how her husband threatened to throw her out onto the streets if she didn't give birth to a son. Later, she had a daughter and she paid thousands of dollars in fines in order to keep her.

*

Sitting on the book shelf right now:

Lost In A Book

I don't remember the last time I was so excited to read a book. But then again, it's been a long time since I've felt excited by anything...or maybe it seems like a long time just because I've been kinda depressed lately.

Not an easy thing --- copping up to not feeling so hot about life in general.

My mother, in a fit of whimsy, asked me this evening, "If you could have one wish come true, what would you wish for?"

And instantly, I thought the thing that I've wished every single day for what seems like forever: I wish I was never born.

But that's not the sort of thing you say out loud, is it? Especially to your mother.

Anyways, this isn't yet another whiney rant about how unhappy I am. Since I don't really talk about it with anyone and try to hide it as best I can, I'm the only one who's stuck with these morose thoughts spinning round and round in my head and even I get sick of it.

Wanted to read "Digging To America" for a couple of reasons, actually:

1. I love Anne Tyler. Not her earlier stuff so much. I liked "The Amateur Marriage" --- I thought it was a beautiful story, though a sad one.
2. It's about adoption.

Started reading the first chapter tonight and I already love it.

It's a wonderful thing when you can get lost in a book, I think. You don't have to think about other stuff...like how empty you feel in your own life.

A friend asked me last night what I would have done in her place and I told her, "Look, there's no point in discussing what I would have done 'cause what you're looking for is validicition for what you did. And let's face it: we're two different people. Besides, what's done is done. All you can really do now is concentrate on what happens next."

Tossed out a few chess metaphors, even though I'm bad at chess --- but I like the whole notion of comparing life to a game of chess 'cause it captures everything so neatly. You have to play out your move in an attempt to win the game. You can't change your mind, 'cause really, even though we say we can always change our mind on things, once a decision's been made, we have no choice but to play it out and see what happens as a result.

She's gotten more soft with age; I've gotten more tough. Bitterness does that to you. Actually, bitterness does a lot of things to you --- not all of them negative.

Of course, some people would argue with me on that point, to which I have this to say: I don't care.

The Golden Rule

"I believe in vigilante justice," a friend told me.

Believing in it and whether she actually has the stones to go through with it --- should the need arise --- is a different story, 'cause really, it's so easy to say, "I'd do this..." in make-believe scenarios when we're not actually standing in front of someone and have that split second to decide, "Yeah, I'm going to do this."

It's sort of like, when you hear people say they could never kill someone --- and usually, we're talking about the death penalty here --- and I always say, "Sure you could. If it was your kid who'd been raped or murdered --- or your parents or maybe a sibling --- you could. You might choose not to, but that's when it gets really easy to hate another human being so much that you'd actually consider snuffing the life right out of them."

I think we're all capable of manslaughter --- it's whether we decide to act on it which is a different story. I think in most cases, we just need to be given a good enough reason.

I guess I'm thinking about this 'cause I found this one piece in the Toronto Star --- as usual, running several weeks behind the breaking news date in the international press --- about Tahir Mirza Hussain, a British citizen who's been in prison for the last 18 years in Pakistan, even though he was aquitted of killing a taxi driver who pulled out a gun and physically and sexually assaulted Hussain when he was 18, visiting relatives in the country. The gun went off, killing the taxi driver.

Good fucking riddance, you know? It would have been better if the gun had gone off and shot the animal's balls, so the perv would have to go through the rest of his miserable existence unable to harm anybody else, but unfortunately, he died.

Hussain was aquitted by Judge Abdul Waheed Siddiqui, who described Hussain as "an innocent, raw youth not knowing the mischief and filth in which the police of this country is engrossed."

Siddiqui said police introduced false witnesses and "fabricated evidence in a shameless manner" against Hussain, who had no criminal record.

But about a week before Hussain was to be released, his case was referred to the sharia court on the basis that the crime he was charged with --- armed robbery --- fell under its jurisdiction.

Now, Hussain faces death by hanging on June 1, his 36th birthday.

Of course, President Pervez Musharaaf could do something about this...but do you think he will?

This is the kind of thing that makes me think the whole notion of karma is just bullshit. You don't get what you give --- not always. This guy is raped and beaten and while he's struggling to save himself, a gun goes off, killing the animal who violated him. And for this, he's imprisoned in the notorious Adiala Jail in Rawalpindi, where 50 foreign inmates are still languishing in that jail despite having completed their sentences.

In September of last year, Ontario premier Dalton McGuinty ruled against a proposal to allow sharia law in our province --- and he was right to do so because I agree with critics against sharia law: allowing for Islamic tribunals could only lead to discrimination.

What's interesting is that Sharia Law seems to misunderstood by a lot of people 'cause most of us, when we hear about it news, we think: amputation, stoning, lashing and rife with unfair social ideas.

The problem seems to be that judges are supposed to be highly educated in Islamic law, but sometimes --- or seemingly, often, because of what gets reported in the international press --- it seems like we have individidual judges who hand down harsh penalties without any real understanding of Sharia.

I mean, if we're looking at things along a similar vein, it's like how you've got people like Osama Bin Laden out there and his various followers who have a warped understanding of the faith that they profess to believe in.

A major basis for all religions is the notion that we should treat others the way we want to be treated. Simple as that.

When I worked at a kids' hospital in the PR department, I remember walking past an office and seeing this poster:



If only more people would understand this.

Someone To Look Up To

Lisa Kudrow, in a bio on Diane Keaton, said that, to her, Keaton has always stood for someone who has lived life on her own terms.

And I think it's important for young women to have people like Keaton to look up to.

I was sitting in front of the television set, with a robe on and ratty bedroom slippers and a slice of cold pizza in one hand when I channel surfed my way to this bio --- and because I didn't have anything better to do and nobody I cared to talk to in a house full of people, I watched it, somewhat fascinated because biographies have always fascinated me. I mean, A&E Biography kind of has it down to pat, when they use this for their motto: Every life has a story.

I haven't written in...well, weeks.

I could use writer's block as an excuse, but the real culprit is depression --- which I'm not exactly afraid to own up to any more, even though I realize that it makes other people uncomfortable. But I guess the difference now is that I'm slowly beginning to think, "I don't really give a rat's ass if my depression makes you uncomfortable."

We all have our shit days, but the thing I always remind myself is that this kind of thing doesn't last forever --- or maybe I just won't let it, because, in the end, you've really got no choice but to press forward if you're going to be smart about it.

I've had this story idea percolating in my brain. I sort of feel like I need to wipe the slate clean and start over again because I've been working on the other novel for what seems like ages. Writing and rewriting and never getting anywhere.

Ah, well.

I'd gone to the art store, kind of thinking I'd go and pick up a new set of Derwent pencils seeing as my old set were now nubs, but I didn't buy them because I'd spent close to $80 today.

My sister, flush from getting a raise at work, didn't even bother to offer paying for lunch. I would have been okay staying at home making lunch, but guess what? She just sat there. Sat there and expected me to pay. Didn't even offer --- not that I would have taken her up on it, you know? But it would have been nice if she'd just bloody offered.

Life Without Memory Is No Life At All

Currently reading:



In "The Lost Mariner", Oliver Sacks presents a case study of Jimmie G., who suffered from Korsakov's Syndrome, which boils down to having no short-term memory.

Sacks quotes Luis Bunuel, who has this to say about memory:

You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realise that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all...Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing.

I remember telling someone a long time ago that I think life begins when we first start to form memories...when we start remembering things...because Bunuel's right: life without memory is no life at all.

We were discussing whether life begins at conception. I remember that. And I remember how it suddenly hit me that memory was what made life have meaning.

Like in the case of Jimmie G.? Sacks has a conversation with Jimmie, asking him how he feels, and Jimmie sort of scratches his head and says, "How do I feel? I cannot say I feel ill. But I cannot say I feel well. I cannot say I feel anything at all."

And when Sacks asks him, "Do you enjoy life?" he answers, "I can't say I do..."

"You feel alive though?"

"Feel alive? Not really. I haven't felt alive for a very long time."

And to this, Sacks writes, His face wore a look of infinite sadness and resignation.

I don't know why, but I remember a story similar to this one. I watched it on some news program several years back. And I always remembered it and even thought about it from time to time. Who knows why?

In "The Lost Mariner", Sacks talks about how it's like Jimmie G. lost a sense of self...and I think that's what clicked with me.

There are some days, where I feel like I've lost a sense of myself, too.

Hi. Who's Reading This?

So, everybody's online right now --- paying bills, booking flights for the upcoming Victoria Day long weekend, shopping, or, in my case, updating.

Something went wrong with the system. So we wait. And then, we work our asses off to play catch up 'cause that's two days worth of work already down the tube.

So, after reading the news, I did what I've started doing a lot of lately --- which is going onto my site meter account and scrolling through the stats. After awhile, some locations just keep popping up and you can't help but wonder if it's the same person.

Yeah, the first time I noticed this trend, I was pissed off 'cause it's like, yeah, I mentioned I have another blog floating out there somewhere, but I kinda found it creepy that someone would bother to track it down, you know? But the guy had a point --- if I didn't want him reading it, I should maybe go back to the paper journal. (Which, irrationally enough, I find incredibly unfair.)

While looking over the stats, I kinda wondered who some of these people were. The paranoid side of me wondered if any of them were people I knew. There was this one girl on LJ who had a really cool blog and I read almost all of her entries and like me, she had a site meter. She actually did a post after awhile that asked, "Hi. Who are you? Who's reading this?"

Yeah, you can't help but get paranoid after awhile and wonder if it's someone you know.

It's What You See That Counts, Not The Camera

I think most of my friends expect it when I show up with my digital camera. I use a Canon Powershot --- a pretty old model, actually, and one that technically belongs to my parents because I bought it for them to use when they went to China a few years ago --- and I'm pretty hardcore about the notion that it's not really the camera but the person behind the camera that gets the best results when it comes to photography.

There'd been this issue of National Geographic Traveler where they did it all in digital and the photographers were asked to see what they could produce with inexpensive cameras. The result kinda spoke for itself. It really is all about the eye of the beholder.

I used to focus mostly on nature, but after awhile, that started to bore me. There's an unpredictability when it comes to working with kids and I think that's why I love these shots the best:

Ignorance Is Bliss

The thing I love most about taking pictures of kids is that, sometimes, if you look hard enough, you can almost capture a sense of what it was like to be that young and ignorant of all the crap that makes life so fucking shit once you become an adult.







Is there anything sweeter than a baby sleeping?