Vis Mea

      My mother has this uncanny knack of being right. Unless she's wrong. See, my mother and I don't always see eye to eye on things. Sometimes I think one of her favorite pastimes is criticizing me. Whether it's my art, my grades, or the state of my room, I can always "do better." To make matters more difficult, she is also my dance teacher. How's that for a plot twist. Our dance relationship is not one that can be called productive or even remotely cohesive. In fact, most of the time it ends in a lot of tears and shouting matches. At the very least, one of us is grumbling about the innate incompetence of the other. Somehow we manage to actually pull off performances and recitals; trust me, that's the real miracle. But other than the occasional, rare compliment, I spend most of the time being lectured on how I have "talent" and I'm "wasting" it. In her defense, I'm not the best student around. I tend to be the most serious one in most situations, but in dance, I find freedom: it is my relief. But for her, dance is serious: it is her entire world. Like I said, we don't see eye to eye. I guess being the dance teacher's daughter isn't the easiest title to live up to; it may have its perks, but that benefit is canceled out by the weight of the expectations everyone holds. And if any of you have had a parent as a teacher, then you feel my pain. My mom used to say to me, "In dance class, I'm not your mom, I'm your teacher." But the truth is its hard to see your parent as anything other than exactly that, a parent. It's even harder to believe that they can be competent at anything other than parenting. If mom is so good at being mom, how could she possibly be sufficient at anything else? Technically you know that your parents have real jobs and lives, but actually witnessing them doing those jobs is a bit shocking and a little hard to swallow. It's easy to forget that my mom still has her own dreams, and that her sole purpose in life is not to help me through my (petty) teenage problems. For what it's worth, she's not that bad. (She's yelling at me right now.) She let's me go out to parties (what parties?) she lets me hang out with my friends (we don't get out much), and she lets me take the car (within the allotted five mile radius). But all in all she stands by me. She may be my harshest critic, but she is also my most devoted supporter. Myself excluded, no one else has ever fought that hard for my dreams, and I don't think anyone else ever will. Now that I'm older, I feel like I have to take care of her, but I forget how strong she really is. She may need me to life a heavy box, but she is no means frail or fragile. In fact, she is incredibly strong willed and brutally honest. She says that she criticizes me because if she doesn't, who will. I think she does it because, when it comes down to it, I am exactly like her (give or take a little work ethic). She sees her own mistakes and tries to make sure that I don't repeat them. But she is passionate, smart, quick-tempered, and talented. Flaws and strengths, there's honestly no one I'd rather be like. We don't see eye to eye, but I think it's the universe keeping everything in balance. Because if my mom and I were on the same side, watch out, we might just take over the world.

Yin and Yang

anonymous



Everything was still but the dust particles drifting lazily through the air, tangled in the last golden rays of light. All was silent, and the silence was extremely loud. They would not speak. They would not break the sacred temple of pure, unabashed nothingness. They would not disturb the air which grew heavy with sweet expectations and anticipation. Only their breath stirred the dense, chalky air. Even now, before the performance, every move was carefully calculated, with a precision that wouldn't interrupt the syrupy-sweet atmosphere.

And as she stretched her foot up into the air, she focused on the wooden floor, eyes intent on the floor's fine grain. It was well-worn, but its wear only made it more resilient. Like a fine wine, the floor had only gotten better with age and use. Like the floor, she was matured. Over a decade of training and practice had brought her to this moment, this culmination of effort and success. She would waltz onto that stage and execute every move perfectly. She tried to convince herself of what everyone knew was true, her technique was the best. She tried harder than everybody else. Like her practice tape at home she chanted to herself: hard work will get you where you want to go. Hard work is enough. It is enough to mend the slumped posture and two left feet. But it did not make up for her shattered confidence. She stretched the foot higher, pushing it past the realm of possibility. The muscles at the nape of her neck grew taut as her ears caught the withering applause that wound its way past the thin walls of the warm up room. It was almost time.

She sat on the ground amid a cloud of tulle. The fine, delicate fabric splayed across her thighs and knees was a true testament to beauty and form and function. The dress was not made for comfort, it was made for beauty. And like the dress, she was born to perform. She could dance before she could crawl, and when she finally learned to walk, her first steps held the promised grace of a child bred from a line of dancers. It was not the skill, mastered from years of training, that made her the best dancer. It was the ease, the air of confidence that permeated the air and drew all wandering eyes to her perfect form. It was the challenge in her eyes and the playful arrogance in her smile that seemed pull the audience towards the edge of their plush red-velvet seats. It was pure, raw talent that helped her give a performance that would leave the audience breathless in wonder. They wouldn't notice that she had missed the first beat; it wouldn't matter. As long as it looked good, nothing mattered. And she always looked good. All at once, it was time. She pushed down the sudden quell of butterflies that erupted at the base of her stomach. Talent was enough.

 

Cultural Bipolarity

     In "Fish Cheeks," Amy Tan struggles with accepting her culture and being proud of who she is. She can't help but see all her favorite foods as gross and unnatural because that is how she feels an outsider would react to it. More than rejecting her Chinese culture, Tan's struggle is a matter of her two worlds colliding. She almost has two separate selves: one that enjoys her roots and family, and one is comfortable conforming to the society around her. But the truth is that its hard to maintain your culture when you're not constantly immersed  in it. After all, culture is immersion: it's the lifestyle we live according to the people and environment around us. And the truth is, it's difficult to expose a previously hidden part of yourself, especially when it's been concealed so carefully. It's hard to be yourself when you practically lead the life of a double agent: you speak different languages, eat different foods, and dress in different clothes. To this day, every time I start to explain a custom to someone, I get butterflies in my stomach. There is always a fear of rejection, of your culture. Of you.
     Being the byproduct of two cultures is a a great balancing act, and there is always a fear of falling. This same fear is what leads parents to smother their children with heritage. Like Tan's parents, my parents' greatest fear is my complete assimilation. And in an effort to prevent the unspeakable, they have overcompensated with a healthy dose of daily Indian-ness. And while i was running around juggling classical dance, vocal training, Sanskrit lessons, and yoga classes, my cousins in the motherland were forming a rock band. It seems as if, while I was desperately trying to remain connected to my roots, the world itself adopted a new culture. A culture that is a mixture of old and new, and one that celebrates diversity.
     It took me a long time to realize that people love to embrace new cultures. In the eyes of a real outsider, everything is exotic, interesting, and beautiful. Slowly but surely, my worlds are colliding: henna is synonymous with temporary tattoos, Slumdog Millionaire and The Life of Pi both won Oscars, and the ancient art of yoga is celebrated in gyms across America. In fact, the world seems more willing to accept my culture than I am to share it. And at this point in time it seems pointless remain culturally bipolar. Namaste.
Sincerely yours,
American-Born-Confused-Desi

The Truth about Beauty

     What is beauty? It seems as if the very definition of the word changes with every blink of an eye. Centuries ago, society craved fat. In fact, extra flesh was prized because it was a symbol of wealth, status, and royalty. Yet today, we value non-existent waists and thigh gaps. It seems as if beauty is what is hardest to attain; it has become the ultimate prize in life. But by constructing a laundry list of characteristics that qualifies a beautiful person, achieving beauty becomes impossible. In society, beauty is associated with perfection, but the truth is that everyone and everything is imperfect and has flaws. But Mair's piece, "Disability," shows that people doubt their own beauty because they constantly see a better version of themselves in the media. Even worse is that they feel nonexistent because they are not shown in media. People turn to the media to define themselves and find role models, but the media abuses its power. Technologies like Photoshop and plastic surgery skew the perception of possibility and increase the insecurities of women everywhere. Society tries so hard to define beauty that it becomes contorted in the process. Ask yourself, does beauty mean looking like everyone else? These insecurities mask the truth: everyone can be beautiful. Beauty is form and function, and we are all here, alive. Beauty isn't the latest fashion trend, it is the ability to look in a mirror and smile, without judging yourself.  Beauty isn't pain, it is being comfortable in your own skin. Real beauty is accepting the truth, and the truth is beautiful.

 

 

Tales of a Harlem Bard

In the poem, "The Negro speaks of Rivers," Hughes expertly uses metaphors and symbols to draw contrasts between human suffering and history, as well as foster verisimilitude. The refrain, "I've known rivers," shows the longevity of earth and the human race itself. Hughes paints a bittersweet image of history when he contrasts the successes of civilization against the cost of human suffering. The rivers are like "human blood in human veins," which can represent the bloodshed and wars spilt into the rivers of history. The river is also "dusky" showing that it is not innocent, but sullied by the toils of men. When Hughes writes, "I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset," he shows how one man's success comes from another man's pain. And though, in the end, everything becomes "golden," consequences have an everlasting impact on its people. But humans survive the storm, and from troubled waters we gain vitality and wisdom. Our "souls grow deep" with knowledge of burden and hope. Hughes claims to have lived millions of years through his first person point of view, but this literary technique not only creates the appearance of truth, but also successfully recollects the history of an oppressed people. Though he is primarily referencing the African Americans, his allusions to the Euphrates and the Nile civilizations (those that were not considered "African") draw deeper connections to all mankind. In an essence, the poem becomes a cry against slavery and a rally for hope, strength, knowledge, and peace. 

Come one, come all! Your ticket to success and happiness.

     In November of 2008, Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell, was released as a guide to success. It is a success that is defined as either financial wealth or skill that brings world renown. Since then it has sold over 1.6 million copies, bought by people clamoring to find out how they too could receive everything they'd ever wanted. Sadly, the book confirmed that many great successes grew out of the seeds of luck and chance. People found themselves back at square one, wondering how they could achieve their success.

     Gatsby spent a lifetime making himself into the man he thought he wanted to be. It consumed him so much that his material possessions were needed to fill the growing void of insecurity in his heart. Even Daisy became a check mark, something on his list to prove to himself that he became the man he had always yearned to be. And even as we mock the characters in the Great Gatsby, we fail to see Fitzgerald's warning. We grow up playing dress up, pretending that we are the world's greatest successes. And as we grow older we wish we were young again. Maybe its because we never lived up to our expectations. Every year we set our standards lower just to soften the blow of failure. And sometimes I wonder: if ten years ago I could've seen myself the way I am today, would I be proud of who I am? Probably not. 

     Happiness is but a moment. When we spend all our conscious moments chasing an idyllic reality, we doom ourselves to failure. Those who constantly worry about being happy are in constant fear of losing that happiness. In fact, Cherophobia is where a person fears happiness because he or she believes that something tragic will follow.  And something tragic will inevitably ensue. In the end, the pursuit of happiness is a curse. It makes life a race against the inevitable truth of time. The real gift is the ability to live in the present. But in a world where we must have our lives plotted out by the age of 17, it seems we are destined to live the life of Gatsby, forever chasing the platonic versions of ourselves. I hope that you get everything you thought you wanted, and I hope that it is everything you thought it would be.

Revolution

     When Darwin proposed the theory of evolution, mass controversy erupted. And even though the science of evolution is still debated today, one idea was readily accepted in society.  Survival of the fittest, the thought that those who couldn't survive were unfit for existence, became the cultural excuse for the devastating gap between the lives of the rich and lives of the poor. And though the trendy idea quickly became taboo, it had lingering effects on society. How many of our actions are spurred by the need to show strength and dominance over others?
     For example, only when Gatsby first shared his problems and pains did Nick begin to accept him as a friend. Nick only decides to help him when Gatsby became less god-like and perfect.  This goes to show that we are only willing to help the less fortunate, not those who need it. And though the two often go hand-in-hand, this unusual situation raises the question: Are we only willing to help the less fortunate, in order to make ourselves more dominant?
     After all it is a competitive world. Often times, we are defined by a single number: a test score or an inheritance. But to cope with the outside world we develop our own ranking system in our heads. We define ourselves by our single best attributes and continually compare ourselves to others. Most often we form relationships with those who pose no threat to us or to those who can help us succeed. Relationships are built on mutual need- so why does the helper help the helpee? For every relationship there is a tradeoff; maybe we do help others solely to feel better about ourselves.
     Weaknesses draw humans toward each other and help us establish these relationships. Interestingly enough, Gatsby's humanity was his weakness. His love for Daisy was what drew Nick to help him. Love, which is commonly portrayed as the ultimate strength, failed Gatsby in the end. And as strengths and weaknesses become interchangeable, survival of the fittest becomes skewed. The strong may fall. The weak may conquer. So why do we continually try and prove that we are better than someone else? The dominance that drives our motivation may just be a figment of our imagination. The definition of "fittest" can be defined by an arbitrary collection of characteristics. Who is the strongest? Who is fit to survive? No one is.