Equality on the dance floor (101-ish words)

I recently went out to a club/bar/lounge on a Friday night in a poppin' area. Yeah, that's not a sentence I say often. Oddly enough, they were playing hits from my era, which, of course, I had no complaints about. In my mid-40's, I have no qualms about dancing solo as I stood in the bathroom line, surrounded by strangers -- some of whom watched me; most of whom didn't care. 

What I found interesting was this -- it's socially acceptable for girls to dance together. But it's not the same for guys (in America). I saw three guys sitting on the sidelines, bobbing their heads and doing light seated dancing moves. You could tell they wanted to dance -- but social decorum doesn't allow for a bunch of straight dudes to dance together at a club. I felt empathy for them -- the only way they could dance is if they find a woman partner to dance with. Despite my empathy for these 20-some's, social decorum didn't allow for a married middle-aged woman to ask the boys to dance with me. To dance for the sake of dancing. I could be their "beard," of sorts (hahahaha). 

So here is yet another area where we have to reach equality between men and women. Guys, just get up and dance. And ladies -- no need to judge. We all deserve the freedom to dance when we feel like it. 

(234 words)

Rest in Peace (101-ish words)

In the light of hearing of the loss of folks in my orbit who have passed away suddenly, and way too early, I have seen people commenting "Rest in peace." And it's making me angry. 

Of course they are resting in peace. They are dead. There is nothing unpeaceful about it. They don't even know they are dead. The people who need the peace, calm, and strength are those who are left behind. Can we stop making it the accepted norm to send words of affirmation to those who don't need it, and instead focus on those who are in dire need of the help to go on in their lives? 

Yes, I realize this is my own anger phase of grieving. 

Say the magic words -- a Halloween rant

What is up with kids not saying “Trick-or-treat” anymore? They show up at your door, silently stick out their Halloween buckets, and wait for you to do the needful — whether that’s distributing the candy yourself, or sticking out the oversized bowl with the undersized treats. 

As the kids stood there in front of me, peering to see what kind of candy I was giving, I asked “What are the magic words?” 

Confused, one responded, “Please?” 

“Thank you?” 

“Happy Halloween!” 

No!! It’s TRICK-OR-TREAT! Where have we failed as a society to teach this simple age-old tradition to our next generation?!?! 

As if they don’t lack enough human interaction as it is in their lives, homes now leave out bowls of candy with signage “Pls take 1,” or “Take 2” for the more generous homes. As if ANY kid with a right mind is going to listen to that directive. I’ve had a full gallon bowl of candy swiped clean in the time I trick-or-treated the two houses next door. 

Leaving the bowl outside is a practical solution for those families who are actually out trick-or-treating themselves. I commend the creation of that much-needed solution. But I suspect that it has also become an easy escape for those who don’t want to answer their door 50x in one night, or heaven-forbid, interact with children. 

Covid has undoubtedly played a big role in this lost Halloween etiquette. Several of our elementary school aged trick-or-treaters likely experienced their first Halloween in 2020, when there were barely any homes serving candy. If there were, they had devised (sometimes very innovative) ways of socially-distanced distribution. 2021 onwards, it became socially acceptable to leave candy out, in lieu of person-to-person distribution.  

My plea to folks opening their homes to Halloween treats next year — please make the effort to answer your door! Interact with the enthusiastic, sometimes shy, kids, who are learning to put themselves out there and to speak to strangers in a safe environment. Even better, sit out by the front door, have a friend join, enjoy snacks/beverages, plan scary pranks for the older kids if you’re so inclined … make an evening out of it! Halloween is a rare, truly fun American holiday (as opposed to Thanksgiving, which is reminiscent of the violent genocide of the Native Americans). Find your inner child, and make Halloween yours. 

Ameya

 I found this random little writeup in my Notes app. It's hard to imagine that I typed this on my phone, because I never write creatively on a phone (I find the phone debilitating when it comes to written creative flow). 

It's from 2018, and I never saw it until today. I remember now that it was a dream that I had, and immediately wrote down upon waking. Having recently gone through (yet another) unraveling of my past, I'm surprised to find that this ghost had been living with me for so many years. 

A sea of opportunities. Taken and missed. One man after another. The one that sealed my fate. At least for those years - and set the wheels in motion. 

Loving, caring parents, who want only the best for her n gently guidew their hearts. Hearts full of love and tears as they watch me go into this downward spiral. Addicted to addicts. And a depression that nearly takes her life. 

Finally in rehab. A familiar face. Clearly he’s a basketball player. “I know you.” He’s pissed off n irritated - more of the same shit. She places it - she names the dorm party that they met at and they danced. It was a dance she could never forget. The sexual chemistry was incredible. But before anything could happen, she told him that she was 17. Despite the rush of hormones, he stopped. He kissed her gently. “Come back when you’re 18.” But she never did. 

The memory awakens a past that is innocent, devoid of all the chaos n destruction that had become his life. He feels pure and clean of all his sins in that moment. And so a new era begins. 

Her life is magical. Wife of an NBA player - she is going to places one can only dream of. Living the life of her dreams. There is a deep sense of caring for one another. Compassion. 

But this too will come to its end. His downfall is all over the media. As if the trauma of the event itself isn’t enough, she must deal w the public humiliation. It never seems to end. 

She is interrupted in the recanting of this tale by a voice behind her. “You didn’t tell them about me?” His voice booms from behind. It’s very familiar, it must be her husband. 

She turns around, but it’s Him. The one that set the wheels in motion of abusive relationships. She feels her muscles tighten, her mouth clamps shut n throat feels dry. She fumbles for a comeback. “We hadn’t gotten to your part yet.” As if it was the best part of her fairy tale life, worthy of the climax of this great tale. How is it that even decades later, in her lucid dreams, he could still have that power over her? She hoped the answer would satisfy him, and that he would leave. 

She had blocked those years out. And she didn’t want to revisit them. She wanted to come back to the present. 

White-picket fence. Rose garden, lush green grass that’s overdue for mowing. Laughter, play, food, love, music, joy, peace. 

She has finally found herself. And the life she wanted. The one that she was meant to have. INNER PEACE. Something she didn’t even know was a thing, let alone missing from her life. Adventures & roller coasters have a completely different meaning now, unlike they did before. 

She has arrived. The possibilities are boundless. 

Ameya. 

My Wednesday

    I have begun taking a writing class with the Moutain View Los Altos Adult School. This is in line with my hope to write more this year. The following is a piece I wrote based on one of the given prompts from the teacher. I've highlighted the prompt in the writeup. 

    My eyes snap open at 7:25am with the melody of my alarm. I fell asleep early last night, and so waking up in the 7’s isn’t as painful as it usually feels. I remind myself to preheat the oven for my son’s breakfast, as I remember that today is the day he doesn’t like the school lunch. What will I give him? Yes -- we had discussed and agreed upon last night’s shrimp fried rice leftovers. 

“Remember to put tissues in your pockets,” I tell him, heading out the door. As we drive over to school, early enough today that I’m not cursing the woman in front of me who’s delaying me because she doesn’t know how to take an unprotected left, I use the opportunity of having his undivided attention to gently remind him of what else lies ahead in the day. 

    “Remember, today is your first cooking class,” I say. He moans -- the perpetual response I get from my newly christened middle schooler. As is with everything else, he didn’t want to sign up for this class. “Some of your friends will be there -- it won’t be so bad.” I list out the two other kids’ names I remember. Who else is in the class? I had texted the moms’ group to ask whose kids would be joining -- no one responded. Maybe I should send them another text when I get home? 

    But of course I don’t remember to do that. In the list of things to be done, this falls in the lowest of priorities.

    Prep for dinner, otherwise you’ll regret it when you come back home at 6:45 in the evening, tired from being on your feet for hours, hoarse from teaching your Gen Z and Gen Alpha students the merits of physical and mental discipline -- all packaged in a cultural context that they relate to only in the color of their skin, their names, and the food that they sometimes eat. Soak the rice now -- but set a 15 minute timer, otherwise you’ll never put it on the stove. Warm up a parantha on the grill for yourself, and set a 3-minute timer to flip it over. Remember -- if you want caffeinated tea, this is your window of opportunity. My saffron black tea vacillates between warm and cold several times in the next hour, as it makes its way back into the microwave, only for me to forget it’s there, and then be reheated again. I have never drank more than half a cup of tea. Something just beeped -- was that the timer on the stove, the oven, the microwave,or the new toaster oven that I’m still learning all the features of? I walk over to the pantry, and stare blankly at the rows of cans, jars, and packets of pasta in front of me. “Must remember to buy more penne. Put it on the list.” 

    Why am I here? Why did I walk over to the pantry? Retrace your steps, what were you doing in the kitchen before you walked over? Prepping the rice, the beans … My shoulders slump as I walk back to the kitchen, feeling like a failure for having such a poor memory. 

    “Kids," we marvel. “Their brains are like sponges! They soak up everything!” True. Our brains are very much like sponges. Except now our sponge brains are leaking out everything new that comes its way. Remember to make our dentist appointments. Pay that overdue bill. Cancel the credit card. Call the bank to inform them the new debit card never arrived. Pay the insurance premium, and make sure the old car has been removed from the list. Reschedule the math tutor. And only after that reschedule the Spanish tutor accordingly. Adjust the automatic sprinkler schedule. Remember that this week is recycling. Send a text to your cousin for his birthday. A phone call would be nicer -- but then you have to remember to do it in a timely manner. A text voice message can be the happy medium. Check to see if there’s extra toilet paper in the storage. Charge your Kindle. Return the library books. 

    Coconut Milk!! That’s what I wanted from the pantry! 

    Too much to remember -- and it's only 10am. 

   

Is Art Not Enough? (101-ish words)

    More often than not, when I look at a grant application for artists/arts organizations, the grantor is looking for not only exceptional art, but it must be sustainable, promote equity and civic participation, be inclusive, tackle issues of climate change/race/gender/sexuality, challenge boundaries and change perceptions.

    Why can't I just create art for the sake of art? Isn't that the purpose of art? 

    A rudimentary Google search of "what is the purpose of art" tells me that art can have five purposes:  ceremonial (ritual/worship), artistic expression (self expression of personal, internal moments, experiences), narrative (tell a story), functional (serving a purpose, like pottery), and persuasive (promoting ideas, philosophies).

    It seems that in our world today, emphasis is not on artistic expression, but persuasive art. 

    I don't want to persuade anyone to do anything. I don't want to be forced into tackling issues that are the hot topics of the 21st century. I want to be who I am, and show what I want to show, and make you feel something. Maybe it'll inspire you, maybe it'll mesmerize you. Maybe you'll get bored. Maybe you'll get angry. Is that not enough? 

(195 words) 

News v. The News (101-ish words)

    It’s “the news” when in paper format, but it’s just “news” when it’s on your phone. I hate reading news on my phone. It’s the most uninspiring way to ingest the written word. The lack of width of columns leaves you scrolling down constantly, which is such an unnatural way to read. Or maybe this generation will find the “scroll read” the more natural way of reading. Huh!

    And then there's the physical, visceral connection between you and the written word. Studies have shown that the tangible connection leaves a stronger imprint in your neural networks. Take that digital!

    When a singular device is the conveyor of good news, bad news, connects your entire world of people, documents your years past ... it becomes a complicated relationship. 

(126 words)